Dragon Castle

by Joseph Bruchac

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE - Don’t Worry

  CHAPTER TWO - The Invitation

  CHAPTER THREE - Two Friends

  CHAPTER FOUR - Lowered Defenses

  CHAPTER FIVE - In the Courtyard

  CHAPTER SIX - Why Climb the Tree?

  CHAPTER SEVEN - Problems

  CHAPTER EIGHT - The Princess,s Pet

  CHAPTER NINE - A Match

  CHAPTER TEN - The Same Name

  CHAPTER ELEVEN - The Er-ah

  CHAPTER TWELVE - Seven of Them

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Still Watching

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Onward and Downward

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN - One Who Guards

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN - The Goose Bone Sword

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - In Order

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  PLACES

  SLOVAK VOCABULARY

  NUMBERS

  Author’s Note

  DIAL BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

  A division of Penguin Young Readers Group

  Published by The Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, U.S.A. Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa • Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Copyright © 2011 by Joseph Brucac All rights reserved

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bruchac, Joseph, date.

  Dragon castle / by Joseph Bruchac.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Young prince Rashko, aided by wise old Georgi, must channel the power of his ancestor Pavol the great, and harness a magical dragon to face the evil Baron Temny after the foolish king and queen go missing.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-51603-4

  [1. Princes—Fiction. 2. Wisdom—Fiction. 3. Kings, queens, rulers, etc.—Fiction.

  4. Dragons—Fiction. 5. Fairy tales.] I. Title.

  PZ7.B82816Dr 2011

  [Fic]—dc22

  2010028798

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  FOR ALL THOSE

  WHO KEPT SLOVAKIA

  ALIVE IN THEIR HEARTS

  PROLOGUE

  The Wall Hanging

  A MONUMENTAL TAPESTRY decorates the wide back wall of the Great Hall in Hladka Hvorka, my family’s large old castle. The tapestry has been there since the castle’s earliest days. No one knows who wove it. Perhaps, some say in jest, it wove itself. That idea may not be so far-fetched if one believes the legend that Hladka Hvorka was constructed—or grew up out of our high round hill—in but a single night.

  The sequence of scenes depicted upon that wide weaving isn’t easy to describe, even for me. It’s not just because of the bright intricacy of its texture, the way sparkling threads of silver and crimson, russet and gold, cerulean and jet, azure and amber seem to not merely reflect light but glow as if lit by fires from within. Nor is it merely due to its sheer size, double the height of a tall man and encompassing a surface the length of a strong spear cast.

  It is, to be frank, frustrating to try to describe the imagery held by the Hladka Hvorka tapestry because the shapes within its weave seem to change as I study them. Just when I think I’m perusing a pair of juggling lads, I realize I’m looking instead at two lissome maids, who gaze back at me with dismissive eyes!

  And therein lies the more disturbing aspect of our gigantic tapestry—at times it seems more aware of me than I am of it. Nie! Do not look at me, it soundlessly commands, and I find myself unwillingly averting my gaze.

  By the head of the dragon! Quite unsettling.

  However, as I’ve looked at the tapestry often, I’ve discerned at least one or two recurring motifs.

  First and foremost, of course, there’s the epic journey and eventual triumph of our ancestor Pavol, dragon conqueror, scourge of evil, founder of Hladka Hvorka and the ensuing Reign of Peace we yet enjoy. We also may observe his noble steed, his friends and allies, and so on.

  (Interestingly, the gold thread that outlines Pavol appears later in the tapestry, where a tall, youthful shape hesitates before a doorway. In similar fashion, the red thread associated with the deceptive dragon also resurfaces there.)

  Secondly, of course, there’s Pavol’s adversary, the Dark Lord. The jet black silk that outlines him also seems to loom up and then subtly disappear throughout the wide weave—unpredictable as the late spring frosts that may wilt our crops just when we assume winter’s cruel reign has ended. Quite disconcerting.

  Whenever I look at the great tapestry it makes me wonder. I find myself wishing I understood more. So few real facts about our great ancestor’s story have come down to us today.

  Perhaps I’ll never know.

  PAVOL’S LEGEND

  Pyrva

  RUN, SON, HIS mother said.

  Hide! His father’s last word to him.

  He had always done as they asked. And though the grim look on Otec’s face and the tears in Matka’s eyes made him want nothing more than to remain with them, the slight, six-year-old child did as they commanded.

  He allowed his father to lower him out the window until it was but the drop of a child’s height. His small feet landed lightly on the packed earth. He ran swiftly across the back courtyard, where a small confused group of their servants huddled like chickens that have seen the fell shadow of a hawk.

