The Call of the Crown (Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  The mirrors of flame that were the dragon’s eyes swooped down and began to move closer, becoming larger with each passing second. The sound of his laboured breath returned, echoing like bellows against the hard rock of the cave wall. She could hear it much clearer now—a muffled rasp rumbled in his chest, as though each draw of the warm, damp air was a chore. The dragon came to a standstill just beyond the circle of candle light—a silhouette waiting in the shadows, motionless in the darkness.

  Rek edged slowly forward. His scaly, golden skin shone in the candlelight as though wet to the touch. Black slit pupils split his orange eyes in two. Shadow still covered his forehead, but she could see the outline of horns beside small, pointed ears. At the front of his serpent-like jaw, tendrils of fleshy whiskers hung around long, pointed teeth. A pinkish tongue pulsed with every laboured breath inside his half-open mouth.

  Rek tilted his head to the side like a dog quizzing its master. Brea lifted the mortar and gestured for him to come to her. Begrudgingly, and with more than a fleeting glance of unwillingness, Rek moved, slowly edging forward, head still tilted, and eyes fixed on Brea. His enamelled talons clicked on the hard floor as his warm breath pushed at her thin skirt. Another tenuous step brought him close enough to touch.

  Brea took the mortar in both hands and held it ready to pour. “Open up now. I want to see your tongue, Rek.” She made her tone kindly and reassuring. She knew what her dragon thought of medicine. A calm, caring hand is what he needed.

  On seeing the mortar, Rek let out a sighing wheeze from his nose, causing a greenish slime to drip from his left nostril. He quickly lapped it.

  “Ugh… disgusting!” Brea said. Flinching, she creased her face in revulsion. “That’s not going to help you, now is it?”

  Rek backed off a pace, bowing his head as though cowering. His inner eyelids blinked sideways as he pushed out his lower lip.

  “Aw… I’m sorry!” Brea tried not to laugh. Balancing the mortar on her knee, she reached out an open hand, and with a compassionate gaze, she beckoned him forward again. He approached her, slowly. Brea waited with a patient smile. Please hurry, she thought. It’s going to turn tacky and useless soon!

  Rek was close enough. Brea grabbed a thick, leathery lip—curled around a huge, razor-sharp tooth—and tugged it down, hinting that she wanted his mouth open. Rek obliged and cheekily stuck out his forked tongue. Brea poured the contents of the mortar upon it. Rek winced and curled his lip, displaying a full range of fearsome teeth. Brea put down the empty mortar and sprang to her feet. She grabbed his jaws, top and bottom, and forced them together—not that she had a hope of stopping him if he really had a mind to spit it out onto the floor. She pushed hard against his coarse, scaly jaws. “No you don’t… Swallow it all!”

  Rek did so but with as much exaggerated, pathetic effort as he could muster. Like a child playing for sympathy, he circled his jaw around the medicine, doubtless trying to edge it past his taste buds and straight down his throat, all the while eyeing Brea with a pitiful gaze.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “If you’re going to go falling asleep neck deep in the Moon Pool, then you’re bound to catch a cold, my little one. There is nothing so sure.”

  Rek coughed on his medicine and gave a loud sneeze. A small ball of flame came forth from his one unblocked nostril and hit a pile of rags gathered in a heap on the cave floor, immediately setting them ablaze. Brea ran over to the small fire and stamped it out. “Be more careful!” she said while laughing. A dragon sneezing was a comical sight, as long as it was aimed somewhere safe.

  Brea slapped her ash-covered shoe on the damp cave floor. She paused a moment to listen; a bubbling, spitting sound was coming from her table. It was the Lier’sinn. The large silver bowl, full of a murky, oily liquid, was coming to a boil—or so it seemed, as there was no flame beneath it. Steam rose from the slick surface and a sulphurous smell filled the air.

  Brea and the dragon both looked at it. Rek knew what it was for, just as much as she did. Still, knowing what it was for did not mean either of them liked what it did. She had hoped to get away without having to deal with it today. After all, it was supposed to be her day off. Brea’s shoulders stooped as she sighed. Rek curled a lip and dipped his head.

