The Dragon Throne

by Chrys Cymri

  Eyes were fixed on him. The Prancer realised that they were waiting for him. He moved to the brown mound, the heavy scent of fresh soil rising to his nostrils. ‘He was my friend,’ he said simply, ‘and we used to challenge each other. He trusted me with his second name, but the dragon took away part of him, and so he cannot be named now.’ He took a deep breath, searching for words. ‘He gave me one final dare just before he died, to fight a dragon. I will meet his last challenge. I’ll go fight the dragon, and bring back Storm’s horn. He will be named before he completes his return to the Wheel.’

  Only after he had spoken did he realise the logical outcome of his words. He glanced back at his father. The stallion arched his neck, tail flicking as he stated, ‘Storm’s milk-brother will leave the First Kingdom to seek out the mountains of the dragons. In his honour, he will fight a dragon, and return with that which was taken from him. He is so remembered.’

  Leave. The Prancer returned to his place. Yes. Dragons came only rarely to the First Kingdom. Across the two human kingdoms he would have to wander before he could challenge a dragon to battle.

  The vision of the red haired human came back to him, swirling among the dark leaves. Would he meet it on his travels? He looked in the direction of the hills, wondering what he would encounter in the kingdoms of the humans.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The day had been hot, the sun burning even through the leaves of the trees, when Fianna first appeared amongst his pigs. Deian always remembered that he had thought her first to be a vision raised by the heat, her long red hair floating around her shoulders like the wings of a fiery angel. But her language was far from holy as she shouted at the bristling dog who barred her way into the forest.

  Deian had stopped at the edge of the woods, leaning on his staff as he watched her try to step past Alastair. The dog’s head sank lower, the bristling ruff and bared teeth giving her silent warning.

  ‘He will not let you pass,’ he told the girl.

  She glared at him. ‘Is this your cur?’

  Deian paused, considering. ‘He lives with me, yes.’

  ‘Tell your mongrel to get out of my way.’

  ‘He stops you with good reason.’ Deian pointed back at the trees. ‘The boar of my herd runs in the woods. The townspeople know that, and they know better than to leave the fields for the trees.’

  ‘A boar, loose in the forest?’ She frowned. ‘Isn’t that dangerous?’

  ‘He doesn’t leave the circle I’ve set for him.’ Deian clucked to Alastair, and the dog slipped smoothly to his side. ‘You’re new here.’

  She raised her chin defiantly. ‘I’ve been in Lundern two years, but I’ve had better things to do than wander through pig muck. How old are you?’

  He ran a hand through his hair, wondering if the sun had bleached it from blond to white. ‘I’m fourteen years of age.’ About the same as her, he judged.

  ‘Then I won’t talk to you. Take me to your parents.’

  ‘Mother died when I was young,’ Deian said steadily. ‘And my father is these two years gone. You may speak either to me, or to Alastair.’

  ‘Alastair?’

  Deian nodded to the dog. ‘You’ve already met him.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Her lip curled. ‘Does the grey half-breed have more sense than the blond half-wit?’

  Deian sensed amusement from the dog. Alastair liked this human. ‘My father, and his father before him, have always bred our dogs with great care. No one breed had that which we looked for. What would you see herding hogs, a lap dog?’

  To his surprise, she suddenly laughed. The lines of anger and worry around her eyes, out of place in a girl her age, lifted. Deian smiled in return. She crouched, uncaring that pigs snorted around her. ‘Alastair. Hog Herder. No, I couldn’t see one of the castle pets in these fields.’

  Alastair stepped forward, gravely permitting her to rub his ears. She had a sure way with hounds, Deian noted, her hands easily and quickly checking the teeth in the narrow snout, the strong muscles under the grey curls of the thick coat, the long legs. ‘Wolfhound, sheepdog, cattle herder. Am I right?’

  Deian nodded. She must work in royal kennels. ‘Do you come from the castle?’

  ‘Yes, two years ago.’ She stood again, sweeping hair back from her face. ‘The King chose a new consort, and I couldn’t stay.’

