It was Sunday morning, the one day of the week that staff and students were free to follow their own pursuits following the pre-dawn service in the college chapel. Lleland had left the city and headed into the countryside, where the wide open fields provided an ideal place to hone his skill with the bow. The field and the forest which bordered it were all crown land, but commoners were tolerated, as long as they refrained from poaching, and other archers used the land to practise their skills as well. But on this silent dawn Lleland was alone, the distant church bells tolling the hour the only sound.
The first time Lleland had picked up a bow and arrow was just a year after his father’s death. It had been nothing more than a child’s toy, but with childish determination he had taught himself how to use the simple weapon. Each day, following his chores, he took his little bow and the sharpened sticks that served as arrows, and made his way to the green in front of the church where he tormented the cheeky squirrels and noisy blackbirds, using them as targets. Other neighborhood children had joined him at first, but they soon wearied of the game and wandered away, leaving Lleland alone. He didn’t mind – serious and determined, he wasn’t interested in the games of other children, and he grew used to his own company. Even Mother was too busy and weary to give him more than cursory attention. Only little Edith, barely more than a toddler, stayed with him, happy to play in the mud while he followed his own pursuits.
For the most part, the adults who hurried past the green gave Lleland little attention, but there was one man who would pause in his passage and watch young Lleland for a moment before continuing on his way. The man was not known to him, and Lleland paid no attention to this silent witness of his progress. Almost a year had passed when the man first approached him.
“Hey lad.” The man towered over Lleland, with broad shoulders and arms as thick as beams. “That’s a mighty small bow you have there. What do you plan to do with it?”
Lleland turned and stared defiantly at the man. “I’m going to be an archer!”
“Planning on going to war, are you?” the man said with a chuckle.
“No! I’m going to kill some dragons.”
The man was standing before the sun, and Lleland did not see the change in his expression, but he noticed the man’s form suddenly stiffen. “Dragons, eh? Not easy creatures to kill. Many have tried, but few have succeeded.”
“Aaron Drake killed a dragon.”
The man nodded. “So he did.” He took a step closer. “You’re going to need something bigger than that little bow if you want to follow in his footsteps. You need a longbow.”
“A longbow?”
“Aye. But you’ll need to build some strength in that puny chest of yours. I can help you, if you want.”
“You’ll teach me to use a longbow?” Longbows were huge weapons, as tall as a man, made with the strongest wood in the forest. It took a massive amount of strength to draw one – strength that took years to build.
“I will lad, as long as you’re prepared to do all I tell you, and not question my methods. Think you can do that?”
“Yes,” Lleland breathed.
“You’ll also have to work at it every day. I can show you what to do, but you must practice whenever you find a few spare moments.”
Lleland was astounded. “But I can’t use a longbow at home!”
The man laughed. “You’re not going to. Using the bow will only come after many years. In the meantime you need to build those muscles.”
“How?”
“With this.” The man held his staff towards Lleland. “This is a quarterstaff. You’re going to learn to fight with your own.”
“With a stick?” Lleland said scornfully.
“In the right hands this stick can become a dangerous weapon, lad. It’ll also build your strength so you can use a longbow. Are you prepared to learn with this, or am I wasting my time with you?”
Lleland stared at the man, then back at the staff in his hand. It was an inch and a half thick, straight as an arrow and taller than Lleland. “That will help me kill dragons?”
“If you work hard and train diligently.”
Lleland thought about that for a moment. “All right.”
The man ruffled the top of Lleland’s head. “Good lad,” he said. “My name’s Grimald. You can call me Grim.”
Grim lived outside of the city, in a small stone cottage in the center of the woods. As King’s Verderer, he looked after the forest, cutting back deadwood, counting the herds of deer that ranged through the forest, and tracking down poachers. The next day, Grim sought and gained the permission of Lleland’s mother to take him beyond the city gates for a few hours. When they reached the forest, he instructed the lad to help him find branches that would be suitable as a quarterstaff.