  Gathering herself, Brea huffed and took a deliberate step forward. She waved her hand over the top of the bowl, wafting the steam away, and peered over the rim. The foul brew spat, bubbled, and popped ferociously. With every burst of a bubble, a small wisp of stinking, nauseating vapour rose up. Brea backed away from the stench and grabbed a cloth to cover her nose. She paused a moment to brace herself before looking again.

  The bubbling gradually settled and, after a few seconds, a blurry image began to form on the slick, oily surface: a faint picture of two men walking along a narrow, sloping track. It appeared the two were travelling together. The track levelled and followed a river through wide grassland, tapering off into a misty horizon. The two figures approached a small town. One man was tall—very tall—a giant of a man, massively broad across the shoulders. The other was older, with maybe a cane or staff by his side. The taller man carried a hefty pack strapped across his shoulders. The two walked a hundred paces behind a horse and cart, led by another two men. Again, one looked older than the other did. The picture began to fade. Brea squinted around for signs of any landmarks—nothing. Only the shadows gave a bearing. They were travelling south, but that could mean anything. It may well be a southerly turning of an otherwise westerly road.

  Brea looked across at Rek. His head was by her shoulder, his eyes staring down at the near-faded image in the bowl. “Not long now!” she said in a soft voice as she patted the dragon under his chin.

  Rek moaned as though understanding her words—he couldn’t yet answer Brea in her own tongue. A dragon’s voice didn’t mature until they were at least thirty, and Rek was barely eighteen. He gently rubbed his cheek against Brea’s side and whimpered like a lost puppy.

  Brea threw her arms around his neck and hugged him close. “Never mind, my brave boy. All will be fine,” she said, rubbing his cheek softly. “If he comes, if he will help, all will be well. You’ll see!”

  Brea caught the sound of a distant roar coming from the tunnel opposite. “That sounds like your mother, young man. I think maybe Father has brought you a goat—or perhaps half a goat—yummy!” She rubbed a rag around Rek’s runny nose. “Besides… I must be off myself soon, or I’ll be late for my own supper.”

  Rek turned his slender, twenty-foot body slowly towards the passageway, taking care to stay clear of the table. Brea smiled. Rek had sent her things flying on more than one occasion. Once clear, he set off lumbering down the short shaft to the inner chambers. About halfway down, he sneezed again. Brea saw the tunnel walls light up a reddish-orange. She laughed at the sight of it and then watched as her dragon disappeared in the darkness.

  Brea wrapped her arms around her middle. A deep sense of dread welled up until a real sensation of pain rose in her stomach. She knew difficult times lay ahead for her young dragon. That thought alone tugged hard at her heart, for there was one thing she was certain of—she loved that dragon!

  Brea raised her wounded hand and removed the bandage—it was already healing fast. She threw the bloodied rag into the pile of those that caught fire earlier. Picking up her bag, she blew out the candles and made for the entrance, some hundred paces down the shallow slope of the cave. The sound of the trickling stream and the reflections of distant daylight upon the water guided her out of her cave.

  * * *

  The cave entrance was a good thirty paces above the open pastureland of the central valley. A steep path wound through the ring of trees that circled the inner fields. It wasn’t until she passed through the thick line of spruce and fir that the view cleared enough for Brea to judge the time. It was dusk, and would be getting dark soon. She had spent more time in the cave than she had thought. The paddocks were empty. Goat and yak alike were all in for th
e night, doubtless crowded under the open-sided sheds that ran along the edge of Braylair Village. Ducks waddled along the path from the stream and geese—half-flapping, half-walking—seemed to race each other back to their own shed. It was another quiet evening. Brea often found it hard to believe there were a dozen or so dragons not half a mile from her home.

  Looking east, she couldn’t see the other caves. Not that there were many; most of the caves were beyond the ridge—beyond the reach of the valley. And glad of it she was, too. They were the Tunnels of Aldregair and not a place she would wish to live. She’d heard of men who, over a century ago, tried to map those tunnels, heard they were successful with some. But dragons weren’t the only things that liked the dark, and many men lost their lives discovering things they had “no business poking their noses into.” That’s what Brea’s mother, Affrair, told her two years ago when she asked her how they had died. “There are things we’re not meant to know, Brea,” She should have known better than to press her mother for answers. Now, Brea couldn’t look east without feeling a shudder run down her spine.

