by Bruce Leslie
“Dragons could fly.” Birch said, “They would fly across the Wretched Water and bring terror to western Aardland. Thankfully, they never stayed long.” Birch straightened his robe and sat up straight. “They would just pluck up a horse or a sheep and leave.”
“So what happened?” Meena asked.
“Over time, their wings became stunted and shriveled things.” Birch held up a finger. “They could no longer fly, they became wyrms.”
“If they can’t fly, how did one make it to the Egg?” The Lump took off his leather cap and rubbed his head.
“I suppose it could fly once.” Birch leaned forward and looked into the pot. “It must have stayed too long. When the change happened, the wyrm was trapped in Aardland.”
“So the change happened a dozen or so years ago?” The Lump leaned forward, curious.
“Oh, by no means.” Birch chuckled. “It would have been hundreds of years ago, else wise Aards never would have settled on the western coast.” He began stirring the stew again. “Dragons, or wyrms for that matter, they can lie dormant for a very long time.” He removed the stick from the stew and sat back. “Something has to stir them, otherwise they are unnoticed.”
“That’s just foolish.” The Lump leaned back, resting on his arms. “Nothing can go for years without eating.”
“They don’t have to eat, they can draw nourishment from the soil - just like the roots of a tree.” Birch looked at the mixture in the pot, now beginning to boil. “They seem to kill for sport, maybe they have dark souls. Maybe they just want to be left alone.”
Meena asked, “How do you know so much about dragons… wyrms?”
“Oh, I don’t know so much. I just gathered a little knowledge here and there.” Birch pulled his robe’s sleeve over his hand and raised the pot from the fire. “The Western Abbey, that’s where the study of the Darklands takes place. At Steeplecross, we focus on Aardland’s history.” He sat the pot on the grass. “They have a tome, The Collected Knowledge of the Darklands, I believe it’s called. That has all the lost knowledge of dragons and wyrms. It contains a good bit more about what lies across the Wretched Water as well.”
“Could I see it?” Meena leaned far forward in the Solson’s direction. “If I went to the abbey, would they let me read it?”
“I’m afraid not,” Birch answered. “That knowledge is for the sons of Sol only. It would require a special dispensation from His Radiance.”
Meena crossed her arms and frowned. “How long would that take?”
“By my estimation, with all the writs that need to be processed, and dealing with the new requests for sanctuary in the North…” Birch raised his hand to his chin and thought for a moment. “…maybe ten years, no guarantee it would be approved.”
Meena pulled her cloak’s hood over her head and turned her face away. “No more helpful than anything else in Aardland.”
“I am sorry, but it is beyond my control. I’m not even allowed into the Western Abbey’s library without permission.” Birch poured a brown, soupy mixture from the pot onto four shallow wooden plates. “The stew is ready. Let us eat.”
“That is the most interesting thing you’ve said all day, Solson.” The Lump raised his plate to his lips and drank down the stew.
Birch carried a plate of stew over to Flynn. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, actually. The smell of the food has given me an appetite.” The color had returned to Flynn’s face, he was no longer sweating.
The Lump asked, “Solson, you know all this dragon and wyrm stuff, why don’t you go to the Needles with the girl?” He smiled at Birch. “That way I could go back home.”
“Fighting dragons isn’t work for sons of Sol.” Birch sat down to his own plate of stew. “Nor fighting wyrms, just to be clear.”
“But if the nasty thing wants to get married, I’m sure you could perform the rite.” The Lump poured more stew on his plate.
“Well, it would have to be able to pay alms.” Birch laughed and put a spoonful of stew in his mouth.
Meena sat with her arms crossed, wordless. She kept her face turned from the group. She showed no interest in her stew.
11: The Battle of Oxhorn Bridge
The Lump watched a brown leaf float through the air. He followed it with his eyes as it rode to and fro in the gentle breeze before landing on the well-worn dirt ahead of him. The leaf disappeared beneath Tilley’s hoof as she trudged forward along the path. The air continued to grow cooler with each day of the journey. Leaves were beginning to pile up along the way.