  Some of them nodded uncertainly to him. All of them were looking to the front wall, but none attempted to man it. After all, who among them knew enough to mount a defense—even if they had been armed? Suddenly they were all pushed aside by a round, aproned whirlwind that came rushing out through the kitchen door to intercept him. Maria, the cook. She grasped the boy’s thin arm, hugged him fiercely to her huge bosom. Then she thrust a cloth in which several warm kolac were tied into his shirt before pushing him on his way.

  Old Strom, the carpenter, stood with his broad back braced against the postern wall. He said nothing, merely nodded at his hands held together in front of him. One step into those cupped palms, a quick boost, and the boy was atop the parapet that had never been raised so high as to withstand an attack. It was more of an aesthetic feature than a defense. After all, castles are expected to have ramparts, even one such as theirs—St’astie Dom, the House of Happiness, where the gates were left open day and night to admit tradespeople, wandering musicians, and any ordinary folk in need of the help his big-hearted parents would always provide.

  What use had they for defenses? Who would attack them? They were the kindest of rulers, generous and undemanding of the common people, friends to all. That was why, it was said, that the Silver Realm, the place of the Fair Folk that can never be found on any map, lay so close to their tiny kingdom. Though the Faerie people never directly interfere in the doings of mortals, the fact that the aura of their glittering realm could be seen from St’astie Dom implied that they looked with favor upon that little land of kindness and peace. The
Fair Folk were pleased to be bordered by such guileless, gentle humans.

  So, too, had been the other larger dukedoms and principalities around them. Until recently, courteous visits from their various royal neighbors had been commonplace. But it had been two seasons since any visitors from other kingdoms had graced their home.

  All that had come were dire rumors, which the boy’s parents had not spoken about to him. However, his ears had been keen enough to pick up their whispered conversations about the calamity such stories said had come to the lands around them. A dark warlord, one whose only desire was to crush and conquer, slaughter their leaders, and then rule those lands with a fist of iron. It did not matter how small or poor any principality might be. The very fact that it was there was enough to draw the attention of that evil one. It was so terrible a story that surely it could not be true.

  Only a story, not reality. That was what they had hoped, if not believed—until this day. Then, was it only a hour ago? Krajat, the woodcutter, had stumbled through the open gate. Terribly wounded, he told with his last breath of the grim army that approached, led by that same monstrous conqueror they had hoped was mere fantasy.

  The boy and his parents had looked then to the north. And there they saw the black storm cloud sweeping down off the mountain, that same thunderhead said to ride above the dark warlord’s army.

  The boy dropped from the parapet to the soft earth below. As he rose from the ground, he risked a quick glance to either side. No sign back here of the besiegers. And why should there be? The front gate was wide open, as always. Closing it would have been impossible without breaking the rusted hinges or wrenching the metal free from its pins. He pushed away the thought of his mother and father sitting as he knew they would be, side by side in the simple chairs that served as their thrones. They would be holding hands as they waited.

  I should be with them, he thought. But he had to do as they had told him to do. His mother’s words had been urgent, his father’s command simple and direct. No time to pause and think. Run! Hide! He wiped his eyes and ran. Within thirty strides he was in the embrace of the welcoming woods.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Don’t Worry

  “DON’T WORRY.” My brother, Paulek, smiles at me and goes back to sharpening his sword. “Remember what Father says. Worries never dug a ditch.”

  Hah! Easy for him to say. He’s never used a shovel in his entire life. All he ever worries about is finding time to practice his swordsmanship, riding his horse, and looking like the proper heir to our little kingdom. As if looks could take the place of rational thought! Why, I sometimes wonder, am I the only one in our family who ever seems to entertain a thought as anything other than a transient visitor? Why is it that when our lord and creator Boh was handing out brains, my parents and my brother apparently got in line behind the hummingbirds? If it were not for my taking charge, nothing would ever get properly done around here.

  By the head of the dragon! How would they ever get along without me?

  And where are my parents?

  “Brother,” Paulek says, responding to the question I didn’t realize I just asked out loud. His voice is as calm as only that of one who never fits more than one idea in his head at a time can be. “You know that Father and Mother can take care of themselves.”

  Hah! again. Has he never seen our good father standing out in the rain and looking up in wonder? Just standing there until I came running out with a cloak for him to put over his head? And what did Father say in reply to me when I observed that he was getting soaked to the skin?

  “Lovely storm, isn’t it?”

  Has my brother never noticed that our dear mother is so innocent that she never has a cross word for anyone, even when they burn the porridge or forget yet again to repair the broken glass in the chapel window? She doesn’t even seem to realize that there are actually things in this world that can do injury! Just last month I had to pull her away from stroking a bee as it rested on a sunflower. And what was her remark to me?

  “Rashko dear, that bee would not have hurt me.”

  I suppose there has to be at least one responsible person in every family, even a royal one. But why does it have to be me? And where in the name of Peter and Paul and all the other Blessed Svatys have my errant parents gone?

