by B C Penling
The commander's twisted sneer disappeared and was replaced by utmost anger.
With a hidden pleasure, Dooley made the announcement that Donovan knew was coming.
"She escaped in the clutches of the beast."
Donovan stumbled over his words with outraged growling and stuttering. "Execute the first messenger!” he finally spat. “He withheld information and is now untrustworthy. Find a replacement immediately." Donovan's eyes narrowed wickedly as he paused. "Make it a public beheading so he can be the example of the reward for failure."
Dooley nodded, although he disagreed, and waited to be dismissed. He could tell that Donovan was livid with the reality of his prize escaping his grasp. He had strategized for the siege himself and devoted every waking moment for a month coming up with and improving the tactics that were used. His men had faltered and failed him. They deviated from the plans in hopes to harvest more meat. They’d be punished and suffer greatly for their foolishness.
"You are dismissed," Donovan said with disappointment and hatred.
“Before I leave,” Dooley started, “I think you’ll be happy to learn that some of our scouts spotted a dragon flying north over the desert they call the Gour.”
Donovan’s eyes flashed with greed and longing as he turned his attention back to his brother. “And?” he spat impatiently. “What else?”
“The dragon had a rider.”
A wicked grin twisted across Donovan’s snout. “Send them after her. I want her found and brought to me alive and unharmed.”
“Knowing how much you wanted your prize,” Dooley replied. “I sent our army after them immediately. I have a guard posted by the stonelith, waiting for news. She’ll tell me if anything new arises.”
“Good!” Donovan growled. “Now go!” he snapped. “Don’t disturb me unless it’s news about the elf.”
A thought fluttered into Dooley's mind before he turned to leave. "I request permission to ask you a question."
There was a short silence in following where they exchanged glares. It was broken only by the splattering of blood drops into the thick puddle at Dooley's feet.
"I know what you’re going to ask," Donovan scoffed. "You’re curious about why I want that elf, are you not?"
"Yes, I was curious. What makes her distinctive from the rest? Elves are elves, in my opinion, and they are fit only to be served on a table," Dooley replied. “Do you think she’ll taste better than the rest?”
"Idiot," Donovan said scathingly. "You honestly believe that I will tell you what my plans are for her? Get out of my sight!"
With a glower, Dooley turned on his heel and strode down the corridor he had come from. He intentionally left the lantern lit in Donovan’s cavern to further irritate him. Although they were brothers, they looked nothing alike, nor did they have similar dispositions. Donovan relished in being his little brother's commander and took advantage of it consistently enough; shooting orders, being abusive, and blaming all his shortfalls and failures on Dooley. Dooley, in Donovan’s eyes, did everything right. Dooley, in Donovan’s mind, was father’s first choice to succeed him. Dooley, Donovan thought, knew that, too.
Dooley assumed, from his brother’s reaction to the question, that this elf was more than just a meal. She was important. For what exactly, he didn’t know for certain. He suspected it had something to do with Donovan's pursuit of command and control. He embellished himself with trophies from men, women, and children, often wearing items or pieces of them tethered to his wardrobe. It wasn’t unusual for Donovan to wear locks of hair and ears his inferiors gathered for him.
But, how did she fit into it? Was she to be his pet? Was he creating a status symbol? Was she his trophy? A trophy requires the person receiving it to do all the work. Donovan, as usual, sent someone else.
She wouldn’t exactly be his trophy. Dooley thought.
He rounded a corner in the hall and immediately slipped through the doorway and into his room. It was a pathetic room; small, dark, and smelly like old, burned wood. On the walls rugged shelves were mounted in a disorganized way with knickknacks that he nicked from the humans he killed.
Of course, if they were already dead, would it really be stealing? He pondered that for a moment before lighting the small cavern with a distressingly dull lamp and turned his attention to his hand. The knife was straight through his hand and glistened insolently in the lamplight. He frowned. It was the dirk their father insisted he give to Donovan when he promoted.
