Dragon Fire

by Pedro L. Alvarez

  He stood rigidly, his long hair pulled back and held tightly in a tail. He looked down the arrow at the target, both eyes open and intently focused. When he released the arrow from his grip, it spiraled in flight until it struck the red center. The thud of its metal point on the hay was inaudible from the distance at which Stanlo stood.

  “You have improved much.”

  Ardent blood coursed through Stanlo’s body as if a dam had been broken the moment he heard the large, heavy voice behind him. He turned quickly, pulling a new arrow from the quiver that rested against his back.

  “And your instincts have sharpened as well.”

  As he completed his turn, Stanlo realized the King of Paraysia stood before him. He dropped his hands to his side and bowed.

  “Your Majesty,” he said.

  He glanced over the King’s shoulder and saw Malden, the Head of the Guards, standing behind Orsak. Malden winked.

  “I am pleased to see you have gained great skill, Stanlo,” the King said.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. I have yet to master much.”

  The King stepped closer to him and Stanlo fought the desire to cower away from the imposing figure. “Walk with me,” the King said as he motioned with his hand.

  Stanlo took nervous steps as he walked beside Orsak; Malden followed. His mind raced through thoughts of fear and confusion. He was certain this would be his last day as a squire. After all his efforts, after all he had endured, and all that—

  “It is honorable to reach for higher ground,” Stanlo heard the King say. “But it is evident that you already possess qualities which I shall be proud to find in a knight.”

  Stanlo sighed in relief.

  “Qualities such as the commitment to preserve one’s honor; dedication to a cause greater than one’s self; loyalty.” The King stopped and faced the squire. “Loyalty. It is one of the pillars on which words are built. Loyalty to the Crown. Loyalty to the kingdom.”

  Orsak lowered his head, keeping his eyes on Stanlo’s. It gave the King an odd appearance—that of a bull showing his horns before charging while at the same time holding its gaze on the intended victim. The moment nearly unhinged Stanlo. Soon he realized the King was making a subtle, wordless, pact with him. Remain loyal to me, that look said, and your reward will be your dreams made true.

  Stanlo grinned, unable to help himself. He was not the target of the raging bull kicking back dirt in front of him. But he knew who was.

  Orsak raised his head and clasped his hands behind his back “Tell me what you heard last night,” he said. “Tell me every detail.”

  Stanlo told the King what he had reported to Malden. He told him of Delcan’s words regarding Sir Wildon; of the man’s training methods and his effects on Delcan. He told the King of Delcan’s father; of Delcan’s revelation of the farmer having been a knight.

  When Stanlo spoke of Delcan’s infatuation with Aria he felt his face redden. At times he found himself looking away from the King as he related the details of the conversation and Delcan’s advances on the princess in the stables. Orsak watched Stanlo with interest as the boy argued that Aria had rejected Delcan’s overtures.

  “She does not share his affection, Sire,” Stanlo said as he concluded and Orsak nodded.

  “Hmm. That is his plan,” the King said. “Delcan hopes to fulfill his father’s wish of royalty by enamoring Aria. She is his gateway to becoming a prince, and then…”

  Stanlo agreed. “Yes. That is right. Once in the castle he can overthrow you.”

  “And he would fulfill the wizard’s prophecy,” Malden chimed in. Stanlo whirled around and looked at Malden astonished. “Even as the son of a knight, for in his blood he is a commoner.”

  “It will never happen,” Stanlo said to Malden.

  “And why not?” the King asked.

  “Because I will stop him.

  Orsak smiled, pleased. “Very well, young man,” he said. “We must make certain that Aria does not fall victim to his plot. Perhaps… perhaps if Aria were not a maiden still waiting for a suitor.” The King stared at Stanlo and their eyes locked. “Perhaps if she were already married; married to someone of my choosing…”

  Stanlo dropped to his knees and bowed his head before the King. “It would be my honor,” he said.

  Orsak placed his hand on Stanlo’s shoulder and turned to Malden who nodded with approval. “Before this Delcan knows what has come down upon him, Stanlo and Aria will be married.”

  “What about the father?” Malden asked.

