by JA Andrews
Tomkin looked at the pile of rubble on the floor beside them. “No, it’s not. Keeps are…strongholds, the last, best refuge of a castle.” He let out a little laugh. “This is more of a ‘give up’ than a ‘keep.’”
Her eyes narrowed to venomous slits. “Call it whatever you like. It’s mine.”
She seemed serious.
Tomkin sank onto the pile of rocks behind him, rubbing his sore shoulder. His terror had drained away, leaving his muscles feeling weak and watery. “We’ve been captured by a dragon. Nothing about this place is ours.”
“I haven’t been captured. I’m here by choice.”
Tomkin stared at her. “By choice? Inside that barred door?”
She glared at him. “Who are you? Some little squire who thought it would be impressive to kill a dragon?”
He drew himself up. “I’m the son of the Duke of Marshwell.” He paused to let the significance of that sink in.
The girl’s eyebrow twitched the slightest amount and she appraised him again. Tomkin pulled his shoulders back. Common girls were so easily impressed.
She raised one eyebrow in disdain. “You’re the future Duke of Marshwell?”
That settled it. Tomkin didn’t like her. “No, I’m the duke’s younger son. My brother Elton will be duke.”
“What will you be?”
“I’ll be me,” he snapped. “Tomkin of Marshwell, with the full force of Marshwell’s troops and powers supporting me. I’ll be anything I want to be.”
She gave him a little smirk. “Except duke.”
Tomkin hated her. “Who are you and why are you here?”
She tossed her hair, sending up a little puff of dust. “Vorath and I have an agreement.”
“Vorath?”
“The dragon. You didn’t even introduce yourself to him, did you? I didn’t realize younger sons of lesser lords had so few manners.”
Lesser lords! He spoke slowly so he could get through to her. “You know what Marshwell is, right? It’s this land you live on. Stretching north to the Blue Hills and south to Coastal Baylon. It’s the third largest duchy in the kingdom. And,” he said, remembering the Isle of Bald Sheep, “we even have an island.”
The girl looked unimpressed. “Don’t forget the putrid marshes.”
“They’re not putrid, they’re…mournful.”
She snorted. “It’d make me mournful if my land was covered with them.”
“It’s not covered—the marshes are one small part.”
“Then why’s it called Marshwell?”
Tomkin took a deep breath. He didn’t just hate this girl. What was a word worse than hate? Nothing came to mind. He’d just capitalize it then. He Hated this girl. “So, you’re friends with the dragon?”
“Of course. I talked to him when I met him this morning. What did you do? Run at him with a sword?”
“No.” Whatever he had done, it hadn’t involved running. “What did you talk about?”
“I pointed out to Vorath that it’s late summer and the cattle drives are next week. I could gather a dozen cattle for him with an hour or two of work. He’d have food for weeks.”
Tomkin stared at her, stunned. “You’re domesticating him?”
The girl snorted. “No one domesticates a dragon. We’re working together.” She lifted her chin again. “It’s a mutually beneficial association.”
She was either insane, or incredibly stupid. “Right. Vorath gets cows. How do you benefit? Besides not being eaten until the cows run out?”
“He’s not going to eat me. I get to live here. I pointed out to Vorath that his castle wasn’t in great shape and I could help with that if, in return, he would let me live here with him. I could give him a castle worth being proud of and he could give me a home.” She straightened her shoulders. “I’m not interested in living the life people think I should live. I’m writing my own story.”
Writing her own story? Someone needed to take away this girl’s quill. “Wait, did you come looking for a dragon?”
“No.” She stared at him like he was an idiot. Like he was the idiot! “I was looking for a new home. Serendipitously, I met Vorath.”
Serendipitously was a big word for such a dusty girl.
“And now that I’m here, well….” She stood as tall as a small girl could. “This is my new home. It has a lot of potential.”
“It has the potential to fall into the river.”
