Wings of Fire

by Jonathan Strahan; Marianne S. Jablon

  “Your enemies are always my enemies. I’ll be loyal to you through thick and thin.”

  “How can I trust you, if you’re so rotten?”

  “Because you’re going to pay me a lot of money.” Winkle bowed deeply.

  “Done,” said the Count.

  “Excellent,” said Winkle, and they shook hands. The Count noticed that Winkle’s hands were smooth—he had neither the hard horny palms of a village workingman nor the slick calluses of a man trained to warfare.

  “How have you made a living, up to now?” the Count asked.

  “I steal,” Winkle said, with a smile that said I’m joking and a glint in his eye that said I’m not.

  “What about me?” asked Bork.

  “Oh, you’re in it, too,” said Winkle. “You’re the king’s strong right arm.”

  “I’ve never met the king,” said Bork.

  “Yes you have,” Winkle retorted. “That is the king.”

  “No he’s not,” said the giant. “He’s only a count.”

  The words stabbed the Count deeply. Only a count. Well, that would end. “Today I’m only a count,” he said patiently. “Who knows what tomorrow will bring? But Bork—I shall knight you. As a knight you must swear absolute loyalty to me and do whatever I say. Will you do that?”

  “Of course I will,” said Bork. “Thank you, my Lord Count.” Bork arose and called to his new friends throughout the hall in a voice that could not be ignored. “My Lord Count has decided I will be made a knight!” There were cheers and applause and stamping of feet. “And the best thing is,” Bork said, “that now I can marry the Lady Brunhilda.”

  There was no applause. Just a murmur of alarm. Of course. If he became a knight, he was eligible for Brunhilda’s hand. It was unthinkable—but the Count himself had said so.

  The Count was having second thoughts, of course, but he knew no way to back out of it, not without looking like a word-breaker. He made a false start at speaking, but couldn’t finish. Bork waited expectantly. Clearly he believed the Count would confirm what Bork had said.

  It was Winkle, however, who took the situation in hand. “Oh, Bork,” he said sadly—but loudly, so that everyone could hear. “Don’t you understand? His majesty is making you a knight out of gratitude. But unless you’re a king or the son of a king, you have to do something exceptionally brave to earn Brunhilda’s hand.”

  “But, wasn’t I brave today?” Bork asked. After all, the arrow wound in his arm still hurt, and only the ale kept him from aching unmercifully all over from the exertion of the night and the day just past.

  “You were brave. But since you’re twice the size and ten times the strength of an ordinary man, it’s hardly fair for you to win Brunhilda’s hand with ordinary bravery. No, Bork—it’s just the way things work. It’s just the way things are done. Before you’re worthy of Brunhilda, you have to do something ten times as brave as what you did today.”

  Bork couldn’t think of something ten times as brave. Hadn’t he gone almost unprotected to chop down the oak tree? Hadn’t he attacked a whole army all by himself, and won the surrender of the enemy? What could be ten times as brave?

  “Don’t despair,” the Count said. “Surely in all battles ahead of us there’ll be something ten times as brave. And in the meantime, you’re a knight, my friend, a great knight, and you shall dine at my table every night! And when we march into battle, there you’ll be, right beside me—”

  “A few steps ahead,” Winkle whispered discreetly.

  “A few steps ahead of me, to defend the honor of my country—”

  “Don’t be shy,” whispered Winkle.

  “No, not my country. My kingdom. For from today, you men no longer serve a count! You serve a king!”

  It was a shocking declaration, and might have caused sober reflection if there had been a sober man in the room. But through the haze of alcohol and torchlight and fatigue, the knights looked at the Count and he did indeed seem kingly. And they thought of the battles ahead and were not afraid, for they had won a glorious victory today and not one of them had shed a drop of blood. Except, of course, Bork. But in some corner of their collected opinions was a viewpoint they would not have admitted to holding, if anyone brought the subject out in the open. The opinion so well hidden from themselves and each other was simple: Bork is not like me. Bork is not one of us. Therefore, Bork is expendable.

  The blood that still stained his sleeve was cheap. Plenty more where that came from.

