Dragon Castle

by Joseph Bruchac

  “My friends,” he says in a loud voice that draws all eyes to him. “My gracious friends!” He holds out his hand. “Truba!”

  Truba, the herald who had announced their arrival, opens a saddlebag and produces a large piece of parchment. He carefully unrolls it and then ceremoniously passes it up to his master.

  “Our invitation from your parents,” Temny announces. “Would you like to examine it?”

  Yes, I would! I step forward to take it.

  The baron, though, casts a quick appraising glance at me and shakes his head. He turns to the other side to deposit the document in the hands of my brother. Not that Paulek reads it. He is too busy smelling that perfumed handkerchief and staring like a mooncalf at Princess Poteshenie. She has now lowered more of her veil to expose her perfect profile as well as her décolletage.

  Truba plucks the parchment from my brother’s fingers.

  “I shall now share with all assembled here, the most gracious invitation we received from your ruler,” he declaims.

  My dear Baron Temny, my dear old friend,

  The ardent desire of both my dear wife and myself is that you should come posthaste to Hladka Hvorka. You and your small group of loyal retainers shall be welcome to the fruits of our hospitality for as long as you wish to remain.

  Although we may not be here when you arrive, we know that our sons shall make every effort to offer their assistance and provide for your every need.

  Further, as we have so often discussed in the past, your visit will provide the opportunity for your beloved daughter to finally meet her future husband, our own son Paulek.

  There is more beyond that. Truba’s lips are still moving, but I’m not hearing his words. I’m too shocked.

  Truba has finished. He is giving the scroll back to Paulek.

  “Read,” Truba says, placing a palm on Paulek’s shoulder.

  This time, Paulek actually does hold the gilded document in front of his face. Amazingly, it’s drawn his attention away from the princess. His gaze is glued to it. His lips are moving as he silently mouths each word.

  Is it also ensorcelled? I look over his shoulder. All too familiar golden letters on the parchment glisten. Perhaps because I’m prepared, their power does not affect me. And, as I start to scan the words, I note something else about this deceptive invitation that is not quite right. There’s nothing in its language that matches my father’s plain way of speaking.

  Truba snatches the parchment away from Paulek before I can study it more closely. He quickly rolls it up and slips it back into the saddlebag.

  “Of course,” Paulek says, his voice a monotone. “Of course.”

  My brother’s voice becomes louder as he turns to look at all of us. “We must make our honored guests and my bride-to-be welcome!”

  PAVOL’S LEGEND

  Pat

  DAYS FLOWED INTO weeks, weeks into months, months into seasons, and seasons into years. They flowed the way small snow- and rain-fed rivulets in the High Tatras join larger streams, then rivers in their rush toward the sea.

  The boy whose name was now Pavol grew quickly into a tall, strong youth. Perhaps it was from the work of wood cutting that Uncle Tomas put him to or the good food that Uncle Tomas’s wife, who bade him call her Baba Marta, stuffed him with each day.

  Perhaps too it was from the teaching they gave him. There were the physical challenges Uncle Tomas put before him—which included not merely the work of a woodsman but also running for miles without rest, wrestling, and swordplay, though the “blades” they used were made of wood, not steel. Strategy and planning were also part of what Uncle Tomas taught, how whether one is stalking a dangerous animal or about to lead an army into battle, the wise man is the one who has a plan and is prepared.

  Those physical lessons given him by Uncle Tomas were reinforced whenever the third of his teachers came to visit—the elderly Gypsy who simply called himself Gregor and only appeared when the leaves were about to fall. Though Gregor looked to be an old man, he had the suppleness and strength of someone far younger, and he always had a few new tricks to show the adopted child of his two old friends.

  Pavol loved Gregor’s visits. He thrilled at the wrestling contests between Uncle Tomas and Gregor. Tomas’s bear-like brawn was always matched by Gregor’s ability to twist and turn, to find a way to escape and then unbalance his bigger opponent. As Pavol grew older, Gregor began to teach him some of those same techniques that could turn another’s power to his own advantage.

