by Sam Austin
“It is possible the dragon broke the circle alone.” King Robin nods softly, expression contemplative. “We’ve never found the man’s equal. His way of knowing when a dragon was about to stray too close to the barrier seemed almost witchcraft itself. Those barbarians worshipped him, and they’d sooner kill our men than speak to them. Our defence has suffered.”
“But if not?” Sir Angus presses. “If the boy and his people are behind it?”
“Bring them here,” the King says. There’s something harder to his voice, making it clear this is a command, and not a suggestion. “I’ll have my head druid look them over. We’ll soon get to the bottom of this.”
Magic leaves a trace, Sir Angus had said when they met. Would they see traces from the fire and locating spells Neven made? They’d burn him like they did that boy Timon. Only Neven’s mother would not be able to keep him around in some strange half dead form. He’d be gone forever.
She opens her mouth to protest. Maybe she can tell them about Alice. They were the ones who put the spells on Gelert, so they should know why he’s acting this way.
“I don’t think you want to do that my King,” Sir Julius says, his stance full of confidence Bonnie doesn’t feel. He smiles, though the edges are sharp and bitter. “It hardly seems a fitting way to greet the boy who saved your daughter.”
Chapter 20
“It’s hard to say under all this dirt,” King Robin says, frowning as he peers into Alice’s face. “The eyes are the same certainly. Mattis if you please.”
The head druid is more a walking skeleton than a man. His clothes, while neat and clean are the scratchy brown fabric the poorer folk wear. They hang off him, like shapeless sacks. His arms are thin as a child’s despite his height, and his features jut from a hollow eyed skull, covered in sagging wrinkles of skin. He doesn’t wear the hooded cloak all druids she’s seen wear, and what little hair he has left sprouts in white tufts from his spotted head.
Bending in an act painful to watch, he places his long thin fingers on Alice’s head. He chants in a voice too quiet to hear, then steps back.
The magic is less impressive than she’d thought it would be. If it’d been part of one of the magic shows the fakes put on, the audience would be grumbling its disappointment and getting up to leave. The dirt smeared on her face and clothes fades so slowly that she only sees progress when she looks away then back, or blinks a long moment. Her hair moves with the same speed, gradually finding its former glossy black and curling itself into tight ringlets. The two dresses clean and repair themselves, Bonnie’s old dress looking better than she’s ever seen it. Even the rags wrapped around her feet are returned to a cleanness she’s not sure they’ve ever experienced.
A small boy darts forward to help the frail druid lower himself onto one of the stone benches.
“That’s better,” King Robin says. His smile turns warm. “Yes this is my daughter. As beautiful as ever like a delicate flower. What happened to put you in such a state little flower? I had the finest soldiers stationed nearby, ready to sail and bring you home the moment the dragon was killed.” The words are addressed to Alice, but the moment he finishes speaking he raises his head to fix questioning green eyes onto Bonnie.
Neven shifts beside her, and Mrs Moore stands still as a statue the other side. She wishes she knew what they’re thinking, and what they’d want her to say.
If she was Neven she would be able to think up a thousand excuses on the spot, but she’s Bonnie, good at sword and war games but not much else. So she tells the truth. “It wasn’t killed.”
Sir Angus sucks in a breath, big hands clutching the stone bench he’s sitting on as if wishing it was her neck his giant hands were wrapped around. “You see. Witchcraft. How else would he get the girl out of the tower without slaying the dragon?”
Sir Julius, sitting across from him beside the druid, narrows his eyes. “You’re like that annoying child who demands to know the ending the moment anyone starts a story. Let the boy speak.”
The King looks between the two with a kind of noble patience tinged with exasperation and a trace of fondness. It’s an expression that up until now Bonnie had assumed belonged solely to mothers, and perhaps the rare involved father. His hand doesn’t leave Alice’s shoulder.
