Torbrek...and the Dragon Variation (The Torbrek Trilogy)

by Lexi Revellian

  The creak of the turret door sounded above the steady beat and splash of the downpour, and she turned to see a man coming towards her along the parapet walk. It was Barlanik, who frequently did a round of the watchers in the small hours to keep up morale. He stopped next to her and seemed to concentrate on the sheets of rain.

  “Nothing to report, Commander,” she said.

  He did not reply. Really, Tor thought, he is the most silent man (except when he’s discussing strategy). I wonder if it’s true he is going to marry Gwenderith? They seem quite well matched, as far as one can tell, both being so reserved. What a lot of long, quiet evenings they’ll have together. She stole a look at his handsome profile as he gazed out into the rain and the sodden countryside. He spoke without turning.

  “I was talking to Stavely about you. He said you are one of the best sword fighters we have.”

  Tor smiled with surprise. “He never says that to me.”

  “Stavely thinks you’re worth putting effort into.” Barlanik’s eyes turned to her. “He told me he tried you out against one of the men, the day you arrived. After you disarmed him twice, he got Garran because he’s the best in the garrison, and you beat him too.”

  “That took a little longer.” Tor remembered how she had been absolutely determined to win, to show them how good she was, and be a credit to Attalor’s training. She remembered the keyed-up wait in the twilight while they fetched Garran, with soldiers gathering to watch as word went round, and the fierce concentration of the fight itself.

  They’d accepted her with respect after her victory. From them, she’d picked up the one thing her grandfather had not taught her; to swear like a trooper. Tor’s lingering fear of her gender being noticed, and the ridicule that might ensue, had faded. Short and slender though she was compared to most of the men, her swordsmanship outranked theirs. Women, they knew, couldn’t fight like that. Garran had shaken her hand, and taken her to the tavern to buy her a drink, introducing her to his friends as the new recruit who’d beaten him. It had been one of the best days of her life.

  Emboldened by Barlanik’s praise, Tor said, “You know the Hundred Knights…” He nodded. Tor hesitated; there was something she badly wanted to ask him, but it was embarrassing. And he was her Commander…but he was the only person who might know the answer, and he seemed more approachable tonight, so she went ahead.

  “Xantilor said I was a Knight, because I’d had the training and inherited the dagger, but can I really be a proper one? No one’s actually made me one, so perhaps I’m not really.”

  “Of course you are a Knight, Tor, and a worthy one, but if you’re concerned about the formalities…” Barlanik faced her. “Give me your dagger.” She handed it to him. It felt warm against her cold fingers. “I won’t get you to kneel, it’s too wet, and not strictly necessary.”

  “That doesn’t matter; I want to do it properly. On one knee like this?” Tor knelt on the wet stones in the downpour, looking up at him, rain dripping from the points of her hair.

  “Be thou a Knight,” he said, giving her back her dagger. “Now you say, ‘Truth unto Death’.”

  “Truth unto Death. Is that it?”

  “Yes.” Tor got to her feet, sheathing her dagger. “That’s the battlefield version, done when a squire had fought outstandingly beside his Knight; but there’s no reason we can’t use it. And the proper long ceremony would be difficult to arrange, as we are the only Knights here, and we don’t have access to the Knights’ Hall at Atherly Berrow.”

  “D’you think the Knights will ever get back to being what they were in the old days?”

  “I’d like to think so, but there’s only a handful of us left.” The rain redoubled, and Barlanik stared out into the darkness. “The Knights got too set in their traditions during the long years of peace. Keeping to a limit of a hundred, with each Knight training only one squire at a time, was a mistake. When Skardroft came to power, he was able to make savage inroads into our numbers.”

  “How many Knights are there?”

  “I don’t know. Skardroft’s keeping count, no doubt.”

  “And what about the dead Knights’ squires?”

  “He killed them as well, when he could; boys younger than you, most of them...he still does. Not many Knights have been trained this generation. You must be one of the last.” Tor did not say anything, and for a few minutes they stood, both listening to the beat of the rain. “Tell me about your grandfather. Kerris told me he trained you.”

