Dragon Castle

by Joseph Bruchac

  Strike, parry, back and forth we go. Beads of sweat form on his brow. His lips move as he mumbles one spell after another. None of them work. The power of my own enchanted sword and my years of training are protecting me from both the seen and the unseen.

  There’s a moment that may come in any fight, whether practice or mortal combat, when you know exactly what your opponent is going to do before he does it. At just such a moment I parry Temny’s blade across his body, take half a step back, and then thrust straight toward his heart. Instead of piercing his chest, the point of my blade skitters to the side. Through the rip in his velvet blouse I see that the baron is wearing a mail vest of ornate gold and black.

  Still, my blow knocks the wind out of him. He stumbles to one side with a curse, raising his sword as he does so. Good thing for him. Otherwise my sideways slash might have removed his head.

  Not completely good for the baron, however. The keen edge of my blade cuts through the metal of his mailed glove just below the pommel. It severs his index finger and sends the rune sword spinning.

  “Nie!” Baron Temny screams, his voice higher than usual. He steps back, clutching his wounded hand.

  “Ano.” I lift my sword up in a mocking salute.

  I’m not sure what to do next. Ask him to surrender? Make a quick thrust at some part of his anatomy that is unmailed? His throat, perhaps?

  Temny scuttles sideways like a crab, his bleeding hand held tight to his chest.

  “Pomoc!” he shrieks. “Help!”

  Two huge shapes block my path. They’ve appeared so quickly that I suspect the baron’s magic assisted their arrival. It’s Peklo and Smotana, of course.

  “Now you die,” Peklo growls, starting to swing his sword down at me.

  “You will . . .” Smotana begins to snarl.

  I don’t have time for boring threats. I knock Peklo’s sword to the side with a backhand parry and then kick him so hard in the belly that he folds like a creased sheet of parchment. Smotana’s unfinished fulmination is punctuated in mid-sentence by my elbow, which removes his front teeth. As he falls, a knife skitters out of the sheath at his waist. Appollina darts forward to pick it up and add it to the several she has already thrust under her belt. She does like knives.

  I turn toward the dais where the baron has retreated. Poteshenie has retrieved her husband’s rune sword. Temny is wrapping a cloth about his injured hand. He’s not looking at me, but behind me.

  “Rashko,” Paulek’s voice comes from my left.

  I glance quickly in his direction. The wide back doorway on that side of our hall is filled with armored figures.

  “Tam,” another voice says from my right. “There too.”

  My eyes follow the jerk of Black Yanosh’s chin to our far right, where the other big entryway is disgorging even more uninvited arrivals.

  More than the original remnants of the false baron’s little army are thrusting their way into our great hall. It’s not just those forty or more who were bruised and bloodied by the blast of wind from the eagle’s feather. Twice as many more dark-armored mercenaries are with them, as well as a score of bowmen.

  “It appears,” Appollina says from behind me, “that I need more knives.”

  I turn. Yet another large group of mailed men has appeared in front of the platform where Temny and his wife stand. I swallow hard, but the lump in my throat remains.

  Temny raises his hand and lets it fall.

  The dark-armored men encircling us begin sliding forward, one slow step at a time. They tap their spears together in time on the hard metal edges of their high-held shields. The sound of their heavy boots scraping against the floor is counterpoint to the thunk of wood against steel and the accompanying exhalation in unison of breath from the soldiers.

  Shhhhhh-thunk-hunh! Shhhhh-thunk-hunh! Shhhhh-thunk-hunh!

  Black Yanosh readies himself, as do Paulek, Appollina, and her sister. All of them are now armed with weapons dropped by Temny’s troops when the wind bowled them over. Ucta and Odvaha stand to either side of me. Everyone is ready to sell their lives dearly.

  Nie. I cannot let that happen. Think, Rashko! What can I do?

  I hand the silver sword to Paulek, fumble the pouch open, and thrust my right hand in. The round object I’d almost grasped before comes to me. Its cool metal draws itself like a magnet to my fingers.