“We didn’t cast a spell,” Bonnie says, putting all the confidence she has into those words. They have to believe it. If not, it could cost them their lives. “But there was something wrong with the magic already there. I faced the dragon, and then in the middle of fighting it became docile. In fact it became quite useful. Since the only way out was through the Dark Forest, I decided to leave it alive long enough for it to help us bring the princess to safety.”
Neven nods beside her, though when he speaks it comes out as little more than a squeak. “The princess’s safety was our foremost concern.”
“And then afterwards?” Sir Angus says brusquely. His lips quirk into a nasty smile beneath his beard. “I suppose that as soon as you passed the Dark Forest you did your duty? After all I’m sure a ‘fine’ lad like you would not leave a dragon to roam free in our kingdom?”
Bonnie flushes despite herself. She had done just that, not once but multiple times. “I - I didn’t.”
Sir Julius sighs, letting his face rest in his hands.
“What’s that lad?” Sir Angus asks, cupping a hand behind an ear. His grin grows larger. “Speak up.”
Neven steps forward, his face as pale as the lost ones in their base form. “What Boone means to say is we didn’t get the chance. We were about to and then y - your men came charging in and scared the dragon away.”
“So you’re the one allowing the dragon to roam free in our kingdom,” Sir Julius says, sounding much too delighted. “Shame on you Angus.”
Sir Angus shuffles his feet, grumbling. “I was trying to save your life. In case you don’t remember that dragon had just picked you up and carried you away like a dog with a bone. Maybe I shouldn’t have bothered.”
“I don’t think he meant to hurt him,” Bonnie says. “He was still under the spell. He was just playing.”
“If I may, my King?” The withered druid asks in an old but musical voice, one used to chanting.
“Of course Mattis,” King Robin says. “Every voice matters in this circle. I would have thought after all these years you’d remember that.”
“My King, I oversaw the spells myself and I do not see how the dragon could become docile like the children say.” He shakes his bony head. “The spells over the dragon were focus on one person only: your daughter. They were designed to tie it to her location, and to ensure he saw the girl as nothing more interesting as a stone statue. The moment a male crossed the tower threshold all the spells would break, including those over the dragon.”
“I thought,” Neven starts, looks like he might give up, then opens his mouth again. “I thought the spells broke when her true love entered the tower?”
“Child,” the druid’s features are sharp lending him a cruel look, but his eyes show kindness. “There is no spell powerful enough to tell you who that one true love will be. The future is full of infinite possibilities, and infinite is not a number easily paid. Magic can tell you if you truly love someone, but that love takes time to grow. I thought it best to leave love out of it. Our princess is beautiful and agreeable enough. Any man crossing that threshold could come to love her in time.”
And what if she didn’t love him?
Bonnie bites her tongue, thinking instead of Neven’s feelings. He’d grown fond of his ‘true love.’ To find there’s no love in the arrangement might be a disappointment for him. Instead she’s surprised to see that if anything he looks relieved. It’s Alice who looks disappointed.
“My friend,” the King says, eyes still on Mattis. “Is there no way you can think of, that the child might be telling the truth? I’d hate to sentence them to burn after they’ve done so much for my daughter.”
The druid frowns, the strain looking worr
isome on his emaciated form. “There is one way. If someone with magic altered the spells, or set new ones of their own. That could do it. Though they would have to be very powerful, and pay a huge price. To make one dragon ignore one person who they barely see is one thing, but to make it actively help a group of them. I’m not even sure how it would be done. The dragon’s instinct to kill is all consuming. They show little affection even for their own young. The only way to do what the child says is to change its fundamental nature.”
“But it could be done?” Sir Julius presses.
“In theory yes,” Mattis turns to peer at Sir Julius with his surprisingly sharp looking eyes. “In practice, I’m not sure how. If I were to cast a spell on you now to give you feelings of fondness for our Sir Angus, for a short while you would worship him, yes. Then he’d say something or do something, that grates on your nerves now, and it would still grate on your nerves. Your mind would dwell on memories where you had no fondness for him. At first you would pass off these memories as a mistaken judgement on your part, but soon enough you’d start to wonder whether your judgement back then was the better one. Thus nature reasserts itself.
