17878265

by David

  “A terrible shame,” Loric remarked. “They were still fighting, even after they had forgotten what they had begun fighting for in the first place.”

  The stranger agreed, as he finished building his second coin tower, “Indeed. Though,

  perhaps they were fighting for their own hearts’ ambitions from the beginning.”

  Loric sat in silence after the stranger’s grim explanation, allowing him to go on, “Now to conclude the tale. The dragons have dwindled, but there are still some few known to us. One of them, named Bakazandur, attacked Skytower Castle during the regency of Sir Sturgeon. The creature still lives there, where it lies upon the wealth of Beledon.”

  “Luckily, King Lornigan was at Moonriver Castle during the dragon’s attack and occupation of Skytower. He went on to marry, have children and live to a respectable age before he was slain at the First Battle of Darbin’s Field. His eldest son was Lord Farnigan, who fathered Lord Farig. Farnigan refused the title of king, saying, ‘There will be no king in the land of Beledon until Skytower Castle is rebuilt. So the prophets have declared: The stones of Skytower shall be united once more, so also shall Beledon be restored. And the new ruler shall be seated upon his throne: he who wields the fire of kings. His line honors his wish to this day.”

  “Of those who followed Farnigan and Farig you are probably well learned. They are

  Lolderic, Loldigan, Malric, Modigan, Lantric, and Falric,” the stranger named them. “Each of those men was a great lord in his own right. Each man among them had a strategy in mind by which he could unite Beledon under his leadership once more, but every one of them failed in that aim. Now, Lord Falric’s son, Garrick, seeks the same prize his fathers before him sought.”

  He continued, “During the reign of King Lornigan, Logant learned that he was also the son of Donigan, but the youngest, and therefore without truthful claim to the throne. He sought an audience with Lornigan and presented himself, saying, ‘Do not think me one who seeks your crown, lord, for I am but a commoner. Yet, the blood of your father flows rich in my veins.’ He fell to his knees and said, ‘I have come to commit myself to your service and to do all that I may to aid you, brother and king--if brother I may call thee.’ He remained prostrate before the king, awaiting his judgment.”

  “At first, the elder son was angry and confused. However, when he commanded Logant to look at him, he could see that his claim was true. Logant’s features were so similar to his own that he saw his father’s face before him, only it was much younger. ‘Give me your sword,’ King Lornigan commanded, so Logant obeyed. He spoke again, citing, ‘In the name of the Temple, King Donigan, and His Queen, I knight thee Sir Logant. Rise, brother. Welcome home.’ Then he embraced his brother and took him into his counsel.”

  “Sir Logant was grateful for Lornigan’s acceptance. He became the king’s champion, for his skills in combat were unmatched by any man. He too married, and had sons and daughters. His line is as follows: Logandar, Logornigan, Ganigan, Galendrigan, Palric, Galric, Palendrigan, and Galendar. Sir Palendar was the last. He disappeared while he was on a quest of great importance, leaving the High Seat of Belgandost vacant.”

  “Sir Palendar?” Loric questioned. He knew nothing of Logantian rule in Belgandost.

  Civilized men had abandoned the land long ago. Loric thought of Lord Garrick, who had authority over Taeglin and its surrounding townships and inquired, “The High Seat of

  Belgandost?”

  “Sir Palendar was the greatest of the Logantian Knights,” the stranger answered Loric’s first question with a wink. In answer to his second query, “Belgandost was the land belonging to those knights, who once governed the People of Taeglin. I told you your father’s name reminded me of a great knight.”

  Loric stared at a black knot in the table’s surface, as if the deep dark swirl of wood grains could help him sort out all that he had learned. There were no answers to help him understand why his father had the gear of a noble knight hidden beneath a trapdoor in the barn. He garnered no new insights as to why his father shared a name with a Logantian Knight, who had

  disappeared. The stranger had shaken pieces of a puzzle into a portrait of his father that before now he never could have imagined. Palen’s admission of participating in many battles, his decision to purchase Sunset and his collection of armor and weapons all pointed to one conclusion: Palen and Sir Palendar were the same man.

