The Dragon Horn

by Vaughn Heppner

  Ivan had seen the smoke a half-mile ago, but had refrained from calling out in case Yury hadn’t leashed the hounds. He hadn’t wanted them wrestling with old Flay.

  “I didn’t know when you were coming back,” Yury said. “So I went ahead and fed the hounds.”

  “Thanks,” Ivan said. He untied his jacket from Flay and put it back on. Then he climbed the rest of the way into the hollow. He took another stake from his pack, hammered it into the ground, leashed Flay and tossed him some dried trout. Finally, Ivan stepped to the fire and gave the spit a twist. “The rabbit should be ready in a few more minutes,” he said.

  “You’re the expert,” Yury said. He made a poor job of trying to keep his mouth straight.

  “Okay,” Ivan said, sitting on a rock. “What’s got you so excited?”

  “Are you kidding?” Yury sat forward. “I chased him away, Ivan.” Yury beamed now.

  “The white wolf?”

  “Of course the wolf!” Yury shouted.

  The hounds looked up, but quickly went back to their bones.

  “And I cut him, too,” Yury added. He proudly drew the longsword. Dried blood splashed the end.

  “Wow!”

  Yury puffed out his chest. “I did it when he bit Flay. I swung down and caught the wolf in the shoulder. He let go of Flay and snarled at me. I swung again and almost chopped him, but the sword caromed off a rock instead.”

  Ivan examined the blade more carefully. He saw a notch.

  “It happened just as you broke into the clearing,” Yury said in a rush. “The wolf fled and I decided to make sure he left this area for good. I don’t know how far I chased him, but she,” he jerked his thumb at the feeding horse, “was soon in a lather. You know how Petor always says to take care of your mount?”

  “What’s a knight without his horse?” Ivan said, repeating what Petor hammered at Yury at least once a day.

  “Exactly. So I called off the hounds and reined in Star. Stribog was panting harder than Vesna was. I guess that’s why he finally listened to me.”

  Ivan looked uneasy.

  “What’s wrong?” Yury asked.

  “What are you going to tell your father?”

  “Is that a jest?” Yury asked. “That we chased off the white wolf!”

  “But Flay broke his leg.”

  “He did?” Yury glanced at the eating dog. “Is he well?”

  “He should be if I get him home soon enough. That wasn’t what I meant, though.”

  “What then?”

  “You notched Petor’s sword. He’s going to be angry.”

  “I can file out the notch,” Yury said defensively.

  “Maybe, but Petor will notice it just the same.”

  Yury bit his lower lip and fidgeted with his hands. “Could you file it out for me? I know you’re better at it than I am. You could make it look like new.”

  “Yes,” Ivan said. “I’ll do it while you turn the spit.”

  Yury jumped up and turned the rabbit. A greasy droplet of fat dripped into the fire and sizzled.

  Ivan took out a whetstone and went to the sword. Clamping the naked blade between his knees, he ran his thumb over the notch. Hmmm. Shallow and rather flat. He studied the blade from several angles. Finally, he touched the whetstone to the highly tempered steel. After five minutes of careful work, he chewed on the inside of his cheek as he examined the blade.

  “Here, take a look,” he said.

  Yury inspected the sword and glanced up with a grin. “Perfect,” he said.

  “Well, not exactly perfect....”Ivan shrugged. “It might fool Petor.”

  “Yes, great. Let’s eat.” Yury yanked the rabbit off the spit and divided it up. Both youths polished off their portions in a hurry. Ivan wiped his greasy hands on his breeches and dug two sorry-looking carrots out of his pack. He tossed one to Yury and then munched on his own. Later, they drank snow-melted water. Ivan sighed contentedly and began to clean up.

  “How about a game of chess?” Yury asked. Two winters ago, he’d carved a set from some old pinewood. Now he kept the set in his pack. Yury took his playing seriously. One of a knight’s duties, or accomplishments, demanded the intelligent play of chess. Of course, Yury had taught Ivan to play, brushing aside Ivan’s worries. It hadn’t seemed right to Ivan that a dog trainer play the noble game.

  “I’d love to play,” Ivan now said. “But I want to get Flay home as soon as possible.”