  And so they plied him with more ale until he fell asleep, snoring hugely on the table, forgetting that he had been cheated out of the woman he loved; it was easy to forget, for the moment, because he was a knight, and a hero, and at last he had friends.

  It took two years for the Count to become King. He began close to home, with other counts, but soon progressed to the great dukes and earls of the kingdom. Wherever he went, the pattern was the same. The Count and his fifty knights would ride their horses, only lightly armored so they could travel with reasonable speed. Bork would walk, but his long legs easily kept up with the rest of them. They would arrive at their victim’s castle, and three squires would hand Bork his new steel-handled ax. Bork, covered with impenetrable armor, would wade the moat, if there was one, or simply walk up to the gates, swing the ax, and begin chopping through the wood. When the gates collapsed, Bork would take a huge steel rod and use it as a crow, prying at the portcullis, bending the heavy iron like pretzels until there was a gap wide enough for a mounted knight to ride through.

  Then he would go back to the Count and Winkle.

  Throughout this operation, not a word would have been said; the only activity from the Count’s other men would be enough archery that no one would be able to pour boiling oil or hot tar on Bork while he was working. It was a precaution, and nothing more—even if they set the oil on the fire the moment the Count’s little army approached, it would scarcely be hot enough to make water steam by the time Bork was through.

  “Do you surrender to his Majesty the King?” Winkle would cry.

  And the defenders of the castle, their gate hopelessly breached and terrified of the giant who had so easily made a joke of their defences, would usually surrender. Occasionally there was some token resistance—when that happened, at Winkle’s insistence, the town was brutally sacked and the noble’s family was held in prison until a huge ransom was paid.

  At the end of two years, the Count and Bork and Winkle and their army marched on Winchester. The King—the real king—fled before them and took up his exile in Anjou, where it was warmer anyway. The Count had himself crowned king, accepted the fealty of every noble in the country, and introduced his daughter Brunhilda all around. Then, finding Winchester not to his liking, he returned to his castle and ruled from there. Suitors for his daughter’s hand made a constant traffic on the roads leading into the country; would-be courtiers and nobles vying for positions filled the new hostelries that sprang up on the other side of the village. All left much poorer than they had arrived. And while much of that money found its way into the King’s coffers, much more of it went to Winkle, who believed that skimming off the cream meant leaving at least a quarter of it for the King.

  And now that the wars were done, Bork hung up his armor and went back to normal life. Not quite normal life, actually. He slept in a good room in the castle, better than most of the knights. Some of the knights had even come to enjoy his company, and sought him out for ale in the evenings or hunting in the daytime—Bork could always be counted on to carry home two deer himself, and was much more convenient than a packhorse. All in all, Bork was happier than he had ever thought he would be.

  Which is how things were going when the dragon came and changed it all forever.

  Winkle was in Brunhilda’s room, a place he had learned many routes to get to, so that he went unobserved every time. Brunhilda, after many gifts and more flattery, was on the verge of giving in to the handsome young advisor to the King when strange screams and cries
began coming from the fields below. Brunhilda pulled away from Winkle’s exploring hands and, clutching her half-open gown around her, rushed to the window to see what was the matter.

  She looked down, to where the screams were coming from, and it wasn’t until the dragon’s shadow fell across her that she looked up. Winkle, waiting on the bed, only saw the claws reach in and, gently but firmly, take hold of Brunhilda and pull her from the room. Brunhilda fainted immediately, and by the time Winkle got to where he could see her, the dragon had backed away from the window and on great flapping wings was carrying her limp body off toward the north whence he had come.

  Winkle was horrified. It was so sudden, something he could not have foreseen or planned against. Yet still he cursed himself and bitterly realized that his plans might be ended forever. A dragon had taken Brunhilda who was to be his means of legitimately becoming king; now the plot of seduction, marriage, and inheritance was ruined.

  Ever practical, Winkle did not let himself lament for long. He dressed himself quickly and used a secret passage out of Brunhilda’s room, only to reappear in the corridor outside it a moment later. “Brunhilda!” he cried, beating on the door. “Are you all right?”