  Loric wanted to know more. There were rough edges to file off, even as the pieces began to form a new picture of Palen, the bold knight. There were details that were incomplete, or somehow failed to fit together. If his father was Sir Palendar, why had he left his seat of authority? Why had he come to Taeglin, to build a farm and plow fields?

  “What was the knight’s quest?” Loric demanded, desperate to learn all that he could of these matters. When no answer came to him, he looked across the table.

  The stranger was gone. He had left three silver and copper towers to cover the cost of drinks, but like Sir Palendar, he had disappeared, leaving Loric to sip his king’s tonic and wonder about the trapdoor and the stranger.

  Chapter Three

  The Bully and the Knightly Log

  Loric awoke to a cold splash. The sun was bright, even in the shadows where he lay, which was on the floor of the barn. His father was stern of face as he stood over him with wooden bucket in hand. Loric was trying to remember how he had come to be there when Palen informed him, “I’ve begun working the lower field. Get moving, before I mistake you for a drunken lout.”

  Loric knew that face, that tone. It was going to be a hard day. He downgraded his groan to a wince as he rolled onto his side and set his recollections of last night aside in favor of meeting his father’s present demand.

  Palen spoke what Loric already knew, saying, “Sort yourself out and meet me at the plow, boy. I’ll show you how to work off your irresponsibility.” He turned and strode away, his agitation evident in every twitch of his stride.

  Loric esteemed that his father would discuss his overnight foray later, while he listened. He was looking forward to that about as eagerly as he was his coming workday. His head was throbbing, and he was stiff from cold. In-between the pounding beats inside his skull, images of the previous night played themselves out. He saw the trapdoor and the secret beneath it....

  Taggert announcing the betrothal of Belinda and Barag.... his decision to leave Taeglin.... the stranger.... Loric sat up with his head in his hands, wondering, Did I dream the stranger into being?

  Loric checked his pocket for coins. He had not spent one. The stranger was real, he decided.

  That meant his father had much to explain to him, and yet, this was not the day to question him.

  Barag and Belinda danced through his head, just as they had bounded across the floor of Taggert’s Pub last night, smiling and laughing. I will suffer through this day to have my answers on the morrow, Loric thought. He shook his head. I must leave here. I cannot stay another day.

  My dear father can keep his secrets hidden behind his oath to mother. I will find my answers on my own, as I have thus far. Loric rose and began moving at a breathless pace that nearly caused him to topple over, with his spinning head leading the way down. He tossed a saddle across Sunset’s back and clumsily worked the straps, whispering, “I know where I must go to learn the truth. I have wanted to go there all along.”

  Sunset let off a low rumble in reply.

  “Wait here, boy,” Loric commanded him.

  He received another light whicker in return.

  Loric went to the stall with the trapdoor and swept the hay aside. He poked his hand into the hole and wrenched the panel wide. He was down the ladder before the door slapped the planks above him.

  Loric paused before the chest and murmured, “I pray your pardon, father, but I must borrow your tools of war. Forgive my wrongdoing.”

  Loric’s mind was a blur as he withdrew the decorative sword from the chest and set it aside, having no recolle
ction of opening the lid to the ironbound box. Loric laid the red-lacquered shield and the red-plumed helmet on the floor beside the diamond-pommel sword. When he came to the shirt of chain rings, he slipped it on. It hung loose about him until he pulled the red surcoat over it and belted the sword about his waist. That felt good. Loric thumped the silhouette of the knight on his chest two times and wished, “Keep me safe on the road ahead.” He slung the shield across his back and plucked the silver helmet from the floor. Afterwards, he sprang up the ladder, eager to be gone.

  Loric was pleased to find a plate with half-dozen apples, a large wedge of cheese and a loaf of bread resting on a shelf. There was a water skin hanging next to it. That was probably breakfast for him and lunch for him and his father to share. Loric tossed the lot into one saddlebag and rolled a spare cloak from its peg to stuff into the other. He hung the bags over Sunset’s flanks and murmured, “We’re in for an exciting trip, my friend. It will be good to have you as company.”