With a dragon it would be more difficult. You have felt fondness at some point in your life for someone or something. A dragon has not. It has no concept of kindness or friendship. Someone with more experience than me might know a way, but I’ve never come across one in all my years. It’s more likely that someone pushed down this dragon’s mind instead of altering it, then took control. But in that case the controller would have to be someone close to it.”
The men look at each other. Bonnie’s heart beats faster.
“Scan them for use of magic,” the King says finally. “Let’s be done with this.”
The head druid closes his hand around a small red crystal hanging from his neck, then he rises.
“I’ll go first,” Bonnie says, stepping forward. It will buy time. For what, she doesn’t know. She only knows that she can’t let them scan Neven. The sword feels heavy on her back.
Those long fingers are surprisingly gentle on her head. The druid’s sharp eyes peer over every inch of her, like a hawk searching the ground for prey. She tenses, wondering what he sees. Could he find out what she used to be?
Finally his eyes settle on her right arm. He staggers away, sweat beading on his bony brow. His hand unclasps from the crystal, and she sees its colour is now a pale pink. “Magic traces. He has magic traces on his right arm. Strange ones. Cold.”
“I didn’t.” Her heart thumps as Sir Angus darts forward. Instinctively she reaches for her sword, then stops herself. Fighting won’t help. They have to see. “I never used magic.”
Sir Angus grasps her wrists, clutching them together behind her back. Pain flares up her good arm, but from the other one she feels only pressure. He could break it and she wouldn’t know about it.
“Don’t touch his right arm!” The head druid says, his voice shrill.
Sir Angus swears, pushing her forward toward Sir Julius. Her knight catches her, then pushes her to her knees, twisting her good arm behind her back just enough to convince her to stay still. All the times he’s moving, he doesn’t get up from the stone bench.
Sir Angus falls down heavily onto a bench. He inspects the hand that held her right wrist. “He did something to me. I feel drained. What spell did he cast?”
“No spell,” Mattis sits, his joints creaking audibly. A small boy hovers anxiously at his side. “The magic sits in his right arm, in the white skin you see.”
“Then we have proof,” Sir Angus grits his teeth at her in a snarl, then raises his eyes above her to the other knight. “You’ve chosen a witch for a squire Julius. You should’ve burned them when I told you to. Maybe then my men would be alive.”
“He’s not a witch!” Neven shouts - really shouts, though he shudders like he might be sick. “And you can’t burn him! Boone is the strongest, bravest person in the whole circle. In the whole world I’ll bet. He got that wound defending the princess from the lost ones. Without him we’d all be dead.”
The King looks up sharply. “Lost ones? Where did you hear that term?”
Neven takes a step back, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze flitters around the room. “A witch we met in the dark forest. Claudia. She tried to kill Alice. Boone saved her.”
Mattis frowns. “Lost ones?”
“An old term for spirits,” the King says. His green eyes darken. “I haven’t heard it used since my father’s time.”
“An old witch. And powerful.” Mattis grips his hands together on his lap. “That wound could only be caused by an intentional attack, and shades lack intent. Someone was controlling it.”
The King nods. “The same kind of someone who could control a dragon, or alter its nature if such a thing is possible. This is troubling. More so that I do not recognise the name. An invisible enemy is all the more difficult to fight.”
“This is all babble,” Sir Angus says, shaking his large head. “The children could be making this up. The boy has magical traces.”
“Only on his arm,” Mattis says. “If he used magic it would be spread evenly throughout his body. Such a large residue of magic in one small place suggests he is the victim of magic, not the perpetrator.”
Sir Angus’s expression darkens. “So test the others. You’ll find your perpetrator.”
The page boy that had taken Sir Julius’s horse runs through the doors, sprinting along the red carpet to the circle of benches, not seeming to notice the tension in the room. He stops beside Neven and Mrs Moore, badly out of breath.
The men look up sharply.
