Dragon Fire

by Pedro L. Alvarez

  The dragon shrilled and Roimas saw Malden look up at him before he awoke.

  On the last night, Roimas had the most vivid of the dreams.

  Once again it began with the dragon’s calling. This time, as the creature passed over the castle it left a trail of flames in its wake. Fire consumed the stables then spread to the servants’ quarters. In the scene below, people dressed in their sleepwear ran with pails of water to quench the flames. Guards and knights with spears, bows and arrows stood in the courtyard attempting to take aim at the flying menace.

  In the turmoil below Roimas saw Delcan and three others running through the courtyard chased by Malden and a group of guards. The dragon turned above them and swooped down to stand between Delcan and the guards. Spreading its wings it sprayed fire upon the courtyard, pushing Malden and his guards down on their backs. The dragon turned to look at Delcan and spread its wings in what seemed like a display of size and strength. Delcan seemed mesmerized by the image before him.

  Shaking, Roimas shouted—“No! Delcan!”—and as the words left his lips the dragon’s body changed. The tips of its mighty wings became fingers; the wings themselves became arms. Its legs shrank in size and the twelve-foot height of the upright dragon became a modest six feet. The snout on its face pulled back and dissolved into the head that was itself changing. As the metamorphosis ended the dragon transformed into a man recognizable to Roimas instantly.

  “Galyan,” Roimas had whispered in his sleep.

  Delcan stood paralyzed before the man who had emerged from the dragon’s body. Galyan had a worried look upon his face. He spoke as he stepped forward, pointing over Delcan’s shoulder, but his voice was mute to Roimas. As Galyan reached for Delcan a steel blade ran through Delcan’s back and he fell into Galyan’s arms.

  All Roimas could see behind his son was a green cloak whirling in the wind as the killer ran from Galyan before the wizard could seize him.

  The world upon which Roimas looked down dimmed. The images of the castle—of people running about, the destruction—faded like the light of a fire dying. All that was left was darkness and Galyan standing with his arms held out, still forming the cradle into which Delcan had fallen.

  Galyan raised his head and looked out from the darkness directly at Roimas. “I cannot save him this time,” he said. His voice echoed as if the world were empty and he and Roimas were all that was left. “You must hurry. It is not yet too late.”

  Roimas awakened slowly from the fourth dream. The image behind his eyelids disappeared as if melting away. Delcan’s body vanished and Galyan’s remained for a moment before the wizard transformed back into a transparent image of the dragon. When Roimas opened his eyes the dragon remained in the waking world.

  Roimas sat on the bed for a long while, struggling to clear the image of Delcan’s lifeless body from his mind.

  As morning crawled toward the mountains and settled on the kingdom, Roimas woke up Telias and told her of the dreams and their warning.

  “You are going there,” she said when he had finished speaking. “You cannot go alone,” she yelled when he did not respond.

  With a haunting calm about him, one which surprised even him, Roimas opened the door to a long, narrow storage space in the bed chamber. From behind hanging over shirts and trousers he removed a broadsword sheathed in layers of dust.

  “What do you believe you will accomplish with that?” Telias asked. “Your own death?”

  “I must go,” he whispered. “I will find our son.”

  The man and woman who had shared the dread of this day for many years looked at each other and watched each other’s eyes well up with tears.

  “He is in danger,” Roimas said.

  Telias nodded as tears fell freely from her eyes.

  “It was Galyan in my dreams.” Roimas saw Telias shudder at the sound of the name. “He saved Delcan’s life once and now he is saving him again.”

  “I know he is alive,” Telias said. “What I fear is that I may lose you.”

  She threw her arms around him and wept. She wept for a long time.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Morning poured down upon the castle and rain fell with it, towing the rumble of thunder behind it.

  Sandrion spent the first hours of the day in the stable, sitting in the corner of a stall with most of his body covered in hay. He sat in silence as the horses slept with his bow across his lap, a nocked arrow pointing away from him, waiting for daybreak. Waiting for the first light when Aria would come meet Delcan.