  The first of the knights reached him, and then the King, weeping and wailing and smashing anything that got in his way. Brunhilda’s door was down in a moment, and the King ran to the window and cried out after his daughter, now a pinpoint speck in the sky many miles away. “Brunhilda! Brunhilda! Come back!” She did not come back. “Now,” cried the King, as he turned back into the room and sank to the floor, his face twisted and wet with grief, “Now I have nothing, and all is in vain!”

  My thoughts precisely, Winkle thought, but I’m not weeping about it. To hide his contempt he walked to the window and looked out. He saw, not the dragon, but Bork, emerging from the forest carrying two huge logs.

  “Sir Bork,” said Winkle.

  The King heard a tone of decision in Winkle’s voice. He had learned to listen to whatever Winkle said in that tone of voice. “What about him?”

  “Sir Bork could defeat the dragon,” Winkle said, “if any man could.”

  “That’s true,” the King said, gathering back some of the hope he had lost. “Of course that’s true.”

  “But will he?” asked Winkle.

  “Of course he will. He loves Brunhilda, doesn’t he?”

  “He said he did. But Your Majesty, is he really loyal to you? After all, why wasn’t he here when the dragon came? Why didn’t he save Brunhilda in the first place?”

  “He was cutting wood for the winter.”

  “Cutting wood? When Brunhilda’s life was at stake?”

  The King was outraged. The illogic of it escaped him—he was not in a logical mood. So he was furious when he met Bork at the gate of the castle.

  “You’ve betrayed me!” the King cried.

  “I have?” Bork was smitten with guilt. And he hadn’t even meant to.

  “You weren’t here when we needed you. When Brunhilda needed you!”

  “I’m sorry,” Bork said.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry. A lot of good it does to say you’re sorry. You swore to protect Brunhilda from any enemy, and when a really dangerous enemy comes along, how do you repay me for everything I’ve done for you? You hide out in the forest!”

  “What enemy?”

  “A dragon,” said the King, “as if you didn’t see it coming and run out into the woods.”

  “Cross my heart, Your Majesty, I didn’t know there was a dragon coming.” And then he made the connection in his mind. “The dragon—it took Brunhilda?”

  “It took her. Took her half-naked from her bedroom when she leaped to the window to call to you for help.”

  Bork felt the weight of guilt, and it was a terrible burden. His face grew hard and angry, and he walked into the castle, his harsh footfalls setting the earth to trembling. “My armor!” he cried. “My sword!”

  In minutes he was in the middle of the courtyard, holding out his arms as the heavy mail was draped over him and the breastplate and helmet were strapped and screwed into place. The sword was not enough—he also carried his huge ax and a shield so massive two ordinary men could have hidden behind it.

  “Which way did he go?” Bork asked.

  “North,” the King answered.

  “I’ll bring back your daughter, Your Majesty, or die in the attempt.”

  “Damn well better. It’s all your fault.”

  The words stung, but the sting only impelled Bork further. He took the huge sack of food the cook had prepared for him and fastened it to his belt, and without a backward glance strode from the castle and took the road north.

  “I almost feel sorry for the dragon,” said the King.

  But Winkle wondered. He had seen how large the claws were as they grasped Brunhilda—she had been like a tiny doll in a large man’s fingers. The claws were razor sharp. Even if she were still alive, could Bork really best the dragon? Bork the Bully, after all, had made his reputation picking on men smaller than he, as Winkle had ample reason to know. How would he do facing a dragon at least five times his size? Wouldn’t he turn coward? Wouldn’t he run as other men had run from him?

  He might. But Sir Bork the Bully was Winkle’s only hope of getting Brunhilda and the kingdom. If he could do anything to ensure that the giant at least tried to fight the dragon, he would do it. And so, taking only his rapier and a sack of food, Winkle left the castle by another way, and followed the giant along the road toward the north.

  And then he had a terrible thought.

  Fighting the dragon was surely ten times as brave as anything Bork had done before. If he won, wouldn’t he have a claim on Brunhilda’s hand himself?

  It was not something Winkle wished to think about. Something would come to him, some way around the problem when the time came. Plenty of opportunity to plan something—after Bork wins and rescues her.