  As I pull it out and lift it, it slides down over my knuckles and around my wrist. I hold it up before me. It’s a simple unornamented bronze bracelet. The dull metal does not glitter like silver. No bolts of lightning burst forth from it. Yet I feel its connection and hear a breathless voice whisper to me.

  Speak my name. I come.

  “Sedem!”

  The entire castle thrums like the plucked string of an enormous lute. Now that is dramatic! But not as dramatic as the hissing roar that comes from everywhere and nowhere at one and the same time.

  The warriors crouch behind their shields. Temny and Poteshenie lift their hands as if to ward off a blow.

  WHOM! WHOM! WHOM! WHOM! WHOM!

  A series of heavy thuds follows next. They might be mistaken for the sound of a huge hammer striking the bedrock of the hill below us. But I recognize what it is—massive feet thudding up stone stairs.

  KER-WHOMP!

  The wall tapestry is thrust to the side as the hidden doorway behind it bursts open, bolt bent, hinges ripped free, thick planks splintered. A head as large as an entire draft horse rams through. Two floor-shaking steps and the rest of Sedem, Pavol’s dragon, enters our hall, along with quite a bit of broken lumber, dislodged stone, and mortar. Our secret doorway is secret—and intact—no longer.

  Appollina grasps my shoulder. Paulek wraps his free arm protectively around Valentina to draw her to the side. He points the silver sword I just handed him at Sedem’s nose. Black Yanosh steps behind me and leans his back against mine. Even a dragon cannot distract him from guarding our rear.

  Armored men are bumping into each other. Weapons are falling to the floor as they attempt a quick exit. They are shouting such various things as “Dratchie! Dratchie!” “Nie!” “Pomoc!” “Help!” “Agghhhh!” “Get out of my way!” “Nails and blood!” and so on. Strangely enough, none of them are making use of my own favorite oath—even though the head of the dragon is staring down at them.

  The wide back doors of the hall clog with panicked mercenaries, tripping over each other and becoming entangled. Heavy armor provides protection against human weapons, but does not make it easy to retreat rapidly. Nor is it of much avail against a huge firebreathing beast.

  The dragon lifts his long neck. His head rises up until it almost scrapes the high ceiling. Ucta and Odvaha growl deep in their throats.

  Big.

  We attack?

  No. Wait.

  I reach down to pat their loyal heads, but keep my focus on the huge emerald green eyes that peer down quizzically from high above.

  Paulek is readying himself to use the silver sword I handed him.

  “STOV!” I cry, loud enough to be heard over the echoing din of clanging armor and panicking soldiers. “Stand!”

  Paulek lowers the sword, though his knuckles remain white from the tightness of his grasp on its hilt.

  The long neck, the massive scaled body, the impressive, twitching tail—which I am also keeping one eye on—are all quite familiar. Sedem is just as I saw him when I looked down on his mountain through an eagle’s eyes. There around his neck is the ring my ancestor placed there. The bracelet on my wrist throbs as I look at that silver neck ring and I feel the connection. As does Sedem, who gracefully lowers his head closer to study my bracelet. I note the bright rainbow sheen of the great dragon’s scales.

  He is actually rather beautiful!

  What might be a smile curves up the monster’s jaws. Did the creature hear my thought. Was he pleased by such praise?

  Fine dragon, excellent creature!

  Sedem’s toothy grin definitely broadens. An impressive golden
crest lifts on the top of his head.

  “Nice master,” Sedem hisses. He flicks a long pink tongue down to caress—or taste—my cheek. I’m very glad that I’m wearing this bracelet. That warm wave of air redolent of old earth and sulfur in the dragon’s breath suggests that without it I’d be bathed in flame.

  I reach out to touch each of my companions in turn.

  “Kamarat, kamarat, kamarat, kamarat.” I pat Ucta and Odvaha, touch Black Yanosh and Paulek on their shoulders. “Kamaratka,” I add, taking the hands of Appollina and her sister. Close friends, all. “No hurt!”

  Sedem nods his huge head twice. “No hurt,” he repeats, though he sounds a bit disappointed.

  I make a wide gesture that takes in all the others in the hall from the disordered warriors to the two authors of all our woes who are standing with hunched shoulders on the dais.