Guess it’s mine now, Dooley thought. He seated himself on a spindly-legged, tripod footstool that creaked threateningly as his full weight became evident. Grabbing the dagger as firmly as he could, he yanked it straight out of his hand. He clenched his teeth and growled indignantly. Examining it in the lamplight he could see two fractured bones and many severed vessels that were now steadily seeping more blood than when the dagger was still in. His frown deepened. It wouldn’t break his heart if his brother died the most horrible death imagined. Slowly, agonizingly, maiming, torturous, all described what came to his mind. He could care less what happened to Donovan. Too bad he was too lazy to go fight like all the others. He was always sending anyone but himself to do his work for him, the lazy coward.
Dooley reached over to a misshapen wooden shelf and flicked open the lid of a tarnished silver box that he had pilfered from a city to the south. He withdrew strips of cloth, clothing from his victims in the same city he stole the box from, and wrapped them tightly around his hand. They’d be soaked through soon enough but it did the job for the short term.
Lying down on his bed, he leaned his painful, broken and bleeding hand against the wall. He clenched his hand shut, savoring the tingling throb that radiated from his palm. Thoughts of his brother and how much he despised him wound in and out of his mind.
One day he’ll get what’s coming to him, Dooley thought. One day soon someone will get tired of him and they’ll… He opened his eyes wide and a cruel smirk snaked its way across his face like a predator about to pounce on its oblivious prey. His face was alit with madness as the obvious course of action reared its ugly, truthful head.
...no, no, no, they will do nothing. It’ll be me, obedient me, faithful-to-the-cause me. He chuckled low and coldly. One day soon, brother, and that’s not just a threat.
CHAPTER 8
SEVENTH DOOR
The stone walls were bathed in golden sunlight from Sunwake. Zen wasn’t capable of fitting in most of the castle but Barator did his best to accommodate his large friend. He slept soundly on a hill of poufs in the middle of the ball room, which was the only vacant room large enough to house him comfortably. A large balcony ran the entire length of the room and provided for an easy exit and entrance. Large tapestries quivered in the light breeze that slithered through the pillars that separated the ball room and its adjoining balcony.
Around the room, gragons busied themselves with cleaning the crevices between the stones that made up the castle. By tooth and talon, they extricated dirt, moss, lichen and insects; happily munching on their crunchy, skittering prey. Behind armaments decorating the room, gragons dusted away spider webs with their tails and occasionally chased down their inhabitants, catching them with a disturbing crunch.
Zen yawned toothily then peeked under his wing. She peered back at him and smiled. He lifted his wing and she tumbled out on to the poufs. He laughed loudly at the sight of her sprawling from his side, causing the gragons to startle and camouflage themselves with walls, pillars, and ceiling.
Barator offered Lana her own accommodations the previous night after she bathed but she felt more comfortable, and sorrow free, sleeping beside Zen. Even the allure of one of his finest rooms couldn’t draw her away from her dragon friend. Plus, the ball room wasn’t half bad. The decor consisted of shields of all shapes and swords of various sizes. Tabards from previous kings of the Valda family, Barator’s ancestors, were hung among the weaponry Lana guessed belonged to whomever wore the tabards. Along the wall that oppos
ed the balcony, six hearths were lined and above them were tapestries with the Valda family crest. The crest comprised of the black silhouette of a diredog on a garnet background with a golden border the shape of a shield that was inlaid with the black outlines of veined leaves. Each tapestry was fifteen feet wide, twenty-five feet long, and ended in a swallow-tail with two thick, braided cord tassels that helped weight it down. Behind the family crest were trees the colors of muted earth tones. A different tree was represented on each tapestry and the various colors beside each tree complemented the garnet in the family crest. A foot wide perimeter of garnet dyed silk married the entire work of art.
A fire was burning in the fireplace closest to their makeshift bed, although they didn’t need its warmth. Lana rolled onto her feet and walked to the fireside to sit in a high-backed chair with fabric the same garnet color she found in the family crest. Caeda took the opportunity to join Lana, uncurling herself from around the branches and leaves of a large plant beside the hearth. She hopped down from the planter and sprang onto Lana's knee. She yawned gapingly then peered at her with her large green eyes. Lana caressed her lightly on her head and then down her top line to her tail.