  He would tell her what had happened; warn her. He would make her safety his charge and make certain that she leave the castle. Then he would venture alone to the caves, find the rebel leader and appeal for his support. If the dissenters were unable, if they were unwilling, to come to his aid, he would go after Delcan himself.

  When a set of soft footsteps entered the stable, Sandrion shot to his feet. He stood with his back against the wall and raised the arrow over the stall door.

  The steps shuffled forward then stopped. From where he stood, Sandrion saw only a shadow on the stable floor. As the shadow moved closer Sandrion saw to whom it belonged.

  He emerged from the stall and stood before Aria. He could read the expression of surprise on her face—perhaps not at having encountered him so unexpectedly but at seeing his shoulders slouched and his face devoid of the joviality it usually wore so conspicuously. She looked at him, at his eyes, and Sandrion realized at once that she knew Delcan had been captured.

  “He has been taken,” Sandrion whispered. She nodded without a word.

  Sandrion looked at her, interpreting her calm demeanor as a form of shock and disbelief. He placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. An uncomfortable dread at having to tell her the details of Delcan’s imprisonment gnawed at his thoughts. He feared having to answer what Delcan’s odds were of surviving.

  “The guards dragged him deep into the castle. I ran…” Sandrion lowered his eyes making no attempt to hide his regret of his own actions. He sighed deeply and continued speaking rapidly, without taking a breath. “They may be searching for me now. I had to come meet you in Delcan’s place—to warn you. I will find you a safe place to hide. Somewhere far from Castilmont. Delcan’s father has a farm, at the edge of the forest. Then I must go to the Cave Dwellers. I will speak to their leader. Branis. I know not where the guards may have taken Delcan but the rebels will provide assistance, I’m sure of it. He can—”

  “No.” Aria’s voice was serene, determined. “You will not find him there.”

  “Branis? You know where he is?”

  Aria had an intense, cool look in her eyes Sandrion had never seen on anyone. She accompanied it with a thin, knowing smile. A smile that for an instant Sandrion thought of as disquieting.

  “He and I are one and the same,” Aria said. “I am Branis.”

  Delcan sat on the mud with his arms resting upon his knees. The top of his boots had been torn apart and dirt had collected between his toes.

  He kept his head down, not having looked up at the opening above for nearly an hour. He had grown tiresome of watching shadows swimming over the trapdoor as the guards walked around the pit above him—shadows that teased him and tortured his mind.

  The guards glanced down at Delcan frequently as if out of curiosity, as if he were an oddity; as if it had been ages since a prisoner had been kept in the isolation pit. Delcan ignored their presence, watching instead the way light changed inside the pit when they stood near the opening. At times he heard them whisper snide remarks. Other times they only stood and watched, perhaps wondering what he might do to keep from growing insane.

  Delcan was unaware that morning had already spread over the kingdom. Even after one night the light and dark of the world inside the pit had blended.

  He had spent most of the night doing what every other prisoner who had ever sat in the pit had done before him—thinking of a way to escape the dungeon. He would have to climb out of the hole first and
foremost, but with shackles keeping his feet no more than shoulder-width apart, it would be difficult under even the best of circumstances. Were his feet free of the chains, still the climb would be nearly impossible for the walls of the pit were nothing more than the inside of a hole dug out of clay and compacted dirt; there were no jagged edges from which he could grip. Even once outside the pit he would have the guards inside and out of the dungeon to get past. Still, despite the obstacles before him, his mind worked at the problem, running through scenarios at the ends of which he was always caught.

  Peppering his schemes for escape were thoughts of Aria and the hope that when morning arrived Sandrion would go to her, meet her at the stable, and tell her what had taken place. He counted upon his friend to find a way to keep her safe. He knew Sandrion would go to the rebels for help, but he was not certain whether Branis would be willing to come out of hiding so soon—or whether Branis would even care to since he knew nothing of Delcan, not even the name.

  Delcan closed his eyes. His body ached at having sat for so long on the hard earth and rock. His head throbbed with pain from the hours of thoughts that swirled through his mind—from escape attempts, to Aria, to his father who knew not where he was but would soon become aware when a guard’s boot pushes the door to his secrets open.

