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

by Lexi Revellian

  He walked on through the press of people. There were so many, his task would be more difficult than he had imagined, and Skardroft’s soldiers were everywhere. You could not turn a corner without coming across them, in pairs or larger groups or units marching with their officer. Obviously, he was going to have to ask around to get on the trail of the Knights, but this would be risky; ask the wrong person and he would be in trouble. He hoped to be able to judge trustworthy people by their faces, not being old enough yet to have learnt that appearances can be deceptive.

  He was glad to have left Gwenderith at the inn. Not that he didn’t like her; she was all right now he had got used to her, but even in an ordinary dress she was conspicuous and people, especially men, stared at her. She could actually stop people’s conversations as she passed by, and when they crossed the street men would unnecessarily rein in their horses and wave her across to get a good look at her. If she smiled at them politely the effect was even worse. In particular, she drew the attention of every soldier she passed. Walk behind her, and you could watch their heads swivelling in unison, as if they were drilling. Pom thought it all very tiresome, and exactly what he didn’t need on his quest.

  He went to look at the ancient headquarters of the Hundred Knights out of curiosity, knowing no Knight would be there. It was a large and beautiful building off the square in the middle of the town, the central Great Gate with a black and gold heraldic device leading through to a huge grassed court. There was accommodation for all the Knights and their squires on two sides of the court, stables and offices and an enormous hall, while behind it was a building he recognized as a dragon tower. He would have liked to go in and have a look around, but its current function was a barracks for Skardroft’s soldiers, so he did not linger. He hoped that by the time he was a Knight it would be back to its proper use.

  By late afternoon, Pom was tired and beginning to realize the magnitude of his task. He had walked round most of Atherly Berrow’s streets, and got a feel of the layout of the city, but was no nearer finding the Knights than he had been at the Castle. Footsore and thirsty, he went into a large prosperous-looking tavern and made his way through the customers to the bar. He could not see any of Skardroft’s soldiers in there. He found an empty stool at the counter and sat down, pleased to give his feet a rest. The two men on either side were talking to companions, their backs to him.

  The large man behind the bar was serving someone and saying to him jovially, “When pigs have wings. If that happens, you come and tell me and it’ll be free drinks all evening.”

  He turned to Pom, his face still creased with laughter. He looked solid and cheerful; the big white apron he wore was clean. “And what can I get you, young man?”

  “Half a pint of small beer, please.”

  The man drew the beer and took Pom’s money. He put it in the till and wiped the counter with a cloth while Pom drank half the beer. It was cool and delicious. The price had surprised Pom, but there were bowls of gherkins and nuts, so he started eating to make up the value. He had not realized he was hungry. The man said in a pleasant easy-going way, “Are you new in Atherly? I haven’t seen you in here before.”

  “Yes, this is my first visit.”

  “What brings you here?”

  Pom remembered to be cautious, though the man seemed all right to him. “I came with a log carter. I just wanted to see a big city. I’ve always lived in the forest.”

  “Well, there’s plenty to see here, you won’t be disappointed. Where have you been today?”

  Pom thought this was his opportunity to enquire discreetly about the Knights. After all, he was going to have to ask someone or he would never get anywhere. He tried to sound casual. “I had a look at the Hundred Knights’ headquarters. Do you know where they’ve gone now they’re not there any more?”

  The man looked at him sharply. His little eyes in folds of flesh no longer seemed so affable. “Ah, now that’s a question.” He turned his head. To Pom’s alarm he raised his voice and called to a man sitting further down the bar. “Northwood, there’s a boy here wants to know what happened to the last of the Hundred Knights.”

  The man called Northwood instantly turned, stood up and came towards Pom. He was tall, heavy browed and dark, and he wore a crimson and black uniform with the gold insignia of a Commander in Skardroft’s army.