  Strength, Gregor said, is not always stronger. One who tries to overcome everything with mere force alone may end up fooling himself.

  Those teachings from Uncle Tomas and Gregor were reinforced by the stories Baba Marta told each night, legends of bravery and good deeds, tales of the rewards to be reaped by one who was patient and steadfast. She challenged Pavol with proverbs and riddles that were often as hard to get at as the meat in a thick-shelled nut.

  He also read. Rough-hewn as Uncle Tomas appeared on the outside, beneath the homespun clothes and the great muscles beat the heart of a scholar. The dom that he and his wife, Baba Marta, shared with Pavol had a secret room, one that no one would ever guess existed when they looked at the little house from the outside. Within that room was a great store of books and scrolls, not only in the language of the land but also in Greek and Latin, Arabic, and other tongues. Literature, histories, magic and medicine, philosophy and mathematics were stacked on heavy-laden shelves.

  Pavol absorbed all these lessons the way dry earth soaks up the rain. He accepted the bruises, the aching muscles that Uncle Tomas’s back-breaking work and pitiless training inflicted upon him, the way Baba Marta’s stories sometimes made his brain feel as if it were tied in knots. He struggled to master the reading of one language after another, sounding out each new word aloud at times, fighting his stubborn way into the mysteries of musty tomes until they opened vistas to him he had never imagined before. He learned, and learned to love learning.

  One thing, though, was the most difficult for him to master. It was a lesson that his teachers reminded him of every day, especially when they saw a certain look come to his eye. It was the lesson of patience. It truly was the hardest for him—especially because of the reign of iron under which the land still suffered.

  The Dark Lord himself had left their little kingdom soon after wiping out what he assumed to be all of its royal family. Though there were still tales here of treasure to be found and magic to be mastered, their land lost some of its allure when the lights of the Silver Lands could no longer be seen. With the death of his parents—and over the next months, all those still loyal to them—that fifth direction had vanished. True, the dragon was said to remain. Though the dragon had not been seen for years, the tales all agreed that it slept still in its cave high atop the tallest peak. But even the Dark Lord had no stomach for battle with a creature said to be invincible.

  The departure of the Dark Lord had not meant the end of tyranny. He left others in charge who saw to the collection of taxes and made sure that any spark of resistance was quickly and brutally quenched. Though that brutal tyrant was not there, his eye remained always on the land.

  Seeing what had been done, what still was being done to the land his parents had cared for so lovingly, was as bitter as the taste of wormwood. But Pavol forced himself to accept the part that both his guardians told him he must play and play well until the time, the right time, came at last.

  To be safe until that day, there was only one part he could play. And though it grated upon him, it was a role that he played whenever he was out of the company of his two wise guardians—that of a harmless fool.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In the Courtyard

  I’VE BEEN KEEPING watch since dawn. I’m looking out a high window in our castle over our soiled courtyard below. Its white stones usually glitter in the sun. Georgi makes certain that it is kept as clean as a freshly washed plate. But that is far from true of its western quarter today. It’
s been burned with campfires, scuffed with boots that have mucked through mud and horse manure, littered with the belongings of the baron’s little army, as well as those rough, unkempt ruffians themselves. They’ve occupied that entire section near the main gate, leaving only a ten-foot-wide aisle in front of the guest quarters where the baron, his daughter and her cat, and his herald have been lodged. Though it is past mid-morning, the baron and the princess have yet to show themselves. Are they just sleeping late or are they up to something in there?

  They’d planned to stay in our castle. But Georgi somehow turned their attention toward our guest lodge. It’s a finely built single-story structure of welldressed stone with several large rooms, each with its own fireplace, bed, and furnishings. It’s placed just within the walls, where the barracks might be in another castle. But, like all those who occupied Hladka Hvorka before them, from Prince Pavol on down, my parents have never felt the need to keep an army.

  “Much more comfortable, convenient to your men,” Georgi explained, tapping his fingertips together and lowering his head subserviently. “More private.”