Her eyebrows drew down sharply like a pair of angry dirt clods. “Tell me this, Tomkin the Inept Dragon Hunter, why didn’t the Duke of Marshwell send a warrior to fight Vorath?”
Tomkin shifted. “It was my decision. I’m in charge of Marshwell while my father is fighting at the border.” Tomkin raised his own chin.
She studied him. “They left you in charge?”
Tomkin gave her his most imperious nod. It didn’t feel as polished as hers.
“And instead of coming up with a good plan, you came yourself?”
“I’m perfectly capable—,” he began.
“Obviously.”
“—and once I do this, my father will drop his foolish ideas about who he wants me to marry and things can get back to normal.”
She stared at him, appalled. “You…you came to fight a dragon because you didn't want to get married?”
“No. Marriage is fine. I’d like to get married. I just don’t want to marry the girl my father picked.”
“Why not? Is she not rich enough for the littlest son of the Duke of the Putrid Marshes?”
“It has nothing to do with that! The rumors about her are enough to—”
“Rumors?” she interrupted. “Based on only rumors you’re willing to fight a dragon to get away from her?”
“It’s not just about her. If the younger son of a…less prominent lord is going to attract the eye of someone…significant, he’s got to have some sort of claim. Something impressive.”
“Like being captured by a dragon?”
He tried to glare the smirk off her face. If his brother had tried this ill-conceived plan, he would have found some beautiful, rich maiden trapped here. And she’d be nice. He’d have found his soulmate, who also happened to be the exact ally his father would need to cement the peace between Queensland and Coastal Baylon.
And Tomkin had found this girl. Mean, selfish, and crazy.
“Look, we have to get out of here, and I need to kill the dragon.”
“You’re not killing Vorath,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Yes, I am. Mostly to save my land, but also, as much as you don’t see it, to save you. He’s a dragon. He may enjoy your cattle for a bit, but then he’s going to eat you.”
“I suppose that all depends on how good of friends we are by then,” she said primly. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You’re one of those people who judge everyone the instant you meet them and never give them a chance.”
Tomkin clamped down on the rage growing in his chest. “Fine. Stay here. Get eaten. But while I’m stuck with you, do me a favor and shut your mouth.”
He stomped over to the door and yanked on it. It didn’t budge. The hinges were solid, the wood strong. It figured the only part of this place that wasn’t rotten was this door.
Behind him, he heard the girl shoving things around. A twinge of guilt threaded its way through his boiling mass of anger. The “shut your mouth” bit had been harsh. She was just a girl. She was probably scared.
He took a deep breath and turned to face her, forcing his voice to sound polite. “I’m sorry.” The words sounded almost genuine. “What’s your name?”
She pointed at her shut mouth.
And the rage was back. “I said I was sorry!”
She rolled her eyes.
“Fine. I’ll pick a name for you. What’s a good one for a smudgy, shabby-looking girl who’s mean and bossy?”
Tomkin took a grim pleasure in the glare she flashed at him.
“I suppose it’s obvious. In any good story, you’d be
a shrew. Magwina the Shrew.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Mind if I call you Mags for short?”
She gave a huff and turned back around to her broken chair.
“Now, Mags, I need to find a way out of here before the dragon eats me.”
“He’s not going to eat you,” Mags said, exasperated. “Or he would have done it already.”
Tomkin paused. That was a good point. “Why didn’t he eat me?”
She rolled her eyes. “Because he’s not the bloodthirsty monster you think he is.”
Tomkin shook his head. “That’s not it.” Only a crazy person like Mags would believe that. “He must want something. What does he want?”
“To not be attacked with a sword?”
“Trust me, swords aren’t much of a threat to him.”
Why had the dragon thrown him in here with Mags? He looked at the girl, who was stacking her wood pieces with a scowl.
A dragon who didn’t eat people and a girl who collected pieces of shattered furniture. This story was so bizarre Tomkin didn’t even know where to begin fixing it.
She continued to shove debris around.
“What are you looking for?” he demanded. “A splinter?”