“Calm, Art.” The King leans forward in his throne, Alice moving out of the way, beside the seat. “Take a deep breath, then tell us what it is.”
The page boy - Art does as he’s bid. “An attack.”
Sir Julius releases Bonnie’s arm, and in one swift movement raises himself and her to their feet. “We were expecting this. My men should already be in place, and I saw there were archers on the walls. That should hold until me and my squire reach them. Unless of course you wish to lead another command against a dragon, Sir Angus? I trust you’ll be gracious and not blame a child for your defeat this time?”
“No Sir - I mean.” Art takes another deep breath, his olive skin flushed with exertion. “Not a dragon. Barbarians. Barbarians are attacking.”
Chapter 21
The white mare dances through the river of people with the grace of her rider.
Sir Julius leans sideways so suddenly that Bonnie has to cling to his cloak so she doesn’t fall off. Grabbing a younger boy by the scruff of his silk shirt, he pulls him close. It’s then Bonnie realises she’s misjudged his age. Fear makes him look young, but he’s older than her. Seventeen, maybe eighteen.
“Women and children to the palace gates. Men to the city walls. Are you a man or aren’t you?”
“Yes sir. Yes.” The boy - because she can’t think of anyone so frightened as a man - nods his head jerkily like a puppet. When Sir Julius lets go, he shoulders his way back through the flow, toward the wall.
“They’re at the gate!” Sir Angus yells across the crowd, his giant black horse pacing back and forth on the small rise of the golden road. A dozen of the bearded knight’s men follow him, weaving through the crowd on their horses. Neven sits on a pony so small, he has to fight to avoid being swept away.
The white mare reaches the top of the rise, and peering around Sir Julius, Bonnie sees the wooden gates bulge and creak inward. Men in soldier’s red and normal clothing swarm the walls, firing arrows, spears, and whatever they can downward. One man holding a spear squeals, then disappears over the edge as someone on the other side tugs him down.
“The iron will hold them!” One of Sir Angus’s men calls out, voice betraying nerves that the words do not.
It’s true that the secondary gate stands between the gate and the city, thick iron rings forming an impenetrable wall between stone and roa
d. But seeing it doesn’t give Bonnie the ease it should.
“It might!” Neven calls out from his little pony. “But the wall won’t.”
The wall is barely taller than the gate, and only wide enough to hold two men walking side by side. The druids designed it under the King’s orders like most of the rest of the city. It’s made to protect those in the city - but from magic, not people. The spells woven into the stone might stop those who use magic crossing anywhere but the gate, but over the ordinary human it has no power.
“They’re there,” she says softly. “They’re already there.”
And they are. While the gate still splinters outward, she can see figures fighting on the top of the wall. They’re few, and quickly overwhelmed by the men already there, but as soon as one is pushed back over the edge another five seem to take his place. Their clothing is odd. A mixture of tan cloth and mail with a dizzying amount of straps and pockets. From the stories she’d grown up with, she’d expected them to charge into battle half naked and covered in paint. Instead they look more organised than their own soldiers.
“They’ll take the wall before we get there!” Sir Angus shouts. “We have to get the oil. We burn the slums before they reach them!”
Bonnie’s eyes see what he means to do, but her brain refuses to wrap around it. The slums are in a dip at the very edge of the wall. The buildings are just far enough away from their neater cousins to ensure the fire would stay on the outside of the city. It’s a protective mechanism built into the structure of the city. Pour oil by the bottom of the wall and light it, and you can guarantee the flaming liquid will pool by the cramped buildings around the edge of the city, and nowhere else.
Her heart skips a beat. How could someone build homes, invite people to live there, knowing that one day they might decide to set fire to those same homes. How could you knowingly let people live in what was a giant pile of firewood, waiting for a match.
“We have people on those walls!” Sir Julius yells back. “And hundreds will be waiting things out in the slums far enough from the fighting. You know what will happen if we light it. The entire edge will burn. Women. Children. Not to mention the men still fighting.”