  Bork had not rounded the second turn in the road when he came across the old woman, waiting by the side of the road. It was the same old woman who had cared for Brunhilda all those years that she was kept in a secret room in the castle. She looked wizened and weak, but there was a sharp look in her eyes that many had mistaken for great wisdom. It was not great wisdom. But she did know a few things about dragons.

  “Going after the dragon, are you?” she asked in a squeaky voice. “Going to get Brunhilda back, are you?” She giggled darkly behind her hand.

  “I am if anyone can,” Bork said.

  “Well, anyone can’t,” she answered.

  “I can.”

  “Not a prayer, you big bag of wind!”

  Bork ignored her and started to walk past.

  “Wait!” she said, her voice harsh as a dull file taking rust from armor. “Which way will you go?”

  “North,” he said. “That’s the way the dragon took her.”

  “A quarter of the world is north, Sir Bork the Bully, and a dragon is small compared to all the mountains of the earth. But I know a way you can find the dragon, if you’re really a knight.

  “Light a torch, man. Light a torch, and whenever you come to a fork in the way, the light of the torch will leap the way you ought to go. Wind or no wind, fire seeks fire, and there is a flame at the heart of every dragon.”

  “They do breathe fire, then?” he asked. He did not know how to fight fire.

  “Fire is light, not wind, and so it doesn’t come from the dragon’s mouth or the dragon’s nostrils. If he burns you, it won’t be with his breath.” The old woman cackled like a mad hen. “No one knows the truth about dragons anymore!”

  “Except you.”

  “I’m an old wife,” she said. “And I know. They don’t eat human beings, either. They’re strict vegetarians. But they kill. From time to time they kill.”

  “Why, if they aren’t hungry for meat?”

  “You’ll see,” she said. She started to walk away, back into the forest.

  “Wait!” Bork called.
“How far will the dragon be?”

  “Not far,” she said. “Not far, Sir Bork. He’s waiting for you. He’s waiting for you and all the fools who come to try to free the virgin.” Then she melted away into the darkness.

  Bork lit a torch and followed it all night, turning when the flame turned, unwilling to waste time in sleep when Brunhilda might be suffering unspeakable degradation at the monster’s hands. And behind him, Winkle forced himself to stay awake, determined not to let Bork lose him in the darkness.

  All night, and all day, and all night again Bork followed the light of the torch, through crooked paths long unused, until he came to the foot of a dry, tall hill, with rocks and crags along the top. He stopped, for here the flame leaped high, as if to say, “Upward from here.” And in the silence he heard a sound that chilled him to the bone. It was Brunhilda, screaming as if she were being tortured in the cruelest imaginable way. And the screams were followed by a terrible roar. Bork cast aside the remnant of his food and made his way to the top of the hill. On the way he called out, to stop the dragon from whatever it was doing.

  “Dragon! Are you there!”

  The voice rumbled back to him with a power that made the dirt shift under Bork’s feet. “Yes indeed.”

  “Do you have Brunhilda?”

  “You mean the little virgin with the heart of an adder and the brain of a gnat?”

  In the forest at the bottom of the hill, Winkle ground his teeth in fury, for despite his designs on the kingdom, he loved Brunhilda as much as he was capable of loving anyone.

  “Dragon!” Bork bellowed at the top of his voice. “Dragon! Prepare to die!”

  “Oh dear! Oh dear!” cried out the dragon. “Whatever shall I do?”

  And then Bork reached the top of the hill, just as the sun topped the distant mountains and it became morning. In the light Bork immediately saw Brunhilda tied to a tree, her auburn hair glistening. All around her was the immense pile of gold that the dragon, according to custom, kept. And all around the gold was the dragon’s tail.

  Bork looked at the tail and followed it until finally he came to the dragon, who was leaning on a rock chewing on a tree trunk and smirking. The dragon’s wings were clad with feathers, but the rest of him was covered with tough gray hide the color of weathered granite. His teeth, when he smiled, were ragged, long, and pointed. His claws were three feet long and sharp as a rapier from tip to base. But in spite of all this armament, the most dangerous thing about him was his eyes. They were large and soft and brown, with long lashes and gently arching brows. But at the center each eye held a sharp point of light, and when Bork looked at the eyes that light stabbed deep into him, seeing his heart and laughing at what it found there.