“I’m looking for a missing nail.”
“Why? You can’t fix that chair. It’s broken.”
“Ahh,” she said, not turning towards him, “I forgot I should run all my ideas past you. Your own plans seem to work out so well.” She picked up the nail and dropped it on the desk. “There’s the last one.”
“Right,” Tomkin muttered, “you play with your wood chips. I’m going to figure out a way out of here.”
6
Tomkin walked over to the door and peered through a large crack. “I can see a sliver of the courtyard,” he reported. “It looks deserted.”
“This is a castle,” Mags said. “You don’t call it a courtyard, it’s the bailey.”
Tomkin rolled his eyes. “The bailey looks deserted.”
He tried to see the bar holding the door closed. Maybe he could squeeze something through the crack to lift it. He tried to shove a small piece of wood through, but it didn’t work. “This door isn’t going to budge.”
“Shocking.” Mags began matching broken chair pieces to each other.
Tomkin looked around. Above the door, along the curved wall of the tower, a crescent of the second floor still clung to some rotting wooden beams. What remained of the staircase reached up to it. More or less.
He moved to the bottom of the stairs and set a foot on the first step. The wood creaked, but held.
The stairs complained at his weight, but he reached the highest step safely. Unfortunately, the last four steps were missing, leaving a wide gap between himself and the second floor. It was within reach, if he lunged, but the edge of the floor was just broken planks, clinging to their neighbors by a few tenacious fibers. A rug, molded and moth-eaten, ran all the way to the wall, where it was pinned by a pile of rocks. If he could reach it, he could use it to pull himself up. Tomkin gauged the jump, and leapt.
Below him Mags gasped.
He slammed into the floor and the sharp edge of the wood jabbed into his stomach. He grabbed the rug. The piece of wood beneath him cracked. His body lurched lower, his legs swung wildly.
“Don’t fall!” called Mags.
“You’re not helping!” He pulled on the wad of rug and tried to throw one of his legs onto the floor. There was a long, low ripping sound and the rug began to slide.
“What’s ripping?” demanded Mags. “Are you destroying my castle?”
“Shut”—Tomkin grabbed for something else, anything else— “up!” His fingers jabbed into a sharp hole in a plank, sending shooting pain into his hand but stopping his slide. With a great effort and a lot of pain, Tomkin got one leg up, then the other, then rolled onto his back, gasping for breath. Below him the wood made a fracturing noise.
“Do not knock that entire floor down,” Mags said.
He wanted to wiggle and see what fell on her. Instead, he rolled to his side and onto his feet. The floor beneath him shifted. Thinking light thoughts about clouds and butterflies, Tomkin stepped over to the wall where it was more stable.
He set his back against the wall and looked up. The windows were still high above him, almost twice as high as he could reach.
Tomkin ran his hands along the rough stone wall. Maybe he could climb. He put his fingertips into a crack and squashed his foot into a nook. He had never climbed a rock wall before, but it couldn’t be that hard. It was just like climbing a ladder, right? He managed to lift himself knee-high before his fingers and forearms began to burn.
“What are you doing up there?”
Mags’ voice startled him and his foot slipped, crashing down. There was a deep, resonant crack from beneath him and he froze, clinging to the wall. The floor shifted to the right.
“Do not break my keep!”
Tomkin didn’t move. “All of your yelling is not helping,” he said through his teeth.
“I am more than willing to help, if you would bother to ask. But since you like to throw yourself into action without putting the slightest thought into whether or not it’s a good idea….”
“Then come up here and help me reach this window so I can get a view outside.” That girl was the most horrible person he had ever met. He was almost tempted to leave her here when he escaped. He could just slip through the window, climb down the outside of the tower—after he got the hang of this rock climbing thing—and slip away. She could stay in her broken tower cooing at her dragon until he ate her.