  “He is insignificant. I want Delcan destroyed first. If the father comes for him, we shall deal with him then.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Delcan swung the wooden sword with ease. He had grown accustomed to the heavy metal of the broadsword and the light practice sword felt like a feather, insignificant. He missed the comfort of the heavy sword’s strength in his hands.

  He stood between Sandrion and Stanlo, the three of them forming a line in the center of the small yard behind the castle keep. The rear yard served as a private area for the King and was utilized for ceremonies to which spectators were not admitted. They each held a wooden practice sword and a metal shield.

  They stood in the warmth of the day and the absence of the wind made the castle seem empty, quieter than usual.

  “This is just a toy,” Sandrion said to Delcan, turning the sword, inspecting it. “They expect us to train with it?”

  “My thinking was the same,” Stanlo said.

  The practice sword duplicated the shape and size of a broadsword with precise detail. Used during a squire’s training it helped simulate combat without the danger of serious injury, or accidental death.

  For months, Delcan, Sandrion, and Stanlo had trained with the swords they would carry into battle. They were given lessons on the power of the long sword and broadsword as well as on the efficiency of the short sword. They trained one-to-one with the King’s knights on prearranged battle sequences, honing their timing and reaction. Once mastered, these sequences prepared the squires to be tested in simulated battles where the broadswords were replaced with practice swords. Accustomed to the weight of their metal weapons, the knights wielded the lighter, faster, wooden swords at speeds that truly tested the squires’ reaction, slapping them with the realization of how much more lay ahead.

  “Here they come,” Delcan said, nodding toward the gate that allowed entry from the Great Courtyard to the private area; the only other entrance to the small yard was through the castle keep’s tower itself.

  The squires watched as Sir Grainer and Sir Liebert approached them, followed by three knights; each of the knights held a practice sword in his right hand with no shield wrapped around his left. Each was dressed casually; none wore armor or any protective clothing.

  “I suppose they do not expect us to hit them,” Sandrion whispered.

  “I do not expect we will,” said Stanlo. “I am only glad we do not have an audience.”

  Sandrion leaned over to Delcan and said, “Where is Sir Wildon?”

  “Ill,” Delcan responded. “Fever, I hear. He has missed our training for two days.”

  “So you are on your own today,” said Stanlo grinning.

  “Boys,” Sir Liebert said as the knights stopped before the squires. “Each of you will spar with one of these warriors. Offer them every courtesy. They are here to assist you; to help you learn.”

  “We shall watch and offer counsel when needed,” Sir Grainer added. “When the knights are at the ready, you may begin.”

  The squires and knights nodded to one another and separated into pairs.

  “You are Delcan,” said the knight who approached and stood before Delcan.

  “Yes,” Delcan responded.

  “I am Merson.”

  “Sir Merson,” Delcan greeted him and extended his hand, waiting for the knight to take hold of it. Instead, the knight stepped away and raised his sword.

  The first swing of Merson’s sword was fast, as
Delcan had expected. What he did not expect was the force with which the wooden blade came down, insistent on doing what its metal counterpart was designed to do—cut him in half.

  Delcan shuffled backward and raised his sword to block the path of the oncoming blade. The knight followed through with his swing and pushed Delcan’s blade down with its force. Had Delcan not stepped back, it would have caught him on the center of the forehead.

  Sir Merson brought his sword back to past his left shoulder and swung it out again, this time in a sideways arch.

  Delcan turned to his right and in a circular motion of his sword parried the strike. His deflection did not result in what he had intended but it did stop the wooden blade from crashing against the side of his neck. He took another fast step backward as Merson spun the sword in another wide swing aimed at Delcan’s left. Delcan raised the shield gripped in his left hand and stood his ground, ignoring the numbing vibrations in his arm and the sharp pain that traveled to his shoulder. He drove his sword forward, looking to tap the knight’s chest with the point.

  Merson blocked Delcan’s lunge and returned it with one of his own.