  “Zly!” I say. “Bad!”

  “Dobre,” Sedem growls as he gapes his jaws wide in a pleased yawn. “Good.” He turns to look at the baron and his wife.

  Poteshenie lifts up the rune sword in both hands. Her body quivers as she gathers herself. “Blesky!” she shrills.

  An impressive green bolt leaps from the sword’s tip. Sedem opens his mouth and swallows the lightning.

  “Nice.” Sedem burps. “Taste good.”

  Temny raises himself to his full height. He elevates both of his hands over his head. The dramatic effect is rather spoiled by the cloth that he wrapped around his wounded hand. It’s come loose and is dangling in front of his face.

  “I am Temny!” he screams in a high voice that sounds a bit hysterical. “None can stand against me. I am Lord of the Dark Ways!”

  “I hungry,” Sedem replies.

  Then he strikes—with incredible speed for one so huge.

  Sedem starts at the podium, then makes a circuit of the room like a hungry guest circling a banquet table. When Sedem is done—our great hall is empty of all save my comrades, the great worm, and me.

  Sedem turns toward us and begins to lower his head. There’s still hunger in the dragon’s eyes.

  “Hold up your sword,” I say to my brother out of the side of my mouth. Then, as Paulek does just that, I lift my arm that bears the bracelet.

  “Prestan!” I command. Sedem stops.

  Sedem settles back on his haunches. “I stop,” the great beast hisses. “See. No choke.” The dragon bears his teeth in what is probably meant to be a friendly grin. Then he lifts his right foot up to use a long middle claw to dislodge a piece of gold and black chain armor lodged between his front teeth.

  “Dobre,” Sedem adds with a satisfied burp. “Spat znova? Sleep again?”

  “Ano,” I agree, gesturing downward. “Spat. Sleep.”

  Sedem turns. As he slithers toward the hole in the wall, his tail makes an absentminded swipe in our direction. I have already foreseen that and quickly herded our small party over to duck down on the other side of the dais. The dragon’s tail swishes over us.

  Sedem looks back over his shoulder, a bit hopefully, it seems.

  I stand up, Paulek next to me.

  “Sorry,” Sedem hisses. “Tail bad.”

  I tap the bronze bracelet with one finger.

  “Spat!” I say, putting more iron into my words. “Now.”

  Sedem eyes the bracelet and nods. “I go now. Sleep.”

  The last we see of him is the tip of his glittering tail vanishing through the gaping hole in the wall.

  Black Yanosh strokes his mustache as he looks at me and Paulek. “I would say that you both did rather well.”

  It’s the highest praise I’ve ever heard from his lips.

  Paulek nods. Then, instead of hitting me in a bigbrotherly way, he reaches over and takes me by the hand.

  “Brother,” he says, “I am proud of you.”

  Tears come to my eyes. I squeeze his hand and nod to my good, brave brother, my true kamarat.

  Georgi comes through the doorway that leads to the back stairs as soon as the dragon disappears. He’s followed by the three Graces, Charity, and most of our other retainers, including Zelezo, Jazda, and Hreben.

  I’m a bit taken aback. How has Georgi managed to retrieve everyone so quickly? I thought all of them had taken refuge far from Hladka Hvorka. And why does Georgi put me in mind of a certain Gypsy juggler? What would he look like with a mustache on his face and a pillow stuffed under his shirt? I am going to have to have a long talk with him.

  Grace, Grace, Grace, and Charity move to the sides of Appollina and Valentina.

  “Come with us,” the oldest of our Graces says.

  “You need to freshen up a bit,” says the second Grace.

  “Wouldn’t a bit of tea be lovely now?” Charity asks.

  And just like that, as if they had not been engulfed in a storm of revenge and treachery, magic and bloodshed moments ago, the two martial sisters put down their weapons. They allow themselves to be led from the hall. They’re actually giggling as they chatter about clean clothes and bathing and drinking tea. I do not understand women.

  Georgi casts a critical eye at the broken and no longer concealed doorway, the disarranged but undamaged tapestry, the floor, the walls, and the dais of the great hall. All bear reminders of Sedem’s feast. Even the high ceiling has not escaped the occasional spray of blood and gout of torn flesh. Dragons are, I have discovered, decidedly messy eaters.