“About one inch thick, five feet long and as straight as a line,” he said.
It had taken most of the morning, but eventually they had found three that satisfied Grim. “We’ll strap them together to straighten them,” Grim explained, “and they must dry out. In the meantime you can help me build a fence.” Lleland had started to protest, but one look from Grim made him hold his tongue.
And so it was that each day, Lleland left the city and hurried to the cottage in the forest. For six weeks he dug, sawed and hammered the posts of a new fence, until one day Grim deemed that the rods they had collected were dry enough to be unbound. Lleland watched as Grim carefully removed the straps and inspected each staff, discarding one as too bent and a second as too brittle. The third, however, met with approval, and he handed it to Lleland, who received it as though it was the most precious item in the world. Bidding Lleland rise, he showed the boy how to balance the weight of the staff on his open hand, and the next stage of training began.
Day after day, Lleland had to balance the staff on his open palm as he twisted from his waist and slowly turned this way and that. The twist became a full rotation which increased in speed as he learned to maintain the balance of the staff. When Lleland was able to bend and circle without dropping his rod, Grim showed him how to place one hand at the quarter mark, the other at the half mark, and using the strength of his arms and momentum of the staff, turn it into a dangerous weapon. For hour upon hour he spun, hit and parried against his mortal enemy, the tree stump. More than a year passed before Grim deemed him ready to progress to a longbow. Lleland had chafed against the delay, but when Grim handed him his first longbow, made to his size, he was able to draw back the string without his muscles trembling at the effort.
When Lleland was twelve, Grim left to go to war. It was eighteen months before he returned, dirty and unkempt.
“I was taken by King Terran,” Grim explained when Lleland asked why he had been gone so long. The war had ended almost a year before, with the death of King Alfred.
“You were captured?”
“I was.”
“Were you locked in a dungeon?”
Grim looked amused. “No. I was set to rebuilding one of the town walls destroyed by our army. I’d still be there now, but found a way to escape. That was just the start of my problems, however, since I had to avoid the patrols that roamed the countryside. I would’ve been back months ago if I could’ve taken the road. Instead, I skirted through forests and across the mountains, until I finally reached home.”
“What was it like, fighting a war?” Lleland wanted to know. “I heard Terran’s men are cruel and vicious.”
But Grim had shaken his head. “They’re men, like you and me,” he said. Lleland frowned as he considered that. “There were plenty of skirmishes,” Grim continued, “but the two armies only faced each other a few times before the king and his brother were both dead.”
“Was the king killed in battle?”
“Assassinated. They say it was done by Terran, but there are others who whisper that the king was killed by his own brother.”
“Prince Rupert? Why?”
“No idea, lad. And I don’t suppose we’ll ever learn the truth of
the matter, so there’s no point wondering.” He picked up his staff. “Now show me you haven’t forgotten how to use this.”
At the age of thirteen, Lleland could hit a target at sixty yards, pulling the bow taut against his cheek. At fifteen, his range had increased to a hundred and thirty yards, and by the time he was eighteen, he could hit his target at two hundred and fifty yards, matching Grim’s range.
“Why do you want to kill dragons?” Grim had asked Lleland one day. They were sitting outside the cottage, stripping branches to make new arrows. Grim lifted one to his eye and squinted down the shaft as he waited for Lleland’s reply.
Lleland bit his lip to stop his sudden trembling, his gaze on the ground. “You know my father was killed by a dragon,” he said.
“Aye.” Grim was silent a moment. “My niece was killed by the monster, too.”
“Your niece? I didn’t know that!”
“She was only eleven years of age. She was my sister’s, and I loved her like my own.”
Lleland stared at him. “How can you be so calm? Don’t you want to kill the monsters?”
Grim glanced up at him, then returned his attention to the arrow he was examining. “Aye, I do. But what good will wishing do?”