Heaving a sigh, Lana curved her back and stretched her arms over her head, eyeing some handsomely crafted goblets and fine glass figurines on the mantle. The goblets were made of the brightest silver and purest gold that one may obtain on Ancienta, or within all of Dagan for that matter. The silver goblets had a golden overlay of the Valda family crest. The golden goblets had an overlay of the Jadwige family crest from Barator’s mother’s side. On the Jadwige crest was, surprisingly, a wyvern with its wings outstretched atop a black background shaped like a shield. It was outlined with a twisted rope of gold and silver. Above the wyvern's head was a gold sunrise and silver waves reminiscent of morning light on clouds.
“I often wondered which wyvern that shield was modeled after,” Zen said airily. “Seems like a waste of space. They should’ve picked something amazing.” Zen thought for a moment, scratching his head with his tail in mocked concentration. “Like me!” He grinned in a jokingly arrogant way.
Lana laughed and nodded in agreement. “From my experience, wyverns aren’t at all as amazing as I imagined they’d be. You’d be a much better representative for a family crest.” She paused. “Unless it’s from a family that’s supercilious.”
Just then a servant walked in and politely announced that Prince Barator requested their presence in the dining room. When the servant turned on his heel and left, Lana laughed and turned to Zen.
"Can you even fit into the dining room?" It was a question that reminisced of the previous night’s conversation where Zen and Barator bantered back and forth, like the old friends they were. Barator, being the boisterous person he was, had to tease Zen about his large stature and wide body.
"Beat you there." He smiled cleverly and ran to the balcony.
Ushering Caeda onto her shoulder Lana leapt from her seat. About the time she reached the door and yanked it open, Zen leapt into the air. She turned to the right and tore down the hallway as fast as her feet could carry her. She had advantages and disadvantages in the friendly race. One advantage was that she could fit easily and conveniently through doorways large and small. One disadvantage was that she couldn’t fly to the other side of the castle.
Determined to win, she ran pale-male down the castle corridors. Caeda clung to her leather tunic with her tiny talons, and mindfully shouting encouragements. They rounded a corner and nearly collided with a servant carrying a tray of pastries. She yelled over her shoulder a quick apology and pardon and continued her rampage to the other side of the castle.
Lana slid to a stop in front of two large, heavy, red doors and wrenched them open. She entered, breathing heavily, and saw that Zen was already lying casually beside Barator. He looked imperturbably at Lana and said, “Yes, I can fit through these doors.”
They all laughed as Lana seated herself in one of the dark cherrywood chairs. Caeda leapt quietly from Lana's shoulder and glided to the slate hearth, promptly curling into a ball and camouflaging herself.
Caeda, Lana thought. Are you not hungry?
Gragons eat after their owners finish. I’ll pick up any crumbs you drop.
Nonsense! Lana said, decidedly. You’ll dine with us as a friend and not after us like a scrounging rodent.
Caeda's eyes appeared by the hearth, bright green with a yellow hue, and they slowly moved closer. Her body appeared like fog at first, and then solidified from dorsal to talon, tail to snout. She replied as she climbed to the top of Lana's dining chair and perched happily there. You certainly do have a pure heart.
Servants walked into the room through broad doors carrying extravagant platters with a wide selection to choose from. There were strips of ham, breakfast seed cakes, multicolored omelets of all sizes, potato cakes with gravy, and mauck; a sweet seasoned cactus soup. On a smaller platter were large mugs brimming with a hot, brown liquid that was called mault. It was also made from cactus.
Despite the ugly thickness, the mault, Lana found, was sweet and appetizing. She held up a spoonful to Caeda, who eyed it suspiciously.
That looks like something that came out of a…
It’s too sweet to be that. Lana smiled amusedly. Try it. It’s very good. If I didn’t like it or thought it was…
Poop?