  “Yes. He was called Attalor. He was good, Xantilor says among the best.” One of Barlanik’s infrequent smiles warmed his eyes, and Tor had a sudden odd conviction that she could tell him anything. “I had a great childhood. We were very poor, but it didn’t matter.”

  “How did you live?”

  “Grandfather used to earn a bit teaching boys to fence, but he said you couldn’t learn much in one evening a week, which was all they did. He trained me for hours every day. Once he got me to fight the boys in his class in turn. He thought it would be a good experience for them. It was rather a disaster, because I beat them all easily though they were older, and they were really fed up.” Tor smiled at the memory. What they’d hated most was being defeated by a girl. “Some of them didn’t come back the next week, and we needed the money. Grandfather used to save it up, then blow it all on a new sword for me, or things like the cavalry horse. He said I had to have the right kit. That didn’t leave much for anything else. Often we lived for weeks just on what we could hunt – or eggs, we had two hens. No bread or milk because we had to buy those. Our neighbour used to patch my clothes for me when she saw me in holes. She disapproved of Grandfather.”

  “I’m sorry I never met Attalor.”

  “You’d have liked him, Commander.”

  “Call me Barlanik.” He pushed his dripping hair off his forehead. “I’ll get the carpenter to rig up some sort of shelter here. No virtue in getting soaked on guard duty.”

  Barlanik stayed on the battlements with Tor, sometimes talking and sometimes silent, until the end of her watch, by which time he was as wet through as she was. When a soldier came to take over in the first dim greyness of dawn, they went down the stone stairs together before going their separate ways.

  Barlanik hung up his sodden cloak in the cell-like bedroom adjoining his office, thinking about Tor. She was probably the youngest of the Hundred Knights, and certainly the only female of their number. In passing, he wondered what the other Knights would say about that, if they ever got to meet her. A remarkable girl. She was easy to talk to; straightforward, not calculating the effect of what she said. Interesting, too, intelligent and out of the ordinary.

  As he took off his jacket, his mind went back to their first meeting, when he had only noticed how young she was and how worn and threadbare her clothes. He had been warned by Drewitt that Tor was insubordinate, maybe subversive, a potential troublemaker. Drewitt’s judgment had been wrong, as it often was about people. Barlanik remembered how her expressive face had lit up with delight, when he told her she was to be Dragon Master.

  He unbuckled his sword belt, pulled off his boots, and lined them up ready by the bed. It was a pity the Princess wasn’t more like her. Gwenderith was a thoroughly nice girl, and not unintelligent, but… What was it she had said to him at dinner this evening? “You must have seen many interesting places in your travels.” This had effectively rendered him speechless. The moment before, he’d been looking down the table to where Tor and Kerris had their heads together talking and laughing. They had been having a better time than he was.

  Barlanik lay down to snatch an hour’s sleep before starting the day. He closed his eyes. At the next mess dinner, when he was obliged to have Gwenderith sitting beside him, he would make sure Tor was on his other side.

  CHAPTER 7

  Fire and dragon flight

  Fire – why weren’t there more nouns to describe it? Tor watched as Xantilor worked on his fire breathing outside the Dragon Tower. Flames
came in such variety; small velvety blue and purple ones, beautiful curling tongues of green and blue, yellow and orange flares with firework sparks, and a fierce pale flame that could melt a door hinge from five feet away.

  Tor had devised exercises for Xantilor. Bundles of sticks stood at varying distances she had paced out, and he was trying to burn them accurately with minimum force. It was no good having a dragon if he accidentally scorched your own troops, or set fire to things without meaning to, and Xantilor was now so good at producing flames that this was a real danger. Tor had buckets of water standing by just in case.

  On Barlanik’s orders, the Horse Master had started bringing a few horses over when Xantilor was breathing fire, to get them used to it so they would not panic on the battlefield. It was the other side’s horses they wanted to panic. Tor regularly flew the dragon over the cavalry when it was drilling, and the horses were becoming used to his great shadow darkening the sky above them.