  The difference between the knight’s attitude toward the training and his own became clear to Delcan as he felt the wooden blade of Merson’s sword dig into his stomach. The blunt and intense pain drove deep into his body and pulsated like a heart beat. Delcan held his sword up, leaving it in front of him as if it would fight the battle for him as he dropped on one knee, unable to breathe. As he attempted to stand, groaning, Merson’s boot struck him hard in the stomach, forcing him down again.

  He had not closed his eyes, yet he could not see. The world had changed to a series of shapeless clouds of color. A hum reverberated in his ears. Delcan thought he smelled a pie baking somewhere in the castle; apple, with cinnamon.

  He finally inhaled in short, quick breaths. The hum faded and the sounds of the world poured in. He heard Sandrion’s muffled voice in the distance followed by Sir Grainer’s; then Stanlo’s and Sir Liebert’s.

  As his eyesight cleared, he saw Sir Merson’s boots staring at him, daring him to stand. He took in a deep, much needed breath and turned his head toward the voices. Sandrion and Stanlo stood on the far side of the small yard, where the East and North walls met. Stanlo faced him; Sandrion, Grainer, and Liebert had their backs to him. Sir Liebert demonstrated a defensive move with the wooden swords and led the others in a group discussion. Sir Grainer turned in Delcan’s direction then Stanlo stopped him, stealing his attention with what seemed like a question.

  Delcan watched Stanlo, hoping the squire would turn back and look at him. Just as he completed that thought, Stanlo did turn his gaze on him. Their eyes locked across the lawn. Delcan mouthed one word, “Help.” Stanlo looked down on him and did not react. Delcan repeated the message and this time Stanlo smiled, shaking his head slowly before turning away.

  Delcan turned back to Merson. He raised his eyes and thought he saw a smile on the knight’s lips as well. The sight of it sparked anger within his heart.

  “Rise,” the knight said. “It was not that bad; was it?”

  Delcan coughed several times before standing, his stomach screaming with pain as he straightened his back.

  “You are not as skilled as I thought you would be,” said Merson. “And you fancy yourself strong enough to be knighted?”

  Delcan said nothing in response. His blood sizzled. He glared at the older man, taking in slow breaths. He had held back his hand when turning the sword on the knight expecting the veteran warrior to accept his humility and remember it when the time came for the knight to return the attack. Instead, Sir Merson had ceased the opportunity to punish Delcan for his grace.

  “You will leave the princess be,” Merson said, leaning his chin out in a manner as to imply secrecy between them.

  “I… what?”

  “I know of your intentions. I know what you want from her.” Merson stepped forward and brought his face close to Delcan’s cheek as if he were to kiss it. “You will never be knighted,” he whispered. “And you will never have Aria. You will die a young squire; I’ll make certain of it.” The knight pulled back to reveal a broad, tooth-filled grin.

  Delcan erupted. He pushed the knight with his shield as rage swept over him.

  “I see we are not finished with your lesson,” Merson said.

  Delcan shook his head.

  The knight lunged with the wooden blade and the squire deflected it, stepping to the side. Delcan swung his sword in a large circle over his head, bringing it down on the knight. The wooden blades met halfway as Merson swung his sword upward.

  Merson stepped forward, swinging the practice sword repeatedly, each swing blocked by Delcan’s own. He motioned as if to lunge again and kicked Delcan in the midsection instead. Delcan’s already sore abdomen burned with agonizing pain as he staggered backward.

  Merson roared as he wound up and swung the sword toward Delcan’s head.

  Delcan raised his shield and heard a sharp crack as wood and metal collided. He returned Merson’s attack, striking him on the right arm. He swung the sword across to the right and hit Merson on the left arm. Merson’s sword flew off his hand. Delcan lunged and stopped as the wooden point once again touched the knight’s chest. He held the sword straight, staring at Merson; his breathing was fast. “Tell me what you meant about the princess,” he said. “Tell me what you know.”

  Merson stepped forward, letting the sword jab into his chest. “Demand nothing of me, squire,” he growled then stepped back and drew his short sword, the metal glinting in the sunlight.

  Delcan stood at the ready, his knees bent, his palms sweating, his heart hammering, prepared to use the training stick in his hand against the Royal metal of Merson’s sword. He watched the knight’s eyes, waiting for the glint in the eyes that would warn him of an attack.