Lleland threw down his own arrow and started pacing. “You might not care, but I want to kill every single dragon that dares to walk our land. That … that monster,” he spat, “killed my father, and then made me watch as it ripped him apart. Even when I looked away, I could hear everything!” Turning to the bench, he kicked it violently, sending it flying. “It should have been me that killed that beast.”
Grim nodded. “You’ll have your chance. But not like this.”
“Not like this? What does that mean?” Lleland’s voice rose. “I’m training every day! Honing my strength! I listen to your instructions and do as you say, and now you tell me ‘not like this!’”
Grim placed the arrow he was sharpening on the ground and looked up at Lleland. “Get your staff.”
“What?”
“Get your staff.” Grim rose to his feet and stalked towards Lleland. “Show me how ready you are to kill the dragon.”
Lleland’s staff was leaning against the wall of the cottage, and he seized it in his hand as Grim tightened his grip on his own.
“Why do you hate dragons?” Grim said. He brought up his staff. “You say you’re going to kill them, but you’re like a child, kicking the bench in a fit of anger. What good will that do when you’re faced with a dragon?”
“I’m not a child!” Lleland lifted his staff. “I’ll kill every dragon I see.”
“Show me. Show me how you’ll kill the monsters.”
“Like this,” Lleland yelled. He pulled back his arm and swung at Grim.
Grim stepped back easily. “Why do you want to kill dragons?”
“Because a dragon killed my father,” Lleland shouted, swinging the staff above his head and dropping down low, aiming for Grim’s legs. Grim spun out of the way.
“Killed your father, like they did my Liza. The monster ripped them apart, didn’t it?”
“Yes!” Lleland leaped forward, twisting the staff through the air and bringing it down towards Grim’s back. Grim dropped to his haunches and met the blow.
“The monster ripped them apart then ate them limb by limb, didn’t it?” Grim panted slightly, but his voice was calm.
“Yes!” Lleland screamed. “I hate dragons and will kill them all!” He struck again, and Grim’s staff slid beneath his raised arm, striking him on the ribs. He fell back, then lunged once more. His staff connected forcefully with Grim’s, slipped from his grasp and went sailing through the air. He ran towards it, but was caught short when Grim blocked his path.
“What are you doing?” Lleland spat.
“You’re filled with anger, lad, and anger can be a good friend or a bad enemy. At the moment, it’s your enemy, controlling you. At the moment your anger makes you as effective against a dragon as a maid would be. You must learn to control it so it can become your friend.” He pointed at Lleland’s staff lying on the ground. “You lost your staff, and I landed a blow on your ribs that you easily should have parried. But you were blinded by your rage.”
Lleland ran his fingers over his chest, feeling his ribs. “That was painful,” he said.
Grim grinned. “Of course it was.” He placed his staff against the wall and sat down, picking up the arrow he had been working on. “It isn’t physical prowess that’ll enable you to kill a dragon, lad. Many have tried and failed. It’s what’s up here that matters.” Grim tapped his forehead with one end of the half-finished arrow. “Dragons are wily and shrewd – as clever as any hunter. You must be focused and smart so you can outwit them. Only then do you stand a chance of success. Use your anger as a tool. As you train, raise the staff in your hand and think about what you wish to fight. Imagine your enemy. Tell yourself how much you hate it. Think about it ripping your father apart. Don’t push the memories away. Embrace them until they no longer have the power to hurt you.” Grim ran a finger down the shaft of the arrow, then laid it on the bench. “Let your anger motivate you,” he continued, “but don’t let it control you. And then imagine yourself killing the dragon, calmly and intentionally. Consider how you’ll evaluate your enemy and discover its weaknesses. Think about the people who’ll be saved when the monster is dead. Think about the love you had for your father. And face the dragon.”
Lleland fell onto the bench and dropped his head in his hands. “I don’t think I can.”
“You can,” Grim said. “You must. Or find a new goal. Because you’ll never succeed if you cannot control what you feel.”