Mags began to mutter something below him. Tomkin stretched his hand a little higher up the wall, dragging his fingers along the small gaps between the stones. He needed smaller fingers. How did people do this? The rest of the wall was the same, with the exception of one knob of rock just out of reach that stuck out a handbreadth. If he could reach that and somehow scramble on top of it, he could reach the window. He stretched as far as he could, his fingers brushing the underside of it.
Beneath him, Mags was still talking.
Another voice answered her. It was low, but gruff.
“Who’s down there?” Tomkin demanded.
“Don’t interrupt,” Mags snipped. Then, addressing the other person, she said, “See? He claimed to be the Duke of Marshwell’s son, but he has the manners of a farm boy.”
“Who are you talking to?” Tomkin craned his neck around, but could only see the broken crescent of floor below him and the skeletal husk of stairs spiraling down the far wall.
He received no answer, so he swung his hand toward the rock again. This time, when he missed, his foot slipped out of the crack it was in and he slid, landing hard on his heel and crashing onto his back. He braced for the brittle floor to collapse, hardly daring to breathe.
It stayed firm. He shifted his weight. Nothing happened. It felt strong and…floor-like. He stood and gave a little jump. A hollow drum sound reverberated through the tower, but nothing shifted, cracked, or even wiggled.
“Will you stop?” Mags’ voice floated up, annoyed.
At the edge of the floor, something moved. Two thin sticks waved around for a moment, then leaned on the edge of the planks.
“Oh, thank you, it’s perfect!” Mags said, her voice surprisingly kind. “You do such fine work. Would you mind holding the bottom while I climb?”
Tomkin took a step toward the edge. “Is that a ladder?”
The sticks wiggled for a couple moments, then Mags’ dirty head popped into view.
“Be careful!” Tomkin reached one hand out towards her.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Mags threw an annoyed glare at him. She climbed onto the floor.
Tomkin tried to stifle his annoyance. “That wood is rotten.”
She rolled her eyes at him, then turned to look down the ladder. “This whole center section is strong?”
“Yes, mistress. It’s perfectly safe.” Anot
her head popped over the edge. This one was not nearly as dirty as Mags, and not nearly as human.
7
The creature hopping over the top of the ladder was a bit like a child. The top of its head was only a bit above Mags’ waist. But it had a mustache of two stringy tails of hair and large, knobby fingers that reminded Tomkin of tree roots. Its enormous features were drawn into a scowl that looked remarkably like Mags.
“What is that thing?” Tomkin said, leaning forward to get a better look. It wore little purple clothes and a purple cap above its enormous pointed ears.
Mags flashed Tomkin a look of venom. “This is Wink.” She set her hand on the creature’s head. “He is a kobold and my friend.”
A kobold! Tomkin stared at the creature. He had never seen one of the magical little creatures, reputed to be able to fix any broken thing. Tomkin had expected a kobold to look more pleasant, more benevolent. This one did not, but maybe that was because he was glowering at Tomkin.
“Yes,” the kobold said, addressing Mags in a gravelly voice, “the center of the floor is safe. You can cross to where the boy is. If he bothers you, just shove him off to either side. Those parts won’t hold an oaf like him.”
“Thank you,” Mags said, leaning down and kissing the top of the little cap. She looked around. “Wink, can you do anything with this rug? I think I need a new dress.”
The kobold ran his hand along the rug, drawing out tangles of thread. He held them toward the window, tugging on them. Giving an approving nod, he pulled a little knife out of his belt and sliced off a small section. The moldy cloth disappeared beneath his jacket.
Mags walked across the floor toward Tomkin.
Tomkin tapped his foot experimentally. It felt solid. “How did you do that?” he asked Wink. “Did you prop it up on something?”
The kobold gave him a withering look and turned back to Mags. “Is there anything else you need?”
“Nothing else. Thank you, Wink.”
“Then please be careful, mistress.”
Mags smiled fondly at the creature before crossing over to stand next to Tomkin. Wink, with a final glare at him, disappeared, and Tomkin was left staring at an empty patch of floor.