  Court intrigues held no interest for Deian. He shrugged. ‘And now?’

  ‘I live with the Lady Sallah.’

  Indoor or outdoor servant? he wondered. Her clothes, a tunic draped over baggy grey trousers, were rough for either. But then, his father had always told him that the elder sister to the king was ‘a strange one.’ He had never quite understood the expression, but perhaps having a girl like this for a servant was part of it. ‘I am Deian,’ he said quietly.

  ‘The town pig herder.’ She lifted her feet, stepping carefully over several patches of excrement. ‘I’m Fianna.’

  Deian awkwardly accepted the offered hand. He had seen nobles using the old gesture of friendship, but had never used it himself. ‘What think you to Lundern?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s a town, like a hundred others. I won’t be here forever.’

  <><><><><><>

  He had not seen her again for several weeks. The pigs born earlier in the year were at the difficult age when his quiet requests were insufficient to keep them to the agreed portion of woods and fields. Alastair was hard pressed, maintaining control with nips of sharp teeth.

  Deian had other responsibilities. Birthing had come hard for some of the forest’s residents. Some mothers had survived, with his help, and were soon recovered well enough to return to their kind, their young at their side. But others had died, leaving him to care for the children they left behind. As he had done every summer since his sixth year of life, he raised the young animals. This summer, two fawns, an ocelot kit, and a wolf pup waited his return every evening, restless in the boundaries he had mentally set for them.

  Alastair was the first to notice her return. Deian looked up at the dog’s quick mental warning, the hound remaining physically silent. He finished his examination of the piglet’s inflamed foot, reminding her that she should keep away from plants of red hue. Then he rose, and waited as the girl strode confidently towards him.

  ‘Tell me, is Lundern always so boring?’ Fianna asked by way of greeting.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered truthfully. ‘I rarely visit the town.’

  ‘I can see why. Nothing to do there.’ She tossed her hair back. ‘You’re the least boring person here.’

  Unsure whether she were complimenting or insulting him, Deian chose the safety of a nod. ‘I have a leg to bandage.’

  ‘I’ll help.’ She crouched beside the piglet, reaching out with spread hands. The pig took a single look at this unfamiliar human, then ran squealing between her legs. Knocked off balance, Fianna landed with a loud curse onto the grass. Alastair’s jaws opened, his tongue lolling between white teeth as he laughed soundlessly. Then he slipped away, his long strides quickly bringing him level with the panicked creature.

  ‘You scared her,’ Deian told Fianna, watching her stand, brushing bits of grass from her clothes.

  Fianna gave him a sour glance. ‘She was all right with you.’

  ‘Because I spoke to her first.’ Alastair was bringing the piglet back to him, encouraging her with nudges from his nose. ‘Watch.’

  The reluctant pig stopped before him, sides heaving from her run. Deian knelt on the dry grass. As easily as he could have spoken aloud, he sent a tendril of thought into the bright mind. Fear tinged the edges, along with a streak of anger at the dog who had so quickly caught her. Deian wove reassurance around the fear, a note of amusement at her rage. She calmed under the influence.

  Deian stood. ‘There. See?’

  Fianna frowned. ‘But you haven’t said anything.’

  ‘I have,’ Deian said, confused. Alastair had heard his contact with the pig. Why hadn’t she?


  ‘I’m not useless with animals, you know,’ Fianna continued. ‘I’ve worked a lot with horses. And hounds.’

  ‘Pigs are different. They’re more intelligent than horses or dogs. Most dogs.’ He excepted Alastair with a glance, and the hound laughed a second time. ‘I’ll ask her to keep still while you hold her.’

  Both pig and girl eyed each other while Deian quietly explained to both what was required of them. With Alastair nearby, ready to chase her again if necessary, the piglet allowed Fianna to spread her hands over the mottled black and pink skin.

  Deian glanced at the long fingers as he wrapped cloth around the inflamed leg. Few callouses stood out on the smooth skin. She wasn’t a labourer, then. And she had a good grasp on the pig, tight, but not too tight.