  Yury eyed the dog. “He looks all right to me.”

  “If he lies around too long he’ll begin to stiffen. That will make him more edgy than I like.”

  “It seems to me that he’d be tired after such a long, three-legged walk. Wouldn’t it be better if he rested a bit more before he hiked back home?”

  Yury had a point. Therefore, Ivan used his last argument. “I don’t know why you bother. You always win.”

  “I’ll play without one of my castles.”

  Ivan frowned. He didn’t like pity. A boy without a family couldn’t afford to accept it. He might come to expect it then. Magda had taught him long ago to stand on his own two feet and accept life the way it was.

  “I’ll play if you really want to,” Ivan said. “But only one game. And you keep all your castles.”

  “Fine, fine,” Yury said. He rolled over a rock to its flat side, brushed off the dirt and carefully set down his board. Taking the two tall kings, he put them behind his back and then brought both closed fists before Ivan.

  “You move first,” said Ivan.

  Yury poked him in the side. “Don’t be so touchy about my willingness to give you a break. Now choose a hand.”

  Ivan flicked his fingers against the right hand. Yury revealed the white king.

  “You move first,” Yury said.

  Ivan did.

  The game went quickly, and Yury won. As Yury packed the set away, he said, “Your mind didn’t seem to be on the game.”

  Ivan shrugged.

  “Are you still angry about my castle offer?”

  “No, it isn’t that.”

  “What then?”

  “Let’s get going first,” Ivan said.

  Yury nodded, limped to the horse and put on the saddle and bridle. Ivan pulled out the stakes, absently picked a burr out of Stribog’s fur and shouldered his pack.

  Stribog leaned against Ivan. Ivan petted him. The huge dog stood taller than the others and probably outweighed each by forty or fifty pounds. Ivan favored Stribog over all the other hounds. The intelligent beast exuded bravery, and at one year of age, he could be expected to live a long life. Since his weaning, Stribog had slept beside Ivan in the kennel.

  Yury lurched up into the saddle as Ivan strode beside him.

  “Ready?” Yury asked.

  Ivan nodded.

  They started down the hill and toward the puff of smoke in the distance. It would take them until mid-afternoon to tramp home. No farmers lived this close to the woods. Therefore, they’d have to wait for the holding’s fireplace before they dried their snow-dampened clothes.

  “So what happened?” Yury asked.

  Ivan wondered if he should tell Yury about the crone—if that’s what the wizened person had even been.

  “Come on, Ivan, out with it. What are you hiding? Did you break one of Father’s clay figurines?”

  As a youngster Yury had knocked down Master Volok’s favorite clay figurine, that of a bull, and had cracked it. Ivan had felt sorry for Yury because his older brothers always picked on him. There had also been an incident with three farmers’ sons. They’d thrashed Ivan. Yury had come upon the scene and beaten the boys off with a stick. Back then, with the broken figurine at Yury’s feet, Ivan had stepped up and told Yury he’d take the blame. Even in those days, Yury worked overtime to please his father. Yury had agreed to Ivan’s plan. Later that evening Master Volok had learned what Ivan had supposedly done. He’d sent Ivan to the kennel without his supper. Yury had watched from his spot at the table and soon his guilt had overwh
elmed him. He’d confessed to what had really happened. He, too, had been sent from the dinner table without his supper. Nor had Ivan been called back. Magda had told him later, “You need to tell the truth. That’s very important. Do you understand?”

  Ivan had and he’d told Magda so.

  The outcome of the episode had proved to be of lifelong importance. Yury had snuck down to the kennel and spent the night with Ivan. Since then they’d been the best of friends.

  “No, I didn’t break any clay figurines,” Ivan said.

  “What then?”

  Ivan told Yury about the raven and the strange crone. Yury listened raptly and spun out fancy ideas as to why the crone had been there.

  “Look,” Ivan said at last. “Have you ever heard about this old crone?”

  Yury shook his head.

  “Neither have I.”

  “I wonder if Magda has?” Yury asked.

  “You think she might?”

  “She’s a healer,” Yury said.

  Ivan considered that.