  You might wonder why I am so concerned. After all, it was only two nights ago that they rode off—without even telling me that they were going or why they left in such haste in the middle of the night. It was only after they had failed to appear for both breakfast and the midday meal that I realized something was awry. I admit that eating is one of my own favorite pursuits, but few people enjoy food as much as do my parents and my brother. The way they eat, you would think that each mouthful was manna like that the Lord sent from heaven to Moses and the wandering Israelites.

  Nie! I wish that image of lost wanderers had not come to me just now. If my parents had been leading those Israelites, they never would have made it out of the desert.

  “Our parents are gone,” I remind Paulek, trying not to panic. “It’s been two nights now.”

  His response is predictable. He holds up his hand and counts off the nights on his fingers. “Raz, dva. One, two. Ano. That’s right, Rashko.” Then he smiles again and points up.

  “Did you notice?” he asks. “Those little swallows in that nest on the north tower are finally about to fly from their nests.”

  What’s wrong with him? I know that, despite his size and his strength, he loves little creatures. But this is no time for watching birds. By the head of the dragon! Doesn’t he realize he should be upset about this? Why should all this fall on my shoulders alone?

  And that’s not all. More had just been added to my burden in the last hour by that supercilious selfimportant messenger, who just left. Paulek had taken no notice when Georgi, the castle steward, whose deeply wrinkled face both shows that he has served our family forever and belies his surprising strength, came to tell us of the uninvited arrival outside the walls of Hladka Hvorka. My brother was too busy sharpening his sword. So it was left to me to follow Georgi to the gate and accept the message—and the insulting way it was delivered.

  “Shall I read it to the young lord?” the foppish courier had sneered, looking down from his mount and speaking his words in a deliberately slow and overemphasized manner—as if addressing a lack-wit.

  “Nie. I am literate enough to read quite well on my own, thank you,” I replied as I broke the impressive wax seal on the thick parchment scroll and quickly perused the imperious words emblazoned upon it in a glowing flowery script so golden that it almost appeared to pulse on the page.

  The Great and Honorable Baron Temny

  Lord of the Twelve Lands

  Informs You That His Excellence Will Soon Grace

  Your Presence

  Had I not been feeling such a mixture of impatience and distress I might have studied it longer. Despite its overblown language, the scroll was beautiful, indeed strangely attractive. But instead I curled my lip in displeasure, rolled it back up, and glared at the herald.

  He seemed surprised. Had he expected me to clasp my hands to my chest and chuckle with glee?

  “I’ve read it,” I said, handing it back to him. He took it with ill grace and then went bouncing off on his palfrey, leaving me with a deep feeling of foreboding that has increased rather than lessened since his departure.

  Who, I wonder, is Baron Temny? And what twelve lands is he lord of? Surely not the kingdoms, each with its own set of rulers, that surround our small, sleepy land? But when was the last time we heard anything from them, isolated as we are in our small valley with the mountains on four sides and the Silver Lands of the Fair Folk on the other?

  “Paulek!” I try not to lose my composure. “Listen to me. We are about to have guests. Important ones, apparently.”

  This time my words sink in through his thick skull. My brother becomes as delighted as I am disconcerted. He actually puts down his sword.

&n
bsp; “Guests?” he exclaims. He claps his big hands in delight like a child. Despite the fact that he is a year my elder and though but sixteen the second-tallest person in our kingdom, my brother oft displays such a shocking lack of dignity that I must be twice as serious to make up for it.

  “Paulek,” I plead, “please listen.” But I might as well be speaking to a wall. A blissfully happy one.

  “Dobre, dobre! Good, good! We must have a feast, a big one to welcome them. Right, Rashko? As Father says, the welcomed guest is always the best. Perhaps there may be some formidable fighters among them. Then we can have a sparring match or two. Ano! What fun!”

  And off he goes to tell the servants what to do to get ready, even though I let Georgi know before attempting to speak with my brother. I have no doubt our competent old retainer already has things as well in hand as anyone can.

  “Rosewater for the baths, Grace!” my brother shouts, a huge grin on his face. He waves at the servants already bustling back and forth to carry out various tasks. “Chytro! Quickly! Grace, fresh linens in the guest quarters! Vd’aka. Thank you. Charity, Cook needs to make extra bread. Too much is never enough for company, you know! Move along now, Grace. Janko, that’s a good lad. Dobre, dobre, dobre!”

  As if they don’t already know how to do everything for our fortunate family twice as well as most of us can do for ourselves. Paulek disappears around the side of the chapel, still waving his hands like a choirmaster who thinks he’s leading the chorus but is actually three verses behind the singers.

  Amazingly, our servants never seem to resent the many demands made, ever so politely, true, by my parents and Paulek. If anything, they respond with a kind of amused courtesy. I’m the only one who’s ever outraged.

  Might it not be easier to be an orphan like our famous ancestor Pavol and have no parents or siblings to worry about?