  Hooves thudded on the turf. Tor looked up to see Barlanik on his big white horse, come to accustom it to the dragon and the flames. She waved, and got on with what she was doing. Barlanik circled Xantilor widely at first but getting closer all the time. The initially wary horse gradually grew more confident, till Barlanik felt they had done enough for one day. He dismounted and Tor came over to him.

  “Hi,” she said.

  Barlanik had noticed that Tor’s eyes changed colour with the light and what she was wearing. Their range included grey, green, hazel and several shades of blue. Today she had on a smoky blue shirt under her gilet, baggy sleeves rolled to the elbow. Her eyes, he was fascinated to see, had obligingly gone darker and bluer to match.

  “Xantilor looks nearly ready for battle to me. What do you think?” he said.

  Tor patted Barlanik’s horse and nodded. “Yes, maybe, but he’s still improving. He’ll be better yet. I want to make sure his flying is the best it can be, because he won’t have other dragons to watch his back as they used to in the Dragon Battalions; we’ll have to avoid enemy archers on our own.”

  “I saw you two flying yesterday.”

  “Yesterday afternoon? We were showing off a bit. Aerial acrobatics.”

  “You were all over the sky. I was on the ramparts and a crowd gathered to watch. There was one move you did, tumbling downwards, when they all gasped at once and applauded. It must feel extraordinary to be able to do that. I envy you.”

  Tor was pleased. “Why don’t you try it? Come for a flight on him now,” she said on impulse. “The saddle takes two.”

  This was a major concession on Tor’s part; she was rather possessive about her dragon and did not readily offer rides on him, except to Kerris who mostly refused.

  “I’d like to. Let me just tether Ghost.”

  Xantilor joined them and Barlanik congratulated him on his progress. Tor offered to let him sit in front to get an unobstructed view, but he refused, thinking he would prefer to see her as well as the countryside. She pulled on an old black leather jacket and climbed up on to the dragon. Barlanik followed her. She twisted round in the saddle.

  “Shall we just fly around or do you want to try some of what you saw yesterday?”

  “I’ll go for the full experience. Let Xantilor show me what he can do.”

  “Buckle the leg straps then. Where d’you want to go?”

  “Why don’t you show me where you were brought up?”

  “If you like, but there’s nothing much to see since Skardroft burnt it.”

  “Sorry – perhaps we should go somewhere else.”

  “I’m okay about it, I often fly over there, and the scenery’s nice. Did you hear that, Xantilor? Can you do some of the stuff you did yesterday? Then take us to Cramble. Circle the Castle first.”

  Xantilor nodded, and took to the air.

  For the first time, Barlanik was seeing the huge sprawling Castle as a whole; all the buildings, the paths, the fortified walls and towers, the little houses, the moat and the blue glittering river to one side were visible at once below him. The Dragon Tower stood out because of its size (“That’s my turret,” said Tor, pointing), but he had to work out where his rooms were by finding the square first; everything was so different from the air.

  Tor got Xantilor to take them high up through the few clouds (“It’s more spectacular on an overcast day when you go through them and there’s the sun,”) then at a signal from her the dragon rolled and spun downwards.

  The earth and sky cartwheeled dizzyingly over their heads. The wind in Barlanik’s face caught his breath and made him gasp for air. Only the leg straps and his hold on the handles prevented him plummeting to earth; letting go with one hand he grabbed Tor’s waist out of some instinct to stop her falling. As they levelled out, he released her. Tor glanced back at him with a mischievous grin, and he had to fight an adrenaline-fuelled urge to grab her again and kiss her.

  “I must say,” said Tor, “you’re cooler than Kerris was. He hung on to me for dear life the whole time.”

  “Oh, Kerris has flown with you?”

  “A few times. I dared him. He doesn’t really like heights, you know.”

  “Were you worried by it at first?”

  Tor smiled. “No, I love it. The space, the feeling of freedom up here…I can’t describe it. It’s fantastic.”

  Certainly, she looked relaxed and in control, as if she had been a Dragon Master for years not weeks. Barlanik admired her complete composure; her courage, too.

  Xantilor headed in a straight line for Cramble.