  Crossing the wide, cobbled track that was the village’s main thoroughfare, She paused a moment to bid Mrs. Miller a good evening. The older woman was saying something to her, but Brea couldn’t hear a word of it. Her husband was busy loading his cart with sacks of flour, and making a real noisy job of it, too. Brea pointed to her ears, and Mrs. Miller laughed, waving her on.

  The Millers lived in the mill, an irony that always amused Brea. Most other folk lived in the houses built along the main road. Made mainly of stone dragged down from the Karan Ridges, the houses had thatched roofs and wide, open porches. They were simple dwellings but well made. The village was small, with thirty-two homes, a mill, a blacksmith, and an inn. Still, Brea was happy there.

  She walked down a narrow passage between her neighbours’ gardens and climbed the wooden steps to her front veranda. After kicking off her boots, she went in.

  The door entered immediately into a simple kitchen with a fireplace at one end, table in the middle, and a few chairs scattered about. Affrair was standing at her chopping board in front of the kitchen window, her long silver hair tied up in a bun and a white apron covering her ample frontage.

  She turned to Brea with a smile. “Hello, dear.” She was cheerful as usual. “Is everything well with young Rek?” She asked the last in a cautious whisper, all the while surreptitiously looking from side to side.

  Brea laughed at her clandestine enquiry. Everyone in the village knew about the dragons. Nevertheless, her mother always spoke softly when talking about them, as though spies with some evil agenda were lurking in the shadows. “Mother, please, there is nobody here. Yes, Rek will be fine. He just has a cold.”

  “Oh good! That is a relief.”

  Affrair turned back to her chopping board.

  Brea listened to the tap-tap-tap of the knife as she sat down heavily at the table. She began toying with the cutlery in the centre, spinning a spoon around with her finger. The vision of the two men flashed in her mind. It had been bothering her all the way home. What did it mean? Why wasn’t there anything else? Was she missing something? She let out a sigh.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Affrair asked. She turned to Brea, still holding the tail ends of the spring onions she’d been chopping.

  Brea stopped toying with the spoon. “It’s the Lier’sinn, Mother. The image still isn’t clear. I can’t tell where he is or what he’s doing, never mind if he understands what’s going on!” Brea shuffled about in the seat. She knew her mother wouldn’t have a clue about the men in her vision—certainly no more than she already did. There didn’t appear to be any point talking about it. Still, she yearned for a comforting voice, something to settle her mind.

  Affrair dunked her hands in a bucket of water. She stood, towelling them dry while she spoke. “Really now, Brea, there’s nothing to be done. Nothing is certain yet, not by any means. We only have rumours and tales passed down through the ages. I’m sure there’s truth in them, but you can’t let it rule your life.” She smiled as she rubbed Brea’s shoulder. “Don’t you go worrying, my girl, you will only make yourself ill. Let the future unfold in its own time. Worry about what is in front of you, not what is waiting around the corner.”

  Brea leaned into her mother’s side and allowed Affrair's gentle touch to soothe her. Of course, her mother had no answers, but as usual, she saw things for what they were. Listening to Affrair made it all so simple—for a while, at least.

  Brea had learnt a lot in her eighteen years, but she knew she was still young. Nevertheless, try as she might, sometimes she couldn’t help feeling out of her depth. Surely, these were problems for wise men, not for a young girl who had hardly set foot outside the Bren’alor valley. For all her love of Rek, sometimes she wished she were like every other girl in the village and not fated to the lives of dragons.

  Rek was her biggest worry. The thought of him fighting in a battle… No, she couldn’t think of it, not her little dragon. Brea gave a long forlorn sigh, before planting her forehead on the table and clasping her hands behind her neck. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to him, Mother,” she cried. She could feel the tears beginning to well up. “He’s too young for this.” She raised a tearful eye to her mother, who brushed it dry with a corner of the towel.