  “She knows more about mystic things than anyone else I know,” Yury added.

  “That’s true. But what does that have to do with the crone?”

  “I’m not sure he really was a crone,” Yury said. “She moved quickly, you said. Old crones would be slow, aged by the elements. Nor did the raven act in a normal fashion. The raven sounds like an animal an enchantress would have.”

  “Maybe,” Ivan said.

  Yury eyed him. “What are you saying?”

  “You know how Belsky always spins out those wild yarns?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe there are more like him in the world. Maybe there are many wild storytellers out there.” Ivan waved his arm vaguely. “Over time these stories grow in the telling.”

  “You don’t believe in enchantresses? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Maybe once there were some. But now,” Ivan shrugged. “I believe in what I can see and feel.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What’s ‘hmm’ mean?”

  “Just that I’ve never heard of a crone out in the woods who had a raven for a pet. Nor have I ever heard of a raven that eyes people as if he were weighing them.”

  “You think I’m making it up?”

  Yury laughed, looking down at his friend. “You? Ivan? Making up stories? Heavens no! You’re too practical for that. I believe every word you said. My ‘hmm’ is for another reason entirely.”

  “I’m waiting to hear it.”

  “Maybe you’ve finally ‘seen’ an enchanted creature, but you won’t accept it. We’re a long way from anywhere here. I think there’s a lot more in the world than we realize.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Ivan muttered.

  “We’ll ask Magda about it later.”

  “Sure,” Ivan said.

  They stopped talking and concentrated on traveling. Far too long a time later, at least for Ivan’s half-frozen toes, they crested a rise and stopped beside an old oak tree. Below them dipped a shallow and quite familiar valley. In the center of the valley stood Belgorod Holding, beside which grew a small grove of chestnut trees. The white-painted holding with red trim stood stoutly and strong. The foundation together with the first three feet had been made of stone. The rest had been constructed out of peeled logs. Including the hayloft, the holding towered three stories high and had enough extra rooms to house comfortably twenty more people than presently stayed there. Smoke curled from a chimney. A large red stable with white trim stood to the side, and a white picket fence as high as Ivan’s chest surrounded the area where in summer the chickens roamed. Behind the holding, presently hidden from view, stood several other buildings, including the kennel, the blacksmith shed and the miller’s room. In fall, all the farmers brought their grain to the mill for grinding.

  “Look!” Yury cried. “Nadia’s sleigh.”

  Ivan followed Yury’s finger. Sure enough, parked beside the holding’s porch rested a covered sleigh.

  “Nadia,” Ivan whispered. He glanced at his friend. Yury clearly wanted to go dashing down and prove his horsemanship to anyone who stepped outside. Ivan said, “You’d better get Petor’s sword back before anyone notices that it’s gone.”

  “You’re right,” Yury said, but he hesitated.

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ve got to take care of the hounds.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” And to emphasize his point, Ivan used the handle-end of his club and whacked the horse on the rump. With a snort from the horse and a shout from Yury, the horse galloped toward the stable.

  “Nadia,” Ivan whispered. He wondered at the strange feeling in his gut. He shrugged and trudged after Yury, all the time thinking about what he’d say to Nadia at tonight’s party.

  -2-

  By the time Yury galloped to the fence, Ivan realized that he didn’t recognize the sleigh.

  Whose sleigh is it? he wondered. A messenger with bad news? He wasn’t sure why he felt that. It’s probably something completely harmless, he decided. Master Volok’s trip was an easy one.

  Gruner the Blacksmith had joined Master Volok and his squire for the journey southwest. A trip to Rudel’s Inn took many days by sleigh, much of it through rough country. The third day one reached the Old Roman Road. From there the route went sharper west to Rudel’s Inn. Everyone said that no other highway compared to the Old Roman Road.

  It would have been absurd and dangerous for Nadia to trudge all the way from Rudel’s Inn to Belgorod Holding. The merchant caravan by which she traveled from Pavia would stop at the inn. She’d join and then ride with Master Volok the rest of the way home. Naturally, Master Volok and Gruner had left a few days early so they had time to sample the ale.