  Roimas had fought to live his life far from Castilmont’s shadow. He had created a safe haven in which to form a quiet life, a family, and effectively hide his identity. Now, Delcan thought, with him here, within Orsak’s clutch, his father’s secure and quiet existence will forever be disrupted and his life would be in danger; and with it, his mother’s. As Telias’s face took form in the dark behind his eyelids a chill spread from the back of his neck to his toes; his shoulders shook and from the corners of his eyes tears seeped.

  The hinges on the slatted door above him screeched and Delcan’s eyes sprang open. He turned his face up to the opening and light poured in; the moisture clinging to his eyes blurred his vision. He blinked twice to clear his eyes and saw the King himself looking down upon him with a grin of satisfaction on his bearded face. Delcan blinked slowly once more, sure that the image of Orsak’s face above him would disappear, but as his eyes reopened and adjusted to the light the grinning face remained.

  “Hello, squire.”

  The King’s booming voice fell upon Delcan’s upturned face.

  “I have learned much about you, boy,” the King said. “But I know not how you believed you could keep me from learning the truth—or that you would someday be a knight in my court.”

  Orsak stood at the edge of the pit, towering above the guards who surrounded him. His arms were crossed on his chest. His voice reverberated in the pit as if he were talking into an empty glass jar.

  “Why did you go see Aria?” the King asked.

  Delcan did not speak; he only fixed his tired eyes defiantly on Orsak’s. Just under the surface of that defiance his heart pounded with nervous anxiety and suppressed fear.

  “No words with which to respond.” The King’s grin spread wider across his face. “Very well. You will answer many questions soon enough. But first, I would like to show you something.”

  Orsak waved his hand and a rope was thrown over the side of the pit.

  “You see, I have a new device that requires demonstration. Perhaps you can be of help. I am curious to hear your judgment of it.”

  Delcan looked at the rope and thought of not climbing, of denying Orsak every command. Trailing that thought was a fear that suddenly pushed its way to the front of his mind—a fear he could no longer refute—that in so defying Orsak he would die in this pit without seeing Aria, his father, or his mother again; or worse, put their lives in further danger.

  “Climb, boy,” the King said through gritted teeth, “or they will drag you out in pieces.”

  One of the guards threw down a second rope and prepared himself to climb down to Delcan. Another guard appeared at the edge of the pit with a loaded crossbow held in both hands.

  Delcan sighed and shivered unexpectedly. He took hold of the rope and climbed awkwardly with the shackles on his feet rattling.

  “We have much to discuss,” Orsak said once Delcan had reached the top, suddenly uncharacteristically amicable. He put an arm around Delcan’s shoulder. It felt heavy and cold. “There are, oh, so many things of which I want to ask you. Your father, for instance.”

  He pushed Delcan forward and Delcan stumbled into the arms of two awaiting guards. They took hold of his forearms and pulled him into the dungeon’s main chamber where the other prisoners stood watching with their faces pressed between the bars of their cages.

  They stopped in the center of the room in front of a large wooden chair that faced a row of cells. The guards pushed Delcan down upon the contraption and his body landed hard against the seat. To Delcan’s right, near the dungeon’s entrance, Malden stood with a visibly-shaken, wide-eyed Stanlo beside him.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “So this is what I know of you, boy,” Orsak said as the guards pulled Delcan’s arms roughly to the sides, locking his elbows with a crack. “Your father is not just a farmer. And you are not just a farm boy. Are you?”

  The guards strapped Delcan’s arms to two wooden planks that ran across the back of the chair. At the end of each plank, chains ran through holes in the wood; the chains connected on either side to a pair of wheels, each fixed with a handle. Two guards knelt at either side of his legs and removed the shackles.

  Delcan glared at Stanlo. Orsak saw Delcan’s glowering and beckoned Stanlo to join them.

  “Young man,” the King said, slapping Stanlo hard on the back. “You have much for which to be proud. Here, before you, sits a traitor. A traitor who hid the truth of who he is. He imagined he would be knighted. And he thought of himself with his arms around my granddaughter. Now, he sits before us, captured, about to suffer great pain so that we can after all arrive at the truth. And it is owed to you and your loyalty, son.”