  “Will it do for us . . . my daughter?” the baron said. He turned to the princess, who was studying something that she held between the palms of her left hand.

  “Tu je to!” she said to herself in a pleased voice.

  Here it is? What did she mean by that? I wondered.

  Then she smiled and her next words made even less sense.

  “We are close enough . . . my father,” she said.

  Close enough to what?

  I could not stay to try to hear more. While Georgi was negotiating their lodgings with Baron Temny and his enigmatic daughter—with no help from my brother, who just kept staring at her—I needed to be busy elsewhere.

  First, I made certain that all the outer doors to the great hall of Hladka Hvorka were closed and barred from within to discourage our visitors’ troops from tromping in and taking it over. And probably using our furnishings as firewood.

  Next, as they led their steeds toward our stables, I ran ahead of them. I opened the door and was greeted—as I had hoped—by the welcome sight of empty stalls.

  “Zmiznite, disappear,” Georgi had whispered to Jazda and Hreben as soon as the little army poured through our main gate.

  They had done their job well. All seven of our horses had been led out the back of the stable to the rear wall of Hladka Hvorka. There, by pressing the right stones, Jazda opened a door in what seemed a solid wall and lowered the small concealed drawbridge that is big enough for one horse at a time to cross. Our herd, watched over by our stableman and his son, was now safe in a field far from the sight of the castle.

  “Where your mounts? Where your stable boys?” growled the bald-headed ruffian, the one with the livid red scar on the side of his face.

  One of Father’s proverbs came to mind. “Let your teeth hold back your tongue.” Instead of answering, I looked at him blankly as if I couldn’t understand his question.

  The scar-faced man stared at me for a moment, then shook his head in disgust. “Dumbkopf! Blazon! Fool!”

  He pushed roughly by me to lead his horse into the stable, where he and his band of blackguards had no choice but to rub down their own mounts, feed, and water them without help. Not at all what they’d expected as our honored guests.

  Guests, indeed. I shake my head, thinking again of that “invitation.”

  The few lines I’d read before Truba smoothly snatched it away had been enough. That brief moment of scanning the duplicitous document was enough to convince me that it had not been penned by my father. I could never imagine my parents inviting anyone to stay as long as they wanted. They enjoy visitors, but never for more than two or three nights. As Father puts it, “Fish and visitors start to smell after a few days.”

  Plus, most tellingly, there were no words misspelled. Quite unlike my father.

  I look up at the sun. It’s now close to noon. Still the baron has not yet roused himself.

  What are they doing in there?

  The only one of their little party of four to emerge thus far has been Truba. The lanky herald strode imperiously into our castle—likely asking for yet more hot water, food, and drink to be brought to them. Then he returned to our guest quarters.

  Temny’s men, however, are all too visible. They’ve been awake since dawn, long enough to raid our depleted hen yard. A dozen of our fattest hens are now turning on spits over cooking fires they’ve kindled with the firewood taken from the kitchen—without as much as a by your leave to Cook. The greasy smoke that now hangs over our once airy courtyard is a good match for this rabble. Some of them, I note with distaste, are even too lazy to trudge out to the plank over the moat. They’re using one corner of our courtyard as a latrine.

  The ruffians haven’t seen me watching them. They’re too busy eating, drinking, dicing and quarreling and making bets as they toss knives at a log they’ve propped up.

  Wait!

  Some of their heads are turning—the way the more vigilant in a pack of jackals concealed in tall grass react when an antelope comes to drink from the water hole. What have they seen?

  Oh no! At the far eastern side of the courtyard a slender young woman in a brown dress has just come out of the castle. It’s Charity. She’s only fourteen years old, the youngest of our serving girls. Her arms are full of clean linens. Meant, I am sure, for the baron and his daughter. Probably what Truba came in to demand. Everything else brought to the baron’s party was delivered by one of our serving men. Georgi’s been careful not to send a young woman—or a lad, for that matter—out through that dangerous rabble. But this time, perhaps out of boredom or curiosity, Charity has taken it upon herself to do the task.