  The horse snorted and tossed its head, playfully nuzzling Loric’s hand.

  “Well, we need to leave before Da comes to stop us,” Loric said quietly, to nudge his stationary limbs to action. “What do you say we get going?” he asked.

  Sunset brayed nervously.

  “Com’n, boy,” Loric urged the red stallion.

  Loric looked at the lower field, where his father was hard about his labor. He hated leaving without saying goodbye, but his Da would talk him out of his decision, otherwise. He would not risk another argument, especially one that was sure to lead him to bitterness and resentment. A pang of guilt stabbed at him, but he hardened his heart against his father’s wishes. It was past time for him to go.

  He stepped into the early morning sun, pulling the fiery red stallion along behind him. Its hooves gently tapped its lazy gait against the hard-packed earthen path. Loric made his way toward the old stone cottage. It would be equal parts joy and sadness to leave Taeglin and the farm behind him. As his boyhood dwelling came into full view, he briefly closed his eyes in an effort to engrave the image of the place on his mind. Those rough-cut stones and the thatched roof above them represented home, tiny though it was. Its wooden shutters hung heavily on their hinges, only moving grudgingly in the gusting breeze. The cottage had sturdy oaken doors that rested upon equally stout iron joints. To each side of the front steps were well-tended flowerbeds that added to the overall charm and appeal of the place. There was a fence of split rails fronting the winding dirt road, which snaked its way across the low-rolling hills of Taeglin. Morning glories of lavender and pink, blue and white were climbing that fence, sounding a desperate call to Loric’s heart for him to stay. This they did on behalf of his mother, who especially favored those quaint, trumpet-flowered tendrils.

  “Good-bye, mother, father,” Loric breathed.

  With a saddened heart, Loric climbed astride Sunset. He thought he heard a shout from the lower field as he settled into his saddle, but he paid the call no heed. “Sorry, father,” he whispered without a backward glance. “I must leave you and mother. I have to seek out my own destiny.”

  Loric clapped his helmet to his head and bolted off eastward for the Old King’s Way. He knew that stretch of highway would take him north, all the way to Moonriver Castle, where it intersected with the King’s Way Crossing, which most folks called the Crossing these days, having been so long without a king. Were Loric to continue northward from Lord Garrick’s riverside home, that path led into dragon country, starting with the Skytower Ruin, where Bakazandur lazed on the wealth of King Donigan’s lost treasury. Thankfully, he need not travel that far, but his road was good to carry him to the castle above mighty Moon River. That was all he wanted or needed to know about his route of travel.

  Loric jogged Sunset into Taeglin, trying his best to ignore people who stared at him as he passed. He heard shutters flap open alongside the narrow dirt road, telling him that more watchful folk had opened up for a gander at him. The murmur of hushed voices and suppressed giggles came to his ears, until Loric began to feel wretchedly small under scrutiny of curious townsfolk. He was thankful for his helmet, oversized as it was, and he was more thankful that his visor was down. Nevertheless, he could hear people talking, and he could feel their collective gaze boring through his protective headgear.

  Voices around him began growing louder in their competition with one another, until Loric caught some of their words. One fellow said, “I recognize the horse, but the rider is strange to me.” Another answered, “Surely, that’s not Palen.” The response was, “Nay, it can’t be. He’s too small, but who is he?” Yet another man speculated, “Palen wouldn’t sell his horse, would he? He paid far too much for the animal if that old swindler Yeolson’s boasts are to be believed.

  Certainly, he wouldn’t sell it to some wayward knight. Who is that strange fellow anyway?”

  Loric heard that kind of discussion on both sides of him. He found it maddening. He was just waiting for someone to solve the mystery and put a name with the knight. What kind of jeering would come from the crowd upon the discovery of his identity? Laughter was sure to be a familiar companion to traditional taunting and teasing.

