The Dragon Horn

by Vaughn Heppner

  Feodor regarded Volok.

  “Please,” Volok said, “tell me what happened.”

  Feodor flexed the fingers that had gripped the axe. Some of the dullness left his eyes. He began to speak:

  “Sir Karlo found wolf-tracks near the woods. Yury told us it’s where he and Ivan had hunted yesterday. Sir Karlo split our hunting party. My father, most of the farmers and me made up the first group. Yury, Farmer Lech because he had a horse, Sir Karlo and his men made up the other. We marched as the others galloped ahead of us. White wolves appeared at the edge of the wood. Yury blew his horn. Sir Karlo’s group charged into the wood after the wolves. Our party struggled to keep up.

  “‘Go,’ my father said. ‘Catch them. I like it not that Yury rides without any Belgorod Holding Folk.’

  “I tracked as my father had taught me and saw that the mounted party had split up. I followed Yury’s tracks. Then I heard eerie howling. It didn’t sound like a normal wolf’s howl, but something bigger, stronger and more evil. It made my hair stand on end. The wood seemed to close around me like in a nightmare. I yelled until I became hoarse. Then I broke into a clearing. Yury lay bleeding on the ground, with a huge white wolf draped over him. Sir Karlo stood over them, his bloodied weapon in hand. He faced down a snarling wolf-pack. I yelled and charged them. Sir Karlo turned as one surprised. Then he faced the pack, and in a mighty war cry that froze my blood, he charged them. And then….”

  “Yes,” Volok said in encouragement.

  Feodor frowned. “I thought to see a shape of something else leaping and cavorting among the wolves.”

  “What did you see?” Volok asked in wonder.

  “I don’t know. When I ran to Yury’s side, I saw that he lay bleeding and that his face was as white as death. I ripped away his tunic and tied on the crude bandage that he wore here. Sir Karlo returned to us, thumping down a wolf carcass.”

  “‘Run for help,’ he said.

  “‘No,’ said I, although fearfully. His order was hard to disobey. ‘You have the horse. You ride for help.’

  “I thought he would strike me down. Then my father broke into the clearing. He strode forth and in one swoop picked up your son and turned and headed back to the holding.”

  Feodor stopped, turning away from Volok’s searching gaze. He blushed with embarrassment.

  “What about Sir Karlo?” Lady Belgorod asked softly. “Did he ride back beside you?”

  Feodor shook his head.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  “You must ask him,” Feodor said.

  The fireplace crackled as Magda continued to croon over Yury. Petor lugged a pot of boiling water and a bag of salt. Magda dipped rags in the water and squeezed them dry. She salted the wound and set the hot rags upon it. Slowly, the deathly paleness left Yury’s skin. He breathed more deeply.

  Magda rose wearily and swayed. Nadia caught her. No one spoke. Magda told Lady Belgorod, “He caught a fever, but I think he’ll be well if we’re careful.”

  “What other than the wound was wrong?” Lady Belgorod asked.

  “There was a taint to the wound,” said Magda.

  “From the wolf’s bite?” asked Lady Belgorod.

  “From what else?” whispered Magda.

  “Indeed, nothing else unless Sir Karlo practiced foul arts upon my son.”

  “He did not,” Magda whispered. “If he had done what you think, I would have felt it in Sir Karlo.”

  “Then he knows no dark spells?” asked Lady Belgorod.

  Magda laughed weakly. “As to that I cannot say, milady. I merely know that he cast none today. But why do you ask such a strange question?”

  “Because of Feodor’s tale,” Lady Belgorod said.

  “He’s a good lad,” Magda said, “but a lad still. Today’s hunt fell under a dreary sky. Being alone in the woods with wolf howls is a frightful thing. No spells are needed then to scare someone.”

  Gently, a servant lifted Yury and headed upstairs. Magda followed, as did Nadia.

  The squire returned with Volok and Petor’s swords. Once the three fighting men had armed, a servant called for Sir Karlo and his retainers. Ivan and Feodor sat at the back of the room with Dimitri. Volok clutched his belt and stared at the fireplace. Petor and the squire stood nearby.

  “You wished to see me, Sir Volok?” Karlo had discarded his jacket and now wore his black tunic and silver chain. His ruffians wore their red tunics from the night before. Each had a dagger belted at his side.