  Fianna returned the next afternoon. ‘Why don’t you ever seem glad to see me?’ she demanded. ‘Do you have other human visitors?’

  Deian thought that over. ‘No, not human.’

  ‘Are you never lonely?’

  Lonely? When was he ever alone? Deian closed his eyes, raising his face to the warm sun. He felt the bright minds of his pigs as they moved through the grass, commenting on the taste of the fungus they had found, the temper of the boar, the strange smell clinging to the human stranger. Further away, the quicksilver thoughts of birds flicked against his consciousness, much less focussed than those of the herd. Weaving through them were the calmer presences of the trees, stretching patient arms to the life-giving sun. And deeper yet was the Land, through and under and surrounding them all, her existence felt both in the quick laughter of streams leaping far beneath the soil, and in the more patient movements of the continental plates. ‘No,’ he finally answered.

  ‘Then you don’t care whether or not I come.’

  Living amongst animals had taught him to speak in simple truths. ‘So long as it doesn’t disturb my pigs.’

  Fianna strode away in a huff.

  <><><><><><>

  Deian stared at the Strategy board, his forehead creased. Fianna’s pieces were clustered into two main groups, one threatening his main city to the south, the second his farmlands to the north. A third, smaller group was clustered by a river deep within his territory, placed there for some purpose for which he couldn’t begin to guess. His armies, in contrast, were spread across the grey and green squares. Was that good or bad?

  ‘Come on,’ Fianna said impatiently. ‘It’s your turn.’

  She had reappeared several days ago, announcing that she’d forgiven him and that he could help her with her studies. Discovering that he knew nothing about Strategy had only momentarily fazed her. Then she had enthusiastically decided to teach him the rules. He was still confused about the difference between earls and dukes, and why squires couldn’t fight as well as knights. Battle, he sensed, was not a natural part of the Land.

  Alastair nudged his hand. The hound had taken an interest in the game. He saw the pieces as so many pigs to be rounded up to combat other pigs for grazing rights. The king, of course, was the herd’s dog. At his suggestion, Deian moved several pieces towards the river.

  Fianna scowled, always the sign that Deian had made a good move. He felt Alastair smile next to him, thick tail beating the ground. Deian looked up. ‘Your turn.’

  ‘Don’t rush me, don’t rush me.’ She leaned forward. One long strand of red hair escaped from behind her ear, colours only slightly darker than the autumn leaves scattered across the grass. Deian glanced away. Soon it would be time to choose which pigs to take to the market.

  The quick touch of a cold nose warned Deian first. Something hovered just on the edge of awareness, almost painfully shy. Not daring to turn, least he scare the creature, Deian closed his eyes and borrowed the dog’s senses for a moment. The high, almost flowery scent of the creature approaching them was unfamiliar. A small body, covered in thick, black fur, limping as orange blood dripped from a rounded shoulder.

  Fianna’s mouth was open with surprise when Deian opened his eyes. ‘A cherlubar,’ she whispered.

  So, that’s what it was called. He exchanged a look with Alastair. The hound rose. Still linked to the dog’s mind, Deian felt Alastair step cautiously over leaves and grass, head held high, unthreatening. His tail waved as he greeted the creature, drawing it closer.

  Deian finally dared to twist around. The creature studied him with eyes as deep as the dark pools he had found in the depths of the forest. The mind was just as dark to his tentative probes. For once he was going to have to rely on physical gestures alone to reassure a beast.

  ‘Alastair.’ The dog looked up at him, startled to hear his name spoken aloud. ‘She’s injured. Bring my herb packet.’

  The words were for the benefit of the cherlubar. Mentally he impressed the dog’s mind with the image of his medical roll, resting on a shelf in their home. Alastair dipped his head, then trotted away.

  ‘A cherlubar,’ Fianna said behind him. ‘They’re not supposed to be real.’

  Deian slowly raised his hands, held palm out. The creature was smaller than Alastair. Even kneeling, he towered over its long-snouted head. He extended his arms. The cherlubar trembled once, but allowed him to touch the soft skin with a forefinger.