  Seconds elapsed into minutes, and minutes into days for Loric as he made the agonizing trip through the little hamlet. He was drawing near to the edge of town, and he was just beginning to feel relieved that no one had guessed that he was the mysterious knight, when it happened. “I think that could be-” said a booming voice that Loric both recognized and hated, “-no, that’s got to be Loric!”

  The deep baritone had been that of Barag son of Borag, who had bullied Loric his entire life.

  All of the townsfolk began talking at once. “Oh yes!” some exclaimed. “Of course it is.” Others said, “I should have known that. I didn’t recognize him in all that armor he’s wearing.” Then the laughter began. “So Loric the Strange-ling thinks himself a knight, does he?” scoffed Barag. “I will feel much safer knowing that he is defending my home,” the bully remarked.

  Loric wanted to crawl under a rock or spur Sunset to top speed and run away. He had not the chance to do either. Barag trotted into his path, thereby forcing him to stop. “I’ll wager,” Barag taunted, “that our good knight couldn’t best me.” Many of the men who had gathered around hooted at the bully’s challenge, some of them already setting odds or placing bets. Laughter ripped the air due their exaggerated reactions to the confrontation.

  Loric detected a faint metallic echo inside his helmet as he calmly commanded, “Stand aside and let me pass, Barag.”

  The larger man mocked him, “Let me pass, Barag!” Additional hooting, howling and laughter followed. “Why, Sir Strange-ling, don’t you feel up to the task? I don’t think you’re man enough to take me on.”

  ****

  Loric was holding Barag at sword point, he knew not why....

  ****

  The vision was gone in a flash, leaving Loric in the same predicament he had known prior.

  Barag had laid a challenge before him, and people expected him to answer. Loric was

  uncomfortable. He wished he had stayed at home, and he had half a notion of returning there straightway. Strangely, he shrugged off his cowardly notions. In that instant, a change took place inside of him. Perhaps the transformation was brought on by the loathing Loric felt for the bully before him, or perhaps by his own feelings of independence. Likewise, the vision could have provoked it, or the call of battle could have summoned boldness. Whatever the case, he was no longer afraid of Barag.

  Loric pulled off his helmet and glared at his tormentor. There was fire flaring in his green eyes as he sternly informed the bully in his path, “Barag, I am man enough to know not to fight a fellow townsman. Real men test their mettle on a field of battle, in defense of their homes and families. They are able to serve others rather than bending to their own egos, as you are so apt to doing. Now, stand aside and let me pass.”

  There was a disquieted murmur amongst the people. W
ho did Loric think he was? they had to be wondering. No one had ever spoken to Barag that way without receiving a sound drubbing in return. After all, this was Loric the Strange-ling, ever since Barag had christened him with that nickname. The onlookers fixed their eyes upon two young men, awaiting the outcome of their meeting, as if the entire spectacle had come about solely to relieve them from the boredom of their daily routines.

  Loric had grown in the months since his last encounter with Barag, but the bully still overmatched him in physical prowess. Yet, Loric gulped down his panic, forced his lungs to take air with regularity. He sat straight and tall in his saddle, with his chin up and his long brown hair gently waving in the breeze.

  Barag, however, was the same as he had always been. He was tall with an exceptionally large girth. He had strength far exceeding his size, and he liked to show it off for no better reason than his own amusement. His blond hair was long and looked dirty, as it hung limply across his meaty face.

  “We shall see about that.” Barag said angrily. He tried to grab Loric, who knew Barag well enough to anticipate his move. He spurred Sunset forward, knocking the big oaf to the side. Both horse and rider sped clear of Barag, leaving the larger man choking on the dust he had stirred with his unsuccessful lunge. Once Loric was at a safe distance, he wheeled about and leveled a pitying stare on the humbled brute he had left behind him. The barrel-chested bully jerked himself into an upright position and spat, “Come and face me, you bloody coward!”

  Loric grinned broadly. “I have something I must do right now.” His laugh bubbled from exhilaration and nerves as he offered, “Maybe another time, Barag.”