  Volok asked, “May I see your writ?”

  Karlo took a written document from his pouch. Volok handed it to Lady Belgorod. She studied it closely before handing it back to Karlo.

  “The writ is from your king,” Karlo said.

  Lady Belgorod nodded at her husband’s questioning glance.

  Karlo smiled faintly. “You should be proud of your son. He fought well.”

  “How did he take his hurt?” Lady Belgorod asked.

  “Yury rode ahead of me, milady, for in his blood sang the joy of the hunt. I followed his horn and heard the wolves howl. When I rode into the clearing, I saw him stab the great brute as it fell upon him. Another wolf darted in. I spurred my charger and alighted on the snow to stand over your fallen son. Ill and churlish it would have been to flee while my hostess’s son lay wounded.”

  “What happened next?” asked Lady Belgorod.

  “The clever wolves circled me, lunging whenever I turned my back. I thrust time and again, but failed to wound any.”

  “And when Feodor came they ran away?” Lady Belgorod asked in doubt.

  “I think the lad surprised them, milady. He yelled as one demented and charged with a berserk’s fury. The wolves retreated. Yet I knew that if given time they would see that he was but one man. So I charged after them. Many a battle has been won by a single gallant charge against a dispirited and fleeing host.”

  Lady Belgorod nodded as she glanced at her husband. Volok sighed heavily. “Petor tells me that you crave permission to recruit some of our farmers.”

  “Your pardon, Sir Volok, I but ask that you allow me to do what your king has already decreed. On my part, I believe it is a matter of sound policy to work hand-in-hand with the local nobility. Yourself and your wife, in this instance.”

  Volok clasped his hands behind his back and turned to the fireplace. He whispered into his wife’s ear. After a span, she whispered back. Volok faced Karlo once more.

  “Feodor the Woodcutter’s son said he saw you lunge at the wolves. He said you dumped a dead wolf at his feet. By your own word, you claim to have stood over my son when he was sorely injured. Yet your rashness allowed my son to charge ahead of you. Still, for your gallant deed, I will give you my hand in friendship.”

  Volok somberly shook hands with Karlo.

  “However,” Volok said, after he glanced at his wife, “we do not think it is good for farmers to trek into the Old Forest in the dead of winter. We will try to dissuade them from joining you. If you find any that will join you, he is free to go. In a few weeks, I will send out men to make sure that the farmers have been fairly treated.”

  Karlo bowed. “You have spoken honestly, sir. I feel, though, that you should hear me out so I may persuade you to encourage the farmers to earn solid silver coins from me.”

  “You will be given the chance later. Now I must ask you to retire to the Feast Hall, your rooms, or outdoors. I must speak with my folk and plan tonight’s feast.”

  Sir Karlo bowed again. “As you wish.” He and his retainers took their leave.

  Volok brooded. Finally, with a sigh, he and Lady Belgorod stepped aside and whispered together. When they were done, he cleared his throat. “Until now Yury has been Petor’s temporary squire. A squire, a knight-in-training, is required to do many things. The most important is to show his bravery. My son slew a white wolf, even at injury to himself. What is more, he led the charge with zeal.”

  “What are you saying, Father?” Petor asked.

 
“Do you think such an action can go unrewarded?” Lady Belgorod asked.

  Petor considered and then shook his head.

  “This is my word,” Volok said. “If Yury heals and I feel that his bravery and spirit are still sound, I will make him your squire until such time as he sees fit to do otherwise, or until he can acquire enough land and vassals to become a knight.”

  Ivan gaped in surprise, as did most of those present.

  “Of course,” Volok said, “I still think that Yury should practice a different art. But today, if he still craves it, he has earned the right to try to become a knight.”

  Petor nodded. “You have ruled justly, Father.”

  “Yes,” said Lady Belgorod.

  Volok brooded. “Perhaps,” he said. “My fondest hope, however, is that I have ruled wisely.”

  -6-

  Ivan wandered outside with Feodor and leaned against the mill beside him. Two hounds frolicked in the snow while Feodor recounted his tale. Then he fell silent and watched the hounds.

  Ivan said, “I’ve been wondering about something. When you entered the clearing, you thought to see something cavort with the wolves. What do you think you saw?”