  Merson gripped his sword, squeezing the handle. He stepped forward.

  Delcan swung the practice sword and stepped to the side as the wooden blade struck metal and broke in two pieces. Merson swung the short sword in the opposite direction. Delcan blocked it with the shield, sparks flying off the metal. He stepped toward the knight, striking him on the face with his elbow. The knight swayed. An instant later, Delcan’s shield struck him on the chin. Blood began to flow from Merson’s mouth and nose.

  Merson wound up, preparing to lunge forward. Before he could move, Delcan kicked him on the side of the knee, throwing Merson off balance and onto the ground. Delcan stepped on the knight’s wrist, the one holding the sword, and brought his knee down on the knight’s chest.

  The sound of metal striking metal seemed to at last steal the attention of Sir Grainer, who quickly left Sandrion and rushed to Merson’s side, intent on stopping Delcan. Sir Liebert, who had been training with Stanlo, reached Delcan first and greeted him with a hard kick in the face. Delcan fell backward and attempted to stand, still willing to continue fighting. The knight kicked him again, this time in the stomach and Delcan doubled over.

  “Enough,” cried Sir Grainer holding the knight by the shoulders. “Stop.”

  “He was looking to kill him,” the knight said pointing at Delcan. “Did you not see that? The boy lost control and was about to kill him.”

  “Merson had a short sword, the squire a practice sword and a shield,” said Liebert. “I have doubts Merson would be overrun by a squire for too long.”

  “What happened?” Grainer asked of Merson. “How did it come this far?”

  Merson stood wiping blood off his lips. “He broke my practice sword and aimed to run me through with his,” he said. “I defended myself.” He showed Grainer the cuts the wood had made on his arms. “And my face. The boy has nothing but dirt on him. I did not harm him.”

  Grainer turned to Delcan who sat on the ground, his arms wrapped around his midsection, looking up at him. “Wildon will be disappointed,” Grainer said. “He once told me you were already deemed to be knighted.” Delcan did not break eye cont
act with him. “I am assigning you to the stable master until Wildon is well and we can present your case to Malden. Head to the stable now. Crawl if you have to. There are horses to be fed and cleaned.”

  Delcan stood with effort and turned toward Sandrion. Sandrion stepped forward to help and Grainer stopped him. “Leave him.” Sandrion shrugged his shoulders, careful not to be noticed. It was a gesture that meant he did not know what had happened but that he was still by Delcan’s side. Delcan turned to Stanlo and glared at him.

  “Did you not hear?” Sir Liebert yelled as he pushed Delcan from behind. “Go on. To the stables. You have done enough to disrupt today’s lesson.”

  Delcan walked away, making an effort to ignore the pain that coursed through his body.

  Chapter Twenty

  Delcan had shoveled manure and hay for two hours when Stanlo arrived at the stables.

  The events of the afternoon’s training session still ran through his mind as he drove a pitchfork deep into a pile of hay with all his weight behind it. He pulled out a large heap and threw it at the mare in the stable behind him. Drops of sweat gathered on his brow waiting to fall down the contours of his face. He groaned through clenched teeth as he worked, raging with fury.

  “You know, you should learn to control that anger.”

  Delcan turned to the entrance and found Stanlo with his arms crossed, shoulder leaning against the wall, watching him.

  “Anger? You have seen nothing of my rage,” Delcan said, tossing the pitchfork aside—his fingers ached from holding it so tightly—and stepping toward Stanlo.

  “Oh, I have seen plenty,” Stanlo said. “I have seen the way it overcomes you when you are beaten. Sir Merson overpowered you, that was clear, yet you would not accept the loss and nearly killed him for it.”

  The squires stood facing each other, each with his hands at his side now.

  “Merson aimed to kill me,” Delcan said.

  “It was a training exercise,” Stanlo snickered. “That is all.”

  “You know I speak the truth. You saw it happen; did you not? You saw me on my knees, asking for help and turned away.” Delcan tried not to raise his voice, not to let his anger boil beyond control.