Flynn asked, “How much longer do you think it will take us to reach the bridge?” His strength had returned overnight and he was showing no outward signs of his recent illness.
“I’d gamble that we’ll see the thing tomorrow.” The Lump had one hand on the rope around his mule’s head and the other resting on his thigh. “Most likely by midday.” He looked up at the sun, then brought his eyes back to the path. “I hoped to make it by sundown today.” He stroked his beard a few times. “It’s no matter, we cross the bridge tomorrow just the same.”
“Crossing the bridge can be treacherous, you know.” Birch bounced up and down on the bowed back of his old horse. “People believe it to be cursed.”
“People believe all sorts of things.” The Lump scratched under his chin. “I know how to be cautious… we’ll get across just fine.” He let his hand rest on his thigh again.
“What kind of curse?” Meena asked from her perch behind Flynn.
“The curse of Berek.” Birch smiled as he bounced along on his aged mount.
“The only curse around here is the one I bear, being forced to listen to you ramble.” The Lump waved his hand at Birch dismissively.
“Is this Berek a witch?” Flynn tilted his head to one side and squinted as he asked the question.
“No, not at all.” Birch turned in his saddle to better see Flynn. “He was a raider, a Gallisian raider.”
“Why would a Gallisian raider curse our bridge?” Flynn looked away from the Solson.
Birch waited a moment before answering the question. “To understand that, you would first have to understand what happened at the Battle of Oxhorn Bridge.” He adjusted his robe and ran his hand across the back of his neck.
“Why do I have a premonition that you are about to dump information on us?” The Lump squinted one eye as he looked back at Birch. “How fortunate for us that we found a history monk instead of one of the dragon fellows.”
“The histories are important to all of us.” Birch raised a finger. “Dragons are only important to a very few.” He brought the finger down.
“Well, it just so happens that we are the very few.” The Lump faced forward, turning the back of his head to the Solson.
Flynn adjusted the cheesecloth tied neatly around his wounded arm. “I would very much like to hear the tale.”
Meena leaned to one side, in order to better see around Flynn. “It would make the riding pass more quickly.”
“I suppose it does help to pass the time.” Birch shifted on his saddle and sat up straight. “In the dawn years of the Great War, Gallisian raiders plagued the North.”
“I’m certain you’ve told us that before.” The Lump curled up his lip.
“Yes, I am just giving a little context.” Birch inhaled deeply and continued his tale. “A band of raiders made it all the way to the river. They made camp on the north side of the bridge.”
“What about the men-at-arms?” Flynn’s voice sounded much stronger than it had the day before.
Birch answered, “They were on their way, as you will soon find out.” He asked Flynn, “Have you ever heard of a battle with only one side?”
Flynn answered, “No, of course not. Pray continue.”
“The raiders were resting at the north end of the bridge while they made plans to cross the river.” Birch spoke in a loud clear voice. “A large group of men-at-arms appeared from the south, across the river.”
“T
hat sounds much better.” Flynn spoke with satisfaction.
Meena chided him. “Stop interrupting! I want to hear the story.”
Birch shifted in his saddle and resumed his tale. “The sudden appearance of the Aard army caught the Gallisians by surprise.” He held his hand in the air as he spoke. “The raiders saw the host marching toward the bridge and were thrown into disarray.” He brought his hand down and let it rest against his robes. “They needed time to gather their numbers and retreat, or they would surely perish.”
Flynn interrupted again. “And perish they should!”
“Flynn!” snapped Meena.
“The Gallisians sent a single man onto the bridge, the largest of their party.” Birch held a hand high above his head. “His name was Berek. He was likely even larger than you, Lump.” He brought his hand back down.
“He was certainly more foolish.” The Lump answered without looking back at the Solson. “It takes a real special sort of fool to do something like that.”