  One appalled look at him, and Pom was on his feet running out of the place, swerving between the tables, jumping over men’s legs, knocking the elbow of a serving girl as he shoved past her, not looking back when her tray crashed to the floor and she yelled at him. He got outside and kept running, his tiredness forgotten, doubling down narrow alleyways until he reached the crowded market, where he forced himself to amble at a leisurely pace so he would not stand out from the throng. When he had got his breath back and no soldiers had appeared hunting for him, he set off by a circuitous route back to the Unicorn and Maiden.

  That made twice today he’d been forced to run, and he had intended to be unobtrusive. He had not expected anyone to pay him any attention. But he was quite certain he had been right not to stay in the tavern and attempt to play the innocent while being questioned by Northwood. His immediate interest in Pom’s enquiry about the Knights had been frightening. For the first time, Pom wondered if he was up to the task he had set out on so confidently. He did not seem to be doing very well so far. But he had no intention of giving up; he was going to find the Knights and become a squire. He would just have to be a bit more careful, that was all.

  Pom plodded on, planning what he would do the next day, then came to a stop in front of a shop, above which hung a wooden dragon, weathered through years of sun and rain. It had once been gilded, but now as much bare wood showed as gold, and there were cracks where the joints had opened. It had been skilfully carved, with coiled neck and graduated scales, and Pom was struck by how like Xantilor it looked. He really liked it. Above the shop windows just decipherable lettering in worn gold letters read, “PARRELOR & Son: DRAGON LORINERS & Allied Goods”.

  Below this, in newer paint, it said, “Horse Harness and Saddlery”. A third notice on the door said “Antiquities”. Beside it was a wide archway, leading through an alleyway to a courtyard at the rear of the shop. Pom gazed through the windows into the dark interior. His eye was immediately caught by a small model of a dragon, quite like the one hanging above the shop. It would be a perfect gift for Tor; he wondered how much it cost. He opened the door and went into the shop. The bell rang, and a man with a bushy beard and eyebrows came through from the workshop at the back, closing a door behind him. Pom asked the price of the small dragon.

  “Fifteen crowns, that one.”

  Pom picked it up. It was delicately carved, and the dragon was smiling slightly like Xantilor in cheerful mood. Its gold leaf was nearly perfect.

  “It’s ninety years or so old,” said the man, whose manner was friendly, “though it doesn’t look it. They used to make a lot of those in the old days when dragons were around. The apprentice dragon loriners would carve them to make a bit of extra money. You don’t often see them now.”

  “Do you still make dragon saddles?” Tor had told Pom about getting one specially made for Xantilor, and how the saddler had not wanted to make it at first.

  “Not any more; we could do, I’ve still got all my father’s patterns and moulds, but there aren’t any dragons to make them for. It’s been decades since we made one here. Saddles for horses, we make those. There’ll always be a call for them.”

  Pom would have liked to tell him about Xantilor but that would not have been wise. “It’s a nice dragon, but I’m afraid I can’t afford it.” Pom put the dragon back reluctantly. “Can I have a look round?”

  “Sure, call if you want me,” said the shopkeeper with a smile, going towards the room at the back. He could tell he did not have to watch Pom. There were many interesting things in the shop; a dilapidated rocking horse bared its teeth and stared at Pom with its round glass eye; there was a bra
ss-bound chest like a pirate’s; a pile of old swords and cutlasses, all rusty and bent; a carved female figurehead from a ship, stained-glass coats of arms, a bowl of semi-precious stone eggs of different sizes, a sand timer, a ram’s skull, a sundial, a heap of iron trivets, a dragon weathervane and rows of old books and rolled maps. Lots of things Pom would have liked to buy, but nothing that he needed or had the money for.

  The bell went again, and a tall, upright man of about sixty with shoulder-length silver hair came in. Pom was reminded of someone he knew, but could not quite work out who he resembled. The door at the back of the shop opened, and a lanky apprentice leaned in the open doorway, looking enquiringly at the newcomer.

  “Is Parrelor there?”

  “I’ll get him,” said the apprentice.

  At that moment another door behind him opened briefly before being slammed shut again. For a split second Pom had a glimpse of something familiar and surprising in the room behind.

  It was a dragon saddle.