  “I don’t really know. The image was only for a moment. Then the cavorting thing disappeared into the forest.”

  Ivan nodded thoughtfully.

  Feodor shivered. “I’m going in. Coming?”

  “No, I still have to run a few more hounds.”

  Feodor nodded and ran to the house.

  Ivan whistled and the two hounds dutifully returned. He took them into the kennel and took out two other hounds, one of them the shepherding mother-dog with a newborn litter. As he leaned back against the mill, he slipped off a mitten and blew on his fingers. Only then did he dig out a piece of jerky, chewing on it like a cow with cud.

  Many strange things had happened or been revealed. Yury’s wounding merely added to the list. For instance, Axe People existed and the Sisterhood did indeed teach magic. Maybe some people called a healer like Magda a magic-user, but that was different. Magda could sometimes speed-up knitting bones or a bad cold or fever. Magic, though, that could confuse wolves enough to drive them off….

  Ivan finished the jerky and noticed the open gate. Dog-tracks led through it. He whistled for Mokosh, but heard nothing. With a sigh, he followed Mokosh’s tracks. They led toward a grove of oak saplings. Her pups would miss her if she stayed away too long.

  “Mokosh! Here girl!”

  He heard barking from the middle of the grove.

  “Crazy dog,” he muttered. He ran to the grove and found Mokosh digging at the base of a large rock. Freshly dug-up dirt lay on the snow behind her. She gnawed at something, trying to free it.

  “Mokosh!”

  She looked up and then went back to digging and growling, trying to free—Ivan stepped closer. It was a leather pouch.

  Ivan leashed Mokosh and pulled her away from the pouch. “What’s got into you, girl?” Mokosh whined, her eyes on the pouch. She seemed upset, angry, and tried to reach it.

  Ivan pulled her to a sapling and wound the leash to a branch. Then, as she whined and tried to get back to the pouch, he went and inspected it. Mokosh’s teeth marked the leather, but she hadn’t destroyed it. The carrying strap was pinned under the rock. A buckle kept the pouch sealed.

  “What’s it doing out here?” Ivan asked aloud. He studied Mokosh. Her ears perked up and her hackles rose. Alarmed, Ivan wished that he’d brought his club. All he had was a dagger, which he kept for chores. He picked up a hand-sized rock and glanced at Mokosh. She growled toward the wilds. Ivan squinted, his heart pounding. Then he sucked in his breath. He thought to see a shadow shift from one sapling to the next. It might have been a small man.

  “Hey, you!” Ivan shouted. He shifted onto the balls of his feet, ready to try to give chase. A last bit of caution held him back, although he yelled again.

  “What’s all the shouting about?”

  Ivan spun around. One of Sir Karlo’s ruffians tramped toward him. The thick-limbed man wore a fur coat, had a shaggy head of hair and a heavy, beetling brow. A crooked and rather odd-looking short sword slapped at his side. The pommel looked worn, well used. The scabbard had seen better days and had frightening splotches in it. Ivan could only think of deeply soaked dried blood. Then he noticed the man’s hands: big, scarred, almost deformed, each hand having several black fingernails.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “My dog saw someone,” Ivan said.

  “Out here?”

  “You’re out here.”

  That seemed to anger the man. His beetling gaze suddenly fell onto the pouch. His fingers twitched as a vulture’s might at the sight of meat.

  “My dog found it,” Ivan said.

  The man eyed Ivan, took in the rock he held.

  “You’re Sir Karlo’s man, aren’t you?” Ivan asked, not liking the bloodshot manner to the man’s eyes. The teeth had seen better days, too. The face was pockmarked and scarred.

  “Of course I’m Sir Karlo’s man. What kind of stupid question is that?”

  “What’s your name?” Ivan asked, trying to deflect the man’s sullenness.

  “Perun. What’s yours?”

  “Ivan.”

  Perun grunted and took a step closer. “The pouch is mine.”

  “The one under the rock?” Ivan asked in surprise.

  “That’s right.” Perun took another step and craned his neck to see it. His head shot up. “Your beast gnawed on it.”

  Ivan frowned.

  “My lunch is in it,” Perun said, trying to smile. “I came out here yesterday. Yes. I enjoyed the beauty here. I forgot the pouch when I went in.”