Lleland remembered the lesson now as he notched another arrow. He closed his eyes for a moment and allowed the pain which was never far away to wash over him. The memory of his father pleading for his life made his eyes sting, and his stomach clenched at the horror of his death. He breathed in deeply, then slowly exhaled, gathering the pain into a cold shaft of anger. He opened his eyes and released the arrow. He glanced at the post. A perfect shot.
The memories of Grim continued to race through Lleland’s mind as he sent his arrows to their target. It was because of Grim that he’d become so skilled with the bow, but he probably wouldn’t even have picked up the weapon if Father had not been killed by a dragon. Instead, he would have followed in his footsteps and at the age of thirteen, apprenticed as a mason. Father had been a Master Mason, and his skills had been well sought after. He would have ensured that Lleland received the best possible training. Lleland had watched as the neighborhood boys started their life in trade, sullenly trailing after their fathers each morning. Would he have been that reluctant to learn, he wondered? Occasionally a father and son would walk by in animated conversation, and Lleland would feel envy well up as the father ruffled his boy’s hair, or laid a hand on his shoulder. A knot would form in his stomach as he was reminded, yet again, that he would never again experience the affection of his father, and his hand would tighten around the staff that he always kept near until it ached.
The sun was rising behind the blanket of cloud, but it did little to dispel the mist and gloom. Lleland shot the last arrow in his quiver, watching with satisfaction as it hit the mark, before collecting and carefully stowing them so as not to damage the fletchings. As he walked across the open field in the direction of the city gate, he glanced over his shoulder, imagining Grim standing beneath the trees. He had last seen him five years before. Grim had been shot by a poacher, and the wound had turned septic, poisoning the blood. He had died slowly and painfully, and Lleland had sat at his bedside for much of the time. In the last day he had drifted in and out of consciousness, but before he fell asleep for the last time, he had beckoned Lleland to come closer.
“Keep a hold of your anger,” he rasped. He fell back against the pillows for a moment, but when Lleland started to speak, he held up his hand feebly. “It must serve both of us, now. Allow it to lead you to the monsters,
and then kill them all. I’m counting on you.”
Chapter 3
Lleland strode across the cobbled street and turned into the mirey lane that ran alongside the river and past the docks. His destination was the home of his mother, Anabel Seaton. Lleland and his sister Edith had both been born in the narrow townhouse on Tottley Alley, and when Father died, Anabel had refused to leave, insisting she could find a way to earn the rent money, until finally the landlord relented and allowed her to stay.
Widowed in her late twenties, she was still a pretty woman when Father died, and more than one man had sought her hand. But despite being in the tenuous position of having to earn her own keep and support two young children, she had refused all offers. Instead, she took in mending and sewing jobs, often working long hours by the dim light of a single candle to earn a few pennies. It had been just enough to keep the landlord satisfied and hunger at bay, but the hard work had taken its toll on Anabel. Nowadays it was Lleland who paid the rent from the meager income he earned at the university, and his hunting skills put food on her table.
As Lleland rounded the corner into Tottley Alley, he saw Anabel hurrying from the opposite direction in her best Sunday gown, her hand on her head to keep her veil secure. Her hand flew to her mouth when she caught sight of him, and he smiled wryly when she hastened her step.
“Oh, dear!” she said. “You’re here already. Martha Turham would not stop talking, even when I told her I had to make haste.” She glanced down the road. “And Edith will be here soon, too, with a brood of hungry children.”
“Stop fretting, Mother,” Lleland said gently.
“I’m not fretting!” She glanced up at him. “But the dinner is probably ruined! I told Eve to tend to it while I was gone, but she can be so careless!”
“The dinner will be fine,” Lleland said, linking his arm into hers and leading her towards the door. Eve, the serving maid who helped Anabel with the household chores, was quite capable of handling the meal. In her mid-twenties, she had ably served Anabel for the past ten years.
dragon archives 05 - forever a dragon Page 2