  “But I don’t see why it’s important,” said Gwenderith. Pom had rushed back to tell her for want of anyone else to tell. “You aren’t looking for dragons, you’re looking for the lost Knights.”

  “Of course it’s important.” Pom was exasperated. “You can use dragons in battle, and if Skardroft’s got hold of a dragon it’s really bad news for us, especially with Xantilor out of action.”

  “Maybe it was an old one. You said they’d got antiques in the shop.”

  “It wasn’t old, it was brand new, I saw it. It was quite a lot bigger than Tor’s one, and a bit different, but it was definitely a dragon saddle, and it was new. And Parrelor told me they hadn’t made one for years! Why was he lying? I’ve got to find out.”

  “Pom, you don’t think maybe this might distract you from your search for the Knights? After all, every day here costs money and we haven’t got much, and you said Barlanik needs help quickly. If Skardroft has got a dragon, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “Oh isn’t there? I bet I could think of something. I’m going back to that shop after dark, to see if I can find out more.”

  Gwenderith saw that his mind was made up. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No, it’s all right; I’ll go alone.” Pom certainly didn’t want Gwenderith there, attracting attention, getting in the way and fussing over him.

  “Do be careful, Pom.”

  Pom waited until it was as dark as it was going to get, then slipped unobtrusively out of the inn and walked towards the Dragon Loriner’s. The only light in the street was the glow of lamplight spilling from windows of the houses, or the flaming torch of a linkboy guiding someone home through the night. There was laughter and raucous singing as he passed a tavern, but nobody much was about.

  He reached the shop; its shutters were up, and when he peered inside through a gap he could see nothing but darkness. He crept stealthily through the archway, keeping in the shadows, down the short alleyway and into the courtyard behind. There were more shutters on the windows of what must be the workshop, but this time light showed through the cracks. He couldn’t see through as the cracks were too narrow, so he climbed on to the window ledge and craned his neck to look over the top of the shutter.

  There, on a stand, was the dragon saddle he had seen earlier. Nearly all of it was in his view, and he could see from this side that it wasn’t finished; the padding was visible in places where the leather had not yet been stitched on, and metal parts were lying beside it waiting to be attached. It was much bigger than he had thought; partly because it seated four, and had footrests and handles to accommodate more riders, but also it was clearly made for a larger dragon than Xantilor. Around it was the usual ordered muddle of any workshop; tools in regular use lying about ready to hand, bits of wood, metal and leather waiting to be used or put away. The wall that he could see had rows of tools neatly hanging from nails in the wall, and bottles, jars and brushes of all sizes shoulder to shoulder on shelves.

  Parrelor came into sight holding a hammer and what Pom guessed were rivets. He was talking to someone that Pom couldn’t see, showing him things on the saddle, running his thumb along the seams of the leather. It was tantalising that Pom could not quite make out what he was saying; the odd words he caught he could not make sense of. He stayed there for ten minutes, with nothing much happening. His initial excitement dissipated, and he began to get chilly and notice the ache in his legs and neck from his awkward position.

  Then another man came up to the saddle, and Pom saw it was the silver-haired customer he had seen before. Pom realized who he reminded him of; it was Barlanik. Not that they looked alike; this man had a strongly curved nose and fierce eyebrows, and was a lot older; it was something about their bearing and the way they moved.

  Pom began to feel futile. He was not learning anything, nor was he likely to. He shifted his position, and part of the sill beneath his feet broke off and fell to the ground. Both men looked up, and Parrelor moved towards the window. For the third time that day it was time to go; Pom jumped cat-like to the ground and ran down the alleyway, out into the street, and straight into the silver haired man, who must have reacted with uncanny speed and raced through the shop to intercept him.

  The man took a firm hold of his arm. “I think you’d better come inside and explain what you were doing.” He brought him through the dark shop into the workshop, and when Parrelor started to protest said, “It’s too late, he’s seen it.” To Pom he said, “Well?”