  Curious about the sleigh, Ivan hurried down the slope. They didn’t get many visitors here. Surprisingly, winter made travel easier rather than harder. Except for the Old Roman Road cobbled with its peculiar bricks, highways and trails soon grew rutted in the warmer seasons. To take a wagon over most trails—when the trails could even be found—took a man with an iron stomach. The lurching, bouncing and rattling wearied even the strongest traveler. A smooth blanket of snow changed everything. The steady swish of runners made for a pleasant ride, while the jingling of sleigh-bells produced a feeling of comfortable security.

  Flay lurched as he worked down the slope and growled with weariness.

  Ivan paused as Vesna helped Flay lick the wound. Stribog leaned against Ivan’s left leg. Ivan absently scratched Stribog’s head and examined the sleigh.

  He’d never seen that particular design before. It lacked flourishes or any sense of elegance. The wood didn’t look handcrafted, nor did any whorls or spirals or other carved decorations beautify it. It had the feel of something hastily-built, something hammered together for a rough trip. Only the covering paint, black with silver trim, had been done well.

  “Come on,” said Ivan, “let’s see who our guest is.” Flay obediently three-legged it down the slope.

  It would be good to sit in front of the fireplace and soak up heat. Maybe Lady Belgorod would brew some hot broth. A fireplace and hot broth warmed him faster than anything else did. Of course, he’d have to take care of the hounds first and make sure Janek had fed the other hounds while he’d been away. Then he’d have to find Magda and ask her to look at Flay. He grinned at the thought of the fireplace, dry feet and steaming hot broth.

  As Ivan neared the fence, Yury limped out of the stable. His red cloak no longer fluttered from his shoulders. He’d wrapped the sword with it. The stable boy hailed Yury.

  Ivan opened the gate. From a distance, Yury gave him a quick nod and limped toward the back of the holding. The stable boy shouted at Yury, then stopped when Yury disappeared around the corner. The stable boy scratched his head. With a shrug, he headed into the barn, no doubt to give Yury’s horse a rubdown.

  Mary, one of Lady Belgorod’s housemaids, stepped onto the porch with a broom. She shouted a greeting to I
van. He waved and was rewarded with a smile.

  “Better go hide in the kennel,” Mary cheerfully called.

  Ivan didn’t like the sound of that. He gave Mary a questioning glance.

  She smiled artlessly and used her broom to knock down icicles.

  “Mary?” he said.

  She began whistling as she swept snow off the porch.

  To ask further would only play into her hands. Mary loved holding secrets and giving out frustrating hints. Ivan decided to maintain a poise of indifference.

  He clucked his tongue at his hounds and picked his way through the slush—everyday foot-traffic had churned up the snow near the great house and mixed it with the nearly frozen dirt. He almost slipped before he stepped up onto the split-log walkway and headed toward the right side of the building.

  A second story window flew open. Lady Belgorod, a large, ruddy-cheeked woman, stuck her head out. “Ivan!” she called.

  “Yes, milady.”

  “Where’s Yury?”

  She sounded angry, which wasn’t like her at all. After Magda, Lady Belgorod was the kindest person he knew.

  “I think he’s in the house, milady.” He added, just in case, “We’ve been near the woods most of the day.”

  “Yes!” she said. “I know.” Without another word, she shut the window.

  Ivan raised his eyebrows. Although his back itched, because Mary surely smirked at him, he resumed walking. He passed the corner and saw narrow-faced Farmer Lech pacing back and forth by the blacksmith shed. A hammer rang from inside the shed. Several more blows followed in quick succession. The hounds in the low-built kennel started barking. The kennel stood a mere twenty yards beyond the blacksmith shed. Out beyond the kennel hunkered the stone-built mill.

  The hammer rang again. No doubt, the blacksmith’s apprentice mended one of Farmer Lech’s tools. Most farmers took care of their tools. Lech always seemed to bend or break his, and bring them to the holding’s blacksmith for fixing.

  Ivan wondered at the otherwise empty yard. He nodded. The rest of the Belgorod household most likely helped clean the great house. Nadia’s party would commence once she arrived. And now that there were guests, everyone would be working harder and faster.