  Did the man think he was a fool?

  “You can drop your rock,” Perun said. “Unless you’re going to throw it at me.” The idea seemed to please the man. Perhaps it would give him a reason to draw his crooked sword.

  Ivan tossed his rock and stepped aside. “My dog spotted something in the woods,” he said.

  “Wolves,” said Perun.

  “Maybe.”

  “What else?”

  “I don’t know. Do you?” Ivan asked, deciding he didn’t like Perun.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just asking.”

  Perun studied him a moment longer, and shrugged, walked to the pouch and easily rolled aside the big rock. He slung the strap over his shoulder. “It’s cold out here,” he said.

  Ivan unwound Mokosh’s leash. The dog didn’t like Perun by the way her hackles rose. Perun tried smiling again. It came off wrong, maybe because how big and yellow his teeth seemed. They tramped out of the grove together and toward the house. Above them, high in the sky, a raven circled. Its caw drifted down to them.

  “What do you think of that?” Ivan said, pointing at the raven.

  Perun shrugged. The gesture seemed feigned, but then almost everything about him seemed false.

  “I’m going to hunt ravens,” Ivan said.

  Perun laughed, and for the first time smiled truly. “That’s the spirit, lad. Kill off them ravens. They’re all carrion-eaters, and they lack guts, flying off at the first sign of danger.”

  “Yes,” Ivan agreed, wondering what Perun had against ravens.

  They parted ways at the gate. Perun, without a word of farewell, strode to the house. Ivan brought Mokosh to her crying pups and smiled when she lay among them. Not yet able to open their eyes, the pups crawled over one another and pawed at her teats as they yelped and suckled hungrily.

  He went back to his chores. Perhaps an hour later an excited Janek rushed into the kennel.

  “Ivan! Ivan!”

  “What is it?”

  “The party’s going to start soon.”

  “Party?”

  “For Nadia!” Janek shouted. “Magda told me to fetch you. So you’d better hurry.”

  Ivan hurried to the bathhouse to clean up. Outside the wooden
shed, a fire smoldered in a stone fireplace. Ivan tossed in extra kindling, stoked the fire until the flames crackled and heated some stones. He carted the stones into the shed and plopped them into a tub of water. The stones hissed. He tested the water and found it properly warm.

  He soaked for a few pleasurable minutes and let the grime sweat out of his pores. Then he ran naked outside and rubbed snow against his body. The bathhouse was sheltered from view, so no one saw him. He gasped, but felt refreshed. Quickly, he raced back to the kennel and picked out his best clothes: a soft green tunic, brown deerskin breeches and a shiny pair of boots. Combing out his damp hair, he put on an iron ring and belted on a small decorative dagger.

  A few minutes later, he strode into the kitchen. Women bustled everywhere, with Lady Belgorod in the center giving last minute instructions.

  “Ivan.”

  Ivan spotted Magda at the side door. He flinched a piece of heavily sauced chicken and headed toward her.

  “You look nice, Magda,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She wore a yellow dress and she had put a yellow flower in her old gray hair. A red jewel hung from her neck while red slippers clad her feet. She dusted off his tunic, saying, “Now look at you, Ivan. All fine and strapping. Yes, a sight indeed.”

  “Come on, Magda,” he complained.

  “Oh, go on to the Feast Hall,” she said with a laugh. “I think they’re about to start dancing.”

  Ivan hurried to the Feast Hall. Bright streamers hung from the ceiling. Pushing the tables to the back had made extra space. A long-bearded fiddler stood atop the tables.

  Ivan moved beside Feodor and Dimitri, who had combed out his huge beard. They began to talk. He mentioned his run-in with Perun. The two woodcutters listened quietly, until Dimitri said he’d mention it to Master Volok. That relieved Ivan, who had been wondering if he should say anything about it or not. He still couldn’t figure out what had drawn Mokosh to the grove in the first place.

  More people filed in, among them Master Volok, his squire and Petor. Lady Belgorod walked in together with several farmers and their wives. Gruner the Blacksmith, his wife and an oak-armed apprentice from a neighboring holding walked in next. Finally, a small lady in a fine hooded cloak entered with Nadia. Nadia wore her white dress and moved with courtly grace.