  Orsak grinned at Stanlo as he put an arm around his shoulders. He then turned to Delcan with satisfaction, and with a look of anticipation, as if eagerly waiting for Delcan’s reaction.

  “It is to you whom we owe much gratitude.” Orsak spoke to Stanlo but kept his eyes on Delcan. Stanlo stood sheepishly, as if being kept in place by the weight of the King’s arm. “It is by your efforts that we have come to understand who this boy really is.” Orsak pushed Stanlo forward slightly. “Who his father really is.” Orsak nudged Stanlo forward yet again. “Not a farmer at all.” He pushed Stanlo a bit more sternly this time and the squire now stood directly in front of Delcan. “A man who owed much to this kingdom and yet abandoned it.” He removed his arm and placed one large hand in the middle of Stanlo’s back. “A man who turned his back on his duty. A man who for all these years hid in the far corner of the kingdom. Tell me, squire.” Orsak turned to Stanlo and looked down upon him. “What do you judge to be the reason a man would hide that way, and for so long?”

  Stanlo looked up at the King, searching in that beard-blanketed face for the words he was being asked to utter.

  “A man who runs so far from the people he left behind. I would say perhaps he runs because he is overcome with shame.”

  Stanlo stood rigidly, looking at Orsak.

  “It is alright, young man, to say it. Go on.”

  “Shame,” Stanlo muttered.

  “Look at that man’s son, Stanlo.” Orsak pointed at Delcan as he overawed Stanlo with his eyes. “And tell him why his father abandoned Castilmont.”

  Stanlo turned to Delcan and the two squires exchanged a stare that spoke for them words that would never be uttered. Delcan’s eyes burned with stinging tears that had built within them and they shot glares of death and pain at Stanlo. Stanlo’s eyes were at first fearful, tentative, but upon seeing the hate boiling within Delcan’s his expression changed. He grew defensive and deeply hurt and as Orsak looked down on him, he bore into Delcan’s eyes and said, “Shame. Your father left in
shame.”

  Delcan pulled at the chains in his arms as he tried to sit up.

  “And a man,” said Orsak. “A man who hides so far from another would seem to be nothing less than…”

  “Afraid,” said Stanlo and grinned. “A coward.” He saw the mixture of pain and anger in Delcan’s face and he grinned. Suddenly Stanlo’s demeanor changed. He was now the confident, vexing young man Delcan had first met in Cuen’s cart the day of the Flarian festival with an added tang of malice. “Your father, Delcan, was afraid. He was afraid of the King’s wrath and he ran away to hide—to hide in shame and in fear.”

  Delcan kicked Stanlo hard in the stomach. As Stanlo doubled over in pain, one of the guards struck Delcan on the side of the knee. He groaned in pain and struggled to sit up once more. He raised his foot to kick the guard when Orsak himself drove an elbow into his face. Delcan’s head rocked back and sharp pain bellowed in his already swollen eye.

  “Strap his legs,” Orsak ordered.

  Delcan turned to look at Stanlo and found the squire gasping for air as Malden led him out of the dungeon.

  Delcan’s heart stammered. As pain spread from his arms to his shoulders with the rush of a stream he struggled to focus his mind on one thing, and one thing only—a mental image of his father’s farm. Even as it flowed out of him, he concentrated all his strength in keeping his eyes ahead of him and his mind somewhere else—as if he were looking out of a window in the farmhouse at the farm’s green fields and weathered fences, at the calming swaying of the shading trees, at the row of wild brush from which behind the forest spread.

  How does he know? The question swam in Delcan’s dizzying head. How did he find the truth? Who told him?

  Orsak signaled to the guard standing behind the chair and the guard turned the smaller of the wheels once more.

  Delcan clenched his teeth and shut his eyes as his legs were pulled back under the chair. His knees bent to the point where the back of his thighs rose from the seat. The leather straps holding his arms in place against the planks behind the chair kept his torso from moving forward.