  “My dear Brea, Rek may be young, but he is a Gan!” She whispered at the last part. “I strongly suspect his father will have something to say to anyone who would do him harm.”

  Affrair wrapped up the towel and threw it back over towards the chopping board. “Now, let us stop with this mournful mood and have us a little cake, maybe some wine. What do you think?” Affrair’s eyebrows rose and she gave a cheeky grin, as though she were suggesting something naughty.

  Brea couldn’t help but smile. Yes, Mother could always make it better, she thought. “That sounds like a wonderful idea. Besides, wherever he is, he’ll get here sooner or later. Tor will make certain of it!”

  Brea sat for a moment, gazing out the window at the wisp of a cloud as it rolled softly by. She thought of the future, wondering about the man in the vision. Could she be certain it was really him? And if indeed it was, did he know anything of the part he must play or understand how important he was to every man, woman, and child of Aleras’moya? She wondered when it came down to it, would he even choose to help, as there would be no forcing him. When it was too late for discussion, when the dragons rang their call to arms, would he indeed come down on their side? On the other hand, would he add himself to the list of their enemies?

  With a sigh of resignation, she sat up straight and gave her mother another smile. “I’ll get the cake.”

  CHAPTER 3

  A Simple Plan

  Gialyn sat huddled on the bed underneath his window. He twisted his long legs around and folded his arms on the sill. Resting his chin on the back of his hands, he blew his long black fringe out of his eyes. It was hard to see through the thick bubble-filled glass, but still, he let his gaze fall on the distant horizon. Slowly, he scanned along the ridge of the Speerlag Cliffs, following their jagged, silver-black edge on up to the slopes of the Bailie’colne and the snowy peaks of Monacdaire. He looked beyond, through the pale shroud of evening, finally fixing his gaze on the Northern Arc and the flickering Lights of Collisdan as they danced in waves across the distant horizon.

  Closing his eyes, he imagined himself exploring the vales and mountains of what had been his home for the past two years. A horse was his greatest aspiration, buying a horse and travelling the length and breadth of Ealdihain. Maybe I could find work delivering those scrolls or taking supplies to Ealyn and the other villages. I do not want to go back to Bailryn! Gods, even fishing would be better than that.

  Stifled shouts from the room next door broke the peaceful scene. He raised an ear when his name spoken loudly—the one clear word amid the muffled barking of his parents’ argument. He waited a moment. Were they shouting for him or was it
just his name spoken at the edge of a sentence? The moment past, his parents continued their… discussion. Gialyn went back to gazing at the mountains and tried not to listen.

  The darkness of the mid-spring evening had all but veiled his view. Yet still he gazed at the faded peaks as he tried to drive out their voices. He searched for the solace that thought of the mountains had often brought him, the place in his mind where he could shut out his frustration. It wasn’t working. Sighing deeply into his chest, he banged his forehead against the backs of his hands. The mountains wouldn’t come to his rescue, not this time.

  Shifting his seat, he wrapped his arms around his head, forcing his ears shut. His parents quarrelling had become louder and louder, more heated by the minute. He let out another woeful sigh and muttered quietly to himself. “Why am I not part of this? Why aren’t they asking me what I want?” Lying down on the bed, he buried his face in the pillow, wondering if a simple no would finally put an end to it, and if it were that easy, why didn’t he just say it? A good question, he thought, though he knew in his heart things were never that straightforward.

  His father was a captain, or had been. For twelve years, the man had served as Master of the Guard at the royal palace in Bailryn, and still—though he was trying to be a farmer—considered his opinions to be nothing short of common law, when it came to talk of duty. He always held the high ground, or at least he thought so. Even if someone were to draw a map, pointing out all of his mistaken assumption, he would still be convinced of his wisdom on the matter. Yet, as argumentative as he was, he rarely took a stand against Mairi—Gialyn’s mother—when it came to matters of family. Indeed, most of the time, it seemed as though his father would rather take the dog for a walk in a blizzard than have a fight with her. Yet there he was, shouting in the kitchen, arguing with his wife. And from what Gialyn could hear, it seemed as though he were winning! Looks like I’ll be going to Bailryn. Gialyn thumped the pillow over his face.