Birch continued his tale without acknowledging the Lump’s comments. “Berek took up a position on the bridge. He carried a vicious long-axe.” He paused for a moment. “It was a nasty thing. The biting blade of the axe was a foot long, and made of iron as sharp as any steel.” He held his hands far apart and wobbled on his horse. “The head was fastened to a pole that was at least five feet in length.” He brought his hands back down to steady himself. “This allowed him to swing it in great arcs longer than the blade of any sword.”
“I wish Wendy would get me an axe like that.” The Lump looked back at Birch. “I could cut firewood in half the time.”
“Oh, I’m sure you could,” Birch replied, then continued to tell the story. “Of course, Gallisians have long since stopped using long-axes in favor of their halberds.” He paused for a moment and tilted his head. “Where was I? Oh yes, Berek wielded a deadly axe.” He straightened his head and continued. “The men-at-arms began to cross the bridge, three or four at a time.”
“And the raider was slain!” Flynn had a hand on his hip and a smile on his face.
“No, not quite so easily.” Birch shifted around on his saddle a bit more. “Berek swung his axe about the air in savage, deadly strokes that struck the men down.”
“Oh my!” Meena brought her hand to her mouth.
“Sortie after sortie of men-at-arms rushed Berek, but the result was always the same. The swords of the men-at-arms were no match for Berek’s angry axe.” Birch looked up at the sky. “The fruits of the battle began piling up before the raider in a mound of death.” He dropped his head and slowly shook it side to side. “After forty men-at-arms had died, the situation seemed hopeless.”
“You’d think they could have figured that out after the first twenty.” The Lump raised his eyebrows while he looked over his shoulder. “None too clever, those men-at-arms.”
“Quite the contrary,” said Birch. “One of the men was rather clever. He devised a plan to bring down the fierce Gallisian.”
“How did the hero do it?” Flynn leaned forward in his saddle waiting for the Solson’s reply.
“He took an empty barrel down to the bank of the river.” Birch stopped to clear his throat.
“So he killed the big fellow with a barrel?” The Lump nodded his head up and down as he spoke. “That sounds about right.”
“Well, in a way, but not exactly.” Birch looked over his shoulder at Flynn. “He also brought a bundle of spears with him.” He turned his head back to the Lump. “He put his barrel into the water and climbed in with the spears.”
“He’d have to be mad to ride a barrel through the rough waters there.” The Lump shook his head.
“No, he was desperate.” Birch held his finger in the air. “He rode in the barrel and hurled his spears at Berek.” He brought his hand back down to his horse.
“And the Gallisian was slain!” Flynn put his hand on his hip and pushed his chest forward.
“Not just yet, my boy, but we’re getting there.” Birch dropped his head and laughed quietly. “The man in the barrel hurled his spears, but he was bouncing and spinning as the waters tossed him.” He made circles in the air with his hand. “His spears all missed their mark.” He let his hand rest on his horse again.
“Then how did he kill the man?” The Lump wrinkled his forehead as he asked the question.
“He had one spear left.” Birch held a finger in the air again.
“Well, you should have told us that!” The Lump shouted with his eyebrows raised.
“I just did.” Birch smiled at the Lump and continued his tale. “He took his last remaining spear in his hand, and just as he passed directly beneath the bridge, he closed his eyes and hurled it with all his remaining strength.” Birch paused, the smile still on his face.
“Well, did he hit him?” The Lump raised his hand shoulder high.
“Yes, he hit him.” Birch nodded at the Lump. “The spear caught Berek beneath his upraised arm. It plunged into his chest and tore clean into his heart.” He tapped his chest with his hand. “Berek fell to his knees, dead in an instant.”
“And the men-at-arms crossed the bridge and the raiders were slain!” Flynn smiled, certain that he knew how the story would end.
“Not at all.” Birch shook his head. “Berek’s skirmish had delayed the men-at-arms long enough for his kin to retreat.”
“Where did they go?” Meena tilted her head and asked, still leaning forward from the rear of the horse.