  Georgi taps the ends of his fingers together, then nods and gestures to our other capable servants, who are carrying brushes, shovels, and pails of water.

  “There is a bit of work to do,” Georgi says, “cleaning away these, ah, leftovers.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  In Order

  MY PARENTS RETURNED just as the evening torches were being lit. When Georgi came to our chamber to tell us of their arrival, Paulek and I were engaging in conversation with the princesses. True princesses—that is what Appollina and Valentina are. Now that the sisters have bathed and dressed themselves in better clothing, my brother and I found it hard to believe that those two striking young women could ever have been taken for men or itinerant entertainers, good as they were at playing that role. When they first walked into the room where Paulek and I were waiting, their loveliness took our breaths away.

  We bade them to sit, which they did quite gracefully and properly. Then there followed some awkward minutes while the four of us tried to find something to say. The fight we’d just survived had been so terrible that none of us wished to be the first to bring it up. Then Ucta walked over and put his head into Valentina’s lap. That led to Paulek relating how our four-legged brothers came to us, followed by Valentina’s tale of how the old sheepdog that was their childhood companion once saved her from drowning.

  We soon discovered that royal blood and juggling were not all that we had in common. Appollina’s wry sense of humor is much like my own. Valentina is, indeed, just as vigorous and fond of animals as my kind-hearted, athletic brother. Soon Valentina and my brother were wrestling on the floor with Ucta and Odvaha.

  “At times I wish I could be like that,” Appollina whispered. “I spend far too much time thinking and worrying.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “Look at them,” Appollina added. “They are so loyal. And all they ask to be happy is to be well fed and petted.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, “and that is also true of the dogs.”

  We were both trying not to laugh out loud when Georgi came to tell us of my parents’ return.

  “Go,” Appollina said. Valentina nodded. “You will want time with them. You have much to tell. We wait here until you are ready to introduce us.”

  IT TURNED OUT that Father and Mother had, indeed, heard my call for them to return and immediately left the grand affair.

  “We are so sorry, but we must be going.”

  “Lovely party, but the children need us.”

  With amazing ease and no loss of time, they left the Silver Lands and rode straight hom
e.

  They might have been here sooner had they not been slowed by various groups of people who stopped them along the way. Some of them were merchants and landowners who’d fled the hall before the fighting and fervently wished to reassure my parents of their continued loyalty. Others were mercenaries who’d managed to escape out the doors before our scaly ally had his afternoon repast.

  “Rather a bother,” Father says, “having to deal with one bruised and terrified armored man after another hurling himself on his belly to beg us for mercy.”

  “Yes, yes, it’s quite all right,” Father and Mother told each of them. “Just leave our land and never return again, that’s a good fellow.”

  The one who took the most of their time was the baron’s no longer haughty herald, who’d watched from outside and seen through the open doors all the events that transpired. Truba’s confession of guilt included a detailed account of what the plans of the late Temny and his consort had been. More detailed than necessary, according to my mother.

  “The fellow could hardly stop talking long enough for us to pardon him,” Mother says. “Some people just seem to enjoy hearing themselves talk.”

  I walk with them into the great hall. Already, there’s now little to show of what occurred. Georgi and our servants have, with amazing speed, mopped up nearly all traces of the carnage. All that remains is the sword mark on the corner of the dais. The secret doorway has been repaired—or did it repair itself?

  “Well done,” Father says, clapping Paulek and me on our shoulders. Then Mother enfolds us in an embrace.

  “Now take us to our guests,” Mother says.

  AS SOON AS my mother spies Appollina and Valentina, her smile lights up so brightly that it seems as if the sun has entered the room.

  “You lovely young ladies must be the daughters of my dear old friend Katina! Welcome, dears! How are she and your father, King Karel?”

  The sad looks that come over the faces of Appollina and her sister are more eloquent than any words.

  Then, as she often does, despite her lack of intellectual brilliance, Mother knows what to do. She spreads her arms wide to the two orphaned girls.