  She was clever enough to not try to cross the courtyard, quietly making her way along the far wall toward the side entrance to our guest lodge.

  Unfortunately, she failed to avoid notice. Even more unfortunately. the one whose eye she seems to have caught most is the Scarface. He seems to be Temny’s head bully. More unfortunately still, I am four stories above them. I ask myself what I should do. I don’t get an answer.

  A pleased smile crosses the thick lips of Scarface. He turns his head back to his left toward the guest lodge. Temny himself is standing in the doorway. The baron lifts his left hand lazily, nods, and flicks his little finger in Charity’s direction. Then he vanishes back inside, having set the stage.

  Scarface looks over at his companion with whom he’s been dicing. It’s the other of the two flag bearers from yesterday, the blond-haired hulk with a long spade-shaped beard. Scarface holds out his hands, palms up, gestures like a servant offering a bowl of fruit.

  Your turn or mine?

  “Go, Peklo.” The blond ruffian makes a rude gesture with his fingers. “You get that wench. But the next one’s mine.”

  Peklo’s smile turns into a wide grin showing yellowed teeth. He tosses his knife aside and rises eagerly to his feet.

  By the head of the dragon! I turn and dash down the stairs, fearing I will be too late.

  In a way, I am. By the time I burst through the courtyard entryway, the scene is playing out without me. Georgi is already here. He must have been watching just as I was. Despite the fact that he’s burdened by a large pot and two long cloths slung around his neck, he’s managed to place himself between Charity and Temny’s men before Peklo could get to her.

  Peklo reaches around Georgi to grab Charity’s shoulder. However, before Peklo’s rough fingers can grasp her, Georgi trips. The steaming contents of the iron pot pour down Peklo’s chest. The iron pot lands on the burly man’s forward foot.

  “Arrgggh!” Peklo roars, hopping on one foot while trying to wipe hot soup from his front.

  It’s rather an amusing spectacle, but I keep myself from laughing out.

  Peklo’s companions, though, who saw it all happen and assume it’s just an accident, are roaring with mirth.

  “Peklo, save some of that soup for us, you g
reedy beast.”

  “First bath you’ve had in a month!”

  Georgi hisses a word into Charity’s ear. Whitefaced, she nods, runs swiftly back across the yard and through the servants’ entrance to the castle. There’s a thud and the rattle of a bolt as she slams and locks the door behind her.

  I relax and lean back against the wall. My sword is belted around my waist now. I’m close enough to come to Georgi’s rescue if necessary. But I have a feeling my help may not be needed.

  “Oh sir, good sir,” Georgi is saying. “Prepac, prepac. Sorry, sorry. So clumsy of me. All that fine turnip soup Cook prepared for you and your men.”

  “Acchhhh!” Peklo replies, still hopping. “Acchhh!”

  His vocabulary is clearly limited by his rage and the pain in his big toe. He reaches out for Georgi like a praying mantis grabbing at an irritating fly.

  At this point any other servant who spilled soup all over a violent man would flee or cower down to absorb blows from said scalded ruffian. But Georgi is not any other servant.

  “Oh good sir, here. Allow me to dry you.”

  Georgi ducks under Peklo’s grasping hands, and deftly loops one of those two long cloths he is carrying around the angry brute. Another loop, then another. It pins Peklo’s huge-muscled arms to his sides. He’s unable to strike, grasp, or strangle.

  Georgi holds the ends of that wrapped cloth in place with one hand that is, as I’ve already mentioned, far stronger than anyone who does not know him would suspect.

  “Allow me to clean your face, good sir.”

  As he awkwardly wipes Peklo’s face with the other cloth, I cannot help but observe that Georgi is doing an excellent job of getting more of the soup into the bully’s eyes.

  I fold my arms, keeping one eye on the crowd of toughs at the far end of the courtyard. Not one of them has stirred to assist their leader. They’re even more amused.

  “Y’ look like a baby all wrapped up in his swaddling clothes,” one wit shouts.