  “This isn’t as fast as he can go, but it’s a comfortable long distance speed.”

  “Will he get even faster?”

  “Yes, he’s not fully fit yet.”

  The countryside was spread out below them, bright in the sun or darker where the clouds shadowed it. The horizon was misty in pastel shades. It seemed colder than on the ground because of their speed and the turbulence caused by Xantilor’s wings, but every so often, as in water, they went through a warmer patch. Sometimes when they flew over a village children ran out to wave at the dragon, and Tor always waved back.

  Cramble, when they got to it, appeared small and sad from the air. Blackened remains of the buildings could still be seen, though weeds were already beginning to take over and in a year it would be green; a few more years and it would be difficult to find. Tor pointed out where Attalor’s cottage had stood, and their favourite part of the forest where they used to go hunting.

  “You see that clearing there where the fallen oak tree is? That’s where we used to practise sword fighting and wrestling. We did it every day whatever the weather, and sometimes at night; my grandfather said you couldn’t always choose the conditions you fought in. I can remember once there was a snowstorm when even he had to admit defeat because we couldn’t see each other.”

  Barlanik visualized Tor as an enthusiastic small girl wielding a sword nearly as big as herself, the old Knight teaching her in a green glade surrounded by tall trees; the seasons changing, the girl growing and becoming more expert. It was an appealing image. Xantilor wheeled round, really quite like a swift, and they headed for home. Staring at Tor’s back, her strong shoulders and slender waist, Barlanik noticed a knife cut in the sleeve of her jacket.

  “Is that Kerris’s jacket you’re wearing?”

  “Yes. I’ve taken it over. I let him borrow it sometimes, though.”

  “I thought it was. I was there when he got that cut in it; he intervened to protect a woman from her fighting-drunk husband, and she went for him with a knife. He’s still got the scar.”

  “Yes, he told me the story – I thought it was hilarious, him thinking she’d be grateful.”

  Barlanik felt rather dashed at this evidence of the easy intimacy she had with Kerris; he could not imagine her trying on one of his jackets and casually claiming it for herself. Kissing her no longer seemed a possibility. Probably a bad idea anyway, a Commander kissing one of his officers. He said nothing else on the way home.

>   Tor was used to his silences by now, and it did not bother her. He would speak when he had something to say. She thought her own thoughts, picturing what Attalor’s reaction would be if he could see her flying on a dragon, and planning next day’s lessons with Xantilor.

  CHAPTER 8

  Six against one

  Raziella pushed the cat off the desk, shoved a pile of papers to one side and plonked a bowl of stew in front of Barlanik.

  “Mind you eat it before it gets cold today.” Raziella was the only person in the Castle who was not even slightly in awe of Barlanik – or anyone else, as far as Tor could see. Raziella took no nonsense from anyone. “Shift yourself, Drew.”

  A flicker of irritation at being called “Drew” passed over Drewitt’s face. Tor noticed Kerris registering it for future use; Drewitt’s lack of humour made teasing him irresistible. Kerris poked around critically in his bowl with his spoon.

  “What’s this supposed to be, Raziella?”

  “Game stew.”

  “Where’s the game, then?”

  “It’s in the forest. None of you lazy lot has been hunting lately. It’s lucky we don’t have to rely on you catching the vegetables, or it’d be hot water you’d be eating.” She moved off, swinging her hips.

  Tor felt a twinge of guilt. She had hunted most days for the kitchen before she got so busy with Xantilor. How long had it been since she last went? She would go the very next morning.

  First light saw her up and dressed. As well as sword and dagger, she buckled on her quiver and slung a bow over her shoulder, wearing armour to save a detour before sword drill. She collected Carrots from the stables, and nodded at the watchman who let her out of the side gate. The forest stretched enticingly before her in the cool early morning mist, and the horse left hoof prints in the dew on the grass. The air was fresh and delicious. It reminded her of hunting trips with her grandfather out of Cramble. How long ago it seemed now, like another life, though it was not yet a year since he had died. She wished he were riding with her now, and imagined him beside her, “Come on Tor, race you to the forest…” She urged Carrots to a gallop.