“They retreated all the way to the Needles.” Birch pointed north with an open hand. “The Battle of Oxhorn Bridge was the last battle of the Great War fought in Aardland.” He paused and the smile disappeared from his face. “From there the fighting moved into the Needles, where it became a hungry monster that chewed up men in its teeth and spat them out like unwanted gristle.” He dropped his head and fell silent.
“But what of the curse?” Flynn raised his eyebrows and leaned forward.
“Superstitious folk believe the ghost of Berek haunts the bridge.” Birch raised his head and his smile returned. “They say his ghost sabotages it, and flings people off to get revenge against the diabolical Aards.” He bounced up and down as he laughed a little. “Some say that the ghost believes he is still fighting the men-at-arms, refusing to let them pass.”
“Well, I think the wood is just rotten.” The Lump straightened up on his mule and faced forward again. “Nobody in Aardland cares enough to fix it.”
“Yes, much more likely the case.” Birch nodded his head up and down. “Whatever the problem may be with the bridge, my travels with you draw to an end.” He pointed ahead at a trail that branched off the herder’s path and wound in the direction of the river. “That’s the way to Brownwater and my nephew’s wedding.”
“Thank you,” said Flynn, “for helping with my arm.” He bowed his head.
“Oh certainly.” Birch gestured towards Flynn’s arm. “Don’t forget to keep honey on it.”
“Thank you for the stories.” Meena smiled and waved at him.
“Thank you for suffering the ramblings of an old fool.” Birch returned her smile and bowed his head.
“Thanks for the stew, Solson.” The Lump patted his ample belly.
Birch bowed his head again, a smile still on his face. “Thank you for making me feel safe during my passage. I hope the road ahead of you is free from worry.”
With those words, Birch pulled the reins on his worn out horse and headed down the trail to the river. He whistled as he rode away.
12: Crossing The Bridge
The water rushed through the narrow neck in the river under the bridge. It was white and foamy, leaping up over stones in its path and spraying the banks on either side with fine droplets. The river roared like an angry catamount as it forced its way through the narrow spot. It was a roar that warned all who could hear to stay away. The bridge crossing over it displayed warnings of its own. The thick beams of wood placed between the long rails were gray and uneven. There w
ere gaps along the length of it where beams were either broken or missing entirely. Some of the ancient beams narrowed at spots that begged to be snapped by an errant step. There were only two thin and rotting lengths of rope running along the sides that offered no protection against the spray of water and little security for anyone who crossed. The span certainly had once been impressive, but that was no longer the case. It was a reminder of what Aardland had once been. It was a testament to what the kingdom had become.
The Lump took off his leather cap and ran a hand through his hair as he looked at the bridge. “We just have to step carefully.” He placed his cap back on his head and pulled it down snug. “It’ll be strongest up the sides, along the rails.” He turned around to face his companions. “We’ll cross one at a time. That’ll be the best way to go.” He smiled and said, “Let’s hope old Berek’s ghost is somewhere else today.”
Flynn walked over to the near side of the bridge and looked across it. “Who should cross first?” He looked back at the Lump with narrow eyes and held his mouth closed with clenched jaws.
“Tilley’s a smart girl.” The Lump ran his hand across the mule’s gray shoulder. “We’ll load her down and send her across first.” He moved the bags draped across her haunches up to the center of her back. “She’s sure footed, she’ll find the way across. We’ll watch her path and follow it.” He turned to Flynn. “She’s also the heaviest. Any wood that bears her weight will certainly be able to hold ours.”
Flynn stared at his horse for a moment, then looked to the Lump. “I don’t think Tracer will cross on his own.” He put his hand on the horse’s neck.
“That’s fine. You’ll lead him.” The Lump pointed at his mule with his thumb. “The two of you together won’t weigh as much as Tilley once she’s loaded down.” He patted Flynn on the back. “You’ll go second. You can keep Tilley company until I get over.”
“Yes.” Flynn nervously twisted the coiled rope hanging from his belt. “I can do that, barring any interference from ghosts.”
Meena looked across the rushing water. “When will I cross?” She didn’t turn away from the water to ask her question.