Lana giggled. I wouldn’t feed it to you.
Caeda sat up regally. She stretched out her neck and stuck her tongue into the warm goop.
Mmm! Not poop! Caeda slurped up the rest of the spoonful and patted her stomach. Tasty.
“You can put her on the table if you like,” Barator said. “Let her use a plate, she’s welcome to.”
“You don’t mind?” Lana asked.
“Mine always dined with me when I was a child,” Barator replied. “So, yes, I’m perfectly fine with it.”
“Thank you,” Lana said, lifting Caeda off the back of the chair and placing her on the table.
I never thought I’d ever be treated this way. Caeda chimed in. I’m one lucky gragon.
Lana put pieces of cheese and leek omelet on Caeda’s plate along with some tiny pink berries, pieces of breakfast seed cake, and ham strips. In a small berry bowl Lana put some mault.
Thank you, Miss Lana,” Caeda said. Here little thought-voice was resonant with sincerity.
Barator had eaten two plates of breakfast and downed three mugs of mault before Lana had finished one. She assumed he was accustomed to eating quickly. Barator looked well rested, but concerned, and was as cordial as he was the night before. He told them he had been heading back from yet another visit to Fort Adoline when he had come across them and spoke of his meeting with the city's mayor.
“It seems that the Warisai have become quite the nuisance in most parts of Dagan now. They have been actively attacking coastal cities in Ancienta for the past few months and have been slaughtering their way inland.” His jovial demeanor changed. Lana could see that Barator was not a man to anger. Scorn was strewn across his face; a deep, brewing hatred ran within. Anger.
Zen nodded his head and looked at Lana who was looking at her hands folded in her lap. She said softly, “They’ve reached as far inland as the base of the Alven Mountains’ sunwake side. They destroyed Arbortown, my home. They slaughtered my mother Mailaea, my father Arloen and the rest of my family and kin. If it wasn’t for Zen I would’ve joined them in death.” Her eyes welled with tears as her sorrows arose once more. Caeda jumped carefully onto her shoulder and pushed her tiny head into the bottom of her jaw.
I’m sorry…
Lana petted her small friend affectionately.
Barator's face slackened as he heard the news. They didn’t tell him how and why they had come all the way north and traveled over the Desert of Gour, and he hadn’t asked. He leaned his elbows on the table and put his forehead in his hands.
“Arloen and Mailaea,” he said softly. “It’s awful to hear such news. I
humbly apologize for stirring your grief." His eyes met hers. His heart showed in his dark brown eyes.
“Come, Lana,” he said quietly. “Now that I know who you are, I wish to show you something that I feel you deserve.” He rose from his seat and beckoned her to follow. “I am afraid, Zen, the doorways are too small for you. If you don’t mind waiting here for us, we’ll return shortly.”
Zen nodded with a smile, appreciative of his halfhearted attempt at making a joke.
Lana, with Caeda perched upon her shoulder, followed Barator out of the dining hall and along the long corridor she had ran down earlier that morning. Now, as she walked, she was grave instead of cheerful as she was before. Her saddened footfall carried her past many narrow wood doors she hadn’t noticed in her sprint to breakfast. At the seventh door Barator stopped and untied a ring a keys from his belt. He flipped through them, found the smallest one, and inserted it into the aged iron lock. It popped open loudly when he turned it. He pulled on the heavy door and it opened with an angry creak.
The room was completely dark except for the weak ribbon of sunlight that streamed from the open corridor behind them. Lana could barely make out the crimson decor and the high back chairs beside dark wooden tables until Barator lit a lantern that hung just inside the doorway. Lana found herself in a small study with shelves full of old books and items in glass cases.
He pulled the door shut behind them and moved around the room giving life to the charred wicks of lamps resting on thick tables and dangling from wall pegs and ceiling chains. On the far end of the room, on a shelf an arm’s length above his head, sat a sword in a glass case. He reached for it, slid it from the shelf, and set it on top of one of the small tables that dotted the room.