  Physical contact allowed him to sense some of the creature’s thoughts. Pain was uppermost, and fear. Above all, he sensed the same mixture of joy and wisdom that came to him from the Land. Deian lowered the other hand to the ground. Taking deep breaths, he merged his thoughts with that of the earth beneath his knees. The Land was the link he needed.

  The cherlubar’s mind stilled. Deep eyes looked up at Deian, unafraid and trusting. Deian held the gaze until Alastair returned, resting the roll beside him. Carefully flicking back the cloth, Deian removed several packets of dried herbs. Bloodwort, to slow the flow of bleeding. Feverdew would protect against infection.

  ‘We should take it back to the town,’ Fianna said as he worked. ‘Show that they exist.’

  The creature relaxed as his fingers spread crushed blackroot along the skin, numbing the pain. The small appendages which grew from the shoulders coiled back against the muscles. ‘What would that serve?’

  ‘When a cherlubar appears to someone, it means that they have a great destiny. Don’t you want to know about it?’

  ‘Maybe the destiny’s yours.’

  He felt the flash of stiff pride. ‘I already know what mine is.’

  ‘Then you don’t need her.’ Deian finished cleaning the edges of the wound. Made by a trap, by the signs of it. He would have to go into the woods tonight and destroy the devices. Not only for the sake of the wild creatures. One of his pigs was just as likely to wander into the metal jaws.

  Alastair moved off with the cherlubar, supporting her back to the woods. Deian would have liked to care for her a few days, but he knew she would not permit it. She needed the dark places between the trees as much as he needed the feel of earth beneath his feet.

  That night, when Fianna was long returned to her own place and he was lying on the pallet in his small hut, he wondered about the cherlubar. He had known that they existed, of course, not needing physical sightings to confirm the quick skipping of their alien thoughts through the many textured weavings of the forest’s life. Nor was he surprised that one should choose to come to him. But what did worry him was that a cherlubar could step into a trap in the first instance. A trap of crude steel, alien to the Land and which one of her children should have been able to avoid.

  Sensing his friend’s concern in his sleep, Alastair breathed noisily, then awoke. He padded over to the bed, thrusting his nose into Deian’s cheek. He raised a hand and scratched the soft fur behind the long ears. The woods and fields were filled with the slow decay of autumn, preparing for the siege of winter. But there was a dying beyond that of the season. He had felt it first a few years ago, and ignored it, as he did all things he did not understand. Now it was becoming more and more obvious. And he didn’t know what to do about it.

  <><><><><><>

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nbsp; ‘Tell me how you do it.’

  Deian looked up from his carving. His fingers rested on the wood which was slowly taking on the outlines of a pig. ‘Do what?’

  Fianna’s hands were on her hips as she stared down at him. A wind was churning clouds through the bright sky, and it whipped her long hair around her face. ‘Talk to animals without using your voice.’

  ‘I’ve always been able to do it.’ Until he had met Fianna, he had assumed everyone could.

  ‘Only mages can. And you’re not a mage.’ She added, ‘You’re just a pig herder.’

  Deian shrugged, seeing nothing wrong with that. He resumed his carving and his own thoughts. That morning he had chosen which of the hogs would go to the market tomorrow, and as usual the experience had left him drained. Unlike a sheep, who could be kept for her wool, or a cow, who could provide milk, there was only one use for a pig. He had to pay the rent for the use of the forest, new boots would be needed before winter, and his overcoat was becoming threadbare. But that did not stop him from mourning the necessity of their sacrifice.

  Fianna dropped down beside him. Today she wore a long skirt, which she smoothed around her with irritated pats. ‘Come on, show me.’

  Deian slid his knife into its sheath, knowing that she would not leave until she was satisfied. ‘I’ll call Alastair to me. Listen.’

  The dog was pacing the boundaries of their land within the forest. His nose and ears were actively searching out the whereabouts of the boar, with whom he had only an uneasy truce. Deian smiled at Alastair’s eager willingness to leave off searching for the boar and greet Fianna instead. The dog found her much more attractive.