  Pom did not feel as afraid as he felt he ought. Both men, though grave, did not seem angry with him, more perplexed. He started with some of the truth, to see how it went. “He told me today he hadn’t made a dragon saddle for years, and then I accidentally saw this one through the door, and I wanted to know why he was lying.”

  “Who are you? Who sent you? Where do you come from?” Pom stayed silent. The man sighed. “What are we going to do with you?”

  “Why don’t you tell me who you are first?” said Pom.

  The man raised his eyebrows. “Because you didn’t catch me snooping about, I caught you.”

  Parrelor turned to hide a smile. There was a bizarre moment when they all felt like laughing and were trying not to show it, and suddenly Pom knew they were all right. He couldn’t believe they were working for Skardroft, they were too good-humoured.

  “I’m Pom, Pomfret Willoughby. I’m in Atherly Berrow to find the last of the Hundred Knights. Barlanik and the loyalist army need help.”

  The men exchanged glances. “They sent you? You’re rather young.”

  “They didn’t send me. I came on my own. It is a quest.”

  “Where do you come from?”

  “I live outside Kallarven Castle, in the forest, but I go to the Castle every day working for Tor. She’s a Knight. She’s a Dragon Master too. I’ve met Barlanik.”

  The silver-haired man made up his mind. He held out his hand. He seemed old to Pom, but his face and movements were full of vitality, and his eyes were warm. “My name is Quintern, and I too am a Knight. Had they sent you, they would have shown good judgment. You have fulfilled your quest. Tell me what has happened.” He perched on the edge of the workbench, and gestured for Pom to take a stool. “We live a long way away from here, and news seldom reaches us; the last we heard, Barlanik’s campaign was doing so well that we were afraid that by the time we were ready we would no longer be needed.”

  Pom told him a brief summary of events; about Xantilor’s broken wing, and Urquin being ill, and Edric’s army not turning up, and Tor sending him away because she thought they were done for.

  Quintern got up. “You can come back with me tomorrow, all being well, and talk to the rest of the Knights. Walk with me now to my inn, so you will know the way, and you can tell me more as we go.”

  They said goodnight to Parrelor, and went cautiously into the street, Quintern pulling the hood of his cloak over his distinctive hair.

  “You said that Tor, who is a Dragon Master
, is also a Knight? And she’s a girl?”

  “Yes. I’m going to be her squire, she said I could. Her grandfather’s name was Attalor, he made her a Knight. Skardroft’s her other grandfather.”

  Quintern looked at him, intrigued. “Now that’s an interesting mix. I knew them both when we were all young. There was a dark side to Skardroft, even then, though you didn’t often see it. Attalor was a few years older than me. In those days he had a reputation for reckless daring; people used to talk about his exploits. He was regarded as fearless, which is quite something among the Knights, who are not known for being fearful. It’s a long time ago now. So he trained his granddaughter?” Quintern laughed. “I can believe that, he didn’t care much about convention. She’s good, is she?”

  “Oh yes,” said Pom. “Wait till you meet her.”

  They came to a better-lit street, and Quintern unobtrusively looked about before they crossed it. Pom said, “Isn’t it dangerous you coming here, with all the troops around?”

  “Yes. Usually I’m in and out fast so they can’t get a fix on me – I’ve had some near misses – but this time I’ve been hanging around here three days, waiting for Parrelor to finish the saddle. Never trust a craftsman when he says something will be ready on a certain date. Mind you, they’ve had problems with this one; it seems everything that could have gone wrong has. They started making it with the wrong size patterns, then the saddletree split, then the first lot of castings came out porous. Parrelor couldn’t get word to me to leave it a week. I’d have gone away and come back, but he wasn’t sure how long he’d be, and passing the border guards twice more seemed like a bad idea. I’ve been lying low, and staying in different places, but I’ll be glad to get out of here tomorrow. My luck can’t last for ever.”

  “Have you got a dragon?”

  Quintern seemed amused. “Well, a saddle’s not much use without one. But that’s all I’m saying; the less you know the better. And don’t you tell anyone anything he doesn’t need to know. That’ll be easy for you on your own.”