Zaria Fierce and the Dragon Keeper's Golden Shoes

by Keira Gillett

  Zaria saw how grim his expression was – grim, but not bleak. There was still hope, Zaria saw, and small though it was, that bit of hope changed everything. She squared her shoulders and firmed her resolve. She would face down Koll, and she would use the Drakeland Sword to recapture him and the others. She could do it. They would save the Under Realm from collapse, and by extension the world, from a terrible fate.

  “We must hurry,” Hector said. “Hart, you must be ready. You will be Stag Lord soon.”

  Hart made a soft noise, nudging his father. Hector rested his other hand between his antlers, reassuring them both about what was to come.

  “We can’t turn back,” Hector said, answering a question Zaria and the others couldn’t hear. “It’s now or never.”

  Hart stamped a hoof and snorted, arguing with him.

  “You’ll do well, son,” he replied, breaking their line and starting down the hill.

  Zaria followed, the sword bumping gently against her leg as she walked. “Where next, Hector?”

  “We follow the river to Koll’s prison,” he said, pointing ahead where fog and smoke obscured their view. “Since you said the damage was the severest there – with all the trees blackened by rot – that is where we must shore up our defenses.”

  “Excellent,” Christoffer said, shaking off the gloom of leaving Geirr behind. “I’ve always wanted to tell a dragon how to barbeque me.”

  “Think of the stories you get to tell when you’re older,” said Aleks, clapping him on the back. “We’re going to be knights after all. This is your lucky day, Filip.”

  “It’s going to be so cool. Just call me Sir Filip the Brave.”

  “Or, Sir Filip the Blunderer,” joked Aleks, earning a mock glare.

  “Why do you all hate on my knightliness?” Filip groused. “What do you think, Zar-Zar? Wouldn’t I make a great knight?”

  Zaria looked him over from head-to-foot. “You’re not wearing any armor,” she deadpanned, earning laughter from the other boys. Her lips twitched.

  “Come on, Zar-Zar. You’re supposed to be my friend.”

  “All right, all right,” she capitulated, waving him off. “You’ll make a great knight. The very best. Ballads will be written about you. Poets will sing your praises.”

  Christoffer elbowed Aleks and said, “Praises like how much he stinks and how girly his screams are.”

  “It’s not my screams you should be worried about, mate,” Filip muttered. “Just wait until the poets hear yours.”

  The straggly group wandered through the wasteland, the Gjöll always to their left. In the distance smoke rose in a thick sinuous column, dark and ominous, before billowing into the sky like a storm cloud. Magic and lightning rippled through it. This pillar of smoke and magic seemed to be Hector’s destination.

  They followed him and the path of the river, picking their way over an odd collection of debris from branches to scales. Dragons, it seemed, weren’t as impervious as they appeared. Aleks bent down and picked up one of the dragon scales, turning it over. The underside was smooth and glassy, like the soft pink insides of a seashell. Although the dragon scale was not pink, but black and red. Koll’s markings.

  “Could we use the scales to make a shield?” Aleks asked. “Would the scales protect us from dragon fire?”

  Hector took it from Aleks and casually snapped it in two. He handed the broken scale back. “Dragon scales are only useful to dragons. Once they’re separated from the dragon they’re not only harmless, but useless, easily broken and prone to crumbling into dust.”

  “That sucks,” said Christoffer, looking up as the sky streaked red and then blue. “I would have loved a dragon shield. I bet it could have been useful. I miss my daggers right about now.”

  “I miss my sword,” said Filip.

  Aleks looked down at his bow. “Well, my bow is useless without arrows.”

  “We’re here,” Hector said, stopping the group by a thicket of blackened tree roots. “Koll would have been locked up over there.”

  He pointed to a blackened circle in the ground. Hart nudged a few loose pebbles. They clinked as they rolled, revealing that they were in fact gems and not stones at all. The gems were the remains of the magical chains the Malmdor dwarves had forged a long time ago to bind the dragon.

  “Just on the other side of this is the center of the Under Realm, the haven of the Golden Kings. We’ll know more about what we’re up against when we go inside.”

  Hector pushed through some closely hanging roots and disappeared from sight. Zaria joined him and bit back a cry of alarm. If what they’d seen when they first entered the Under Realm was bad, this was worse. Way worse.

  The trees looked nothing like they had when she had last encountered Koll in the Under Realm. The rot had hit the Golden Kings so that they were the rottenest, sourest, sickest things Zaria had ever seen in her life.

  Hector stepped back and turned in a slow circle, surveying the trees. His eyes were filled with sadness. Every tree was rotten; many to the core. Most weren’t even golden anymore, covered as they were in the black rot. Only one tree stood tall, standing bravely in the midst of the putrescence – Hakon, the last Golden King. He was spotted with rot, the dark, ugly, presence staining his roots, tarnishing his golden glow.

  “I’m here, Hakon,” Hector said, running a hand along his father’s roots. “Your long absent son is here. I’ve come to do my duty at last.”

  Hart bugled a greeting as well, causing the tree’s trunk to shift slightly toward them. It shivered and sighed under Hector’s light touch, raining dried leaves down upon them.

  “I’m coming, father,” Hector repeated, “but first, I must say my goodbyes.”

  “What are we going to do without you?” Zaria cried softly as he turned to face her. “What am I going to do?”

  Hector took hold of Zaria’s shoulders, and looked her in the eye. “Princess, do not give up. Koll is not invincible.”

  “He’s too strong. Even with all of your protections and sacrifices, Koll couldn’t be contained forever. He couldn’t be killed. What can I possibly do against immeasurable power like that?”

  “There is power in good. Why do you think evil fears it so?” he asked her. He motioned to her friends, who listened nearby. “You and your friends are exactly what Koll fears and hates the most.

  “Good can’t stand by and do nothing and still be good. None of you stand by. None of you turn away. You are all here because you want to help. You are all good. So good. Against you, what hope has evil to win?”

  Zaria buried her face in Hector’s shoulder and hugged him tight. “I’ve messed up so many times. I’m afraid I’ll screw up again, and you won’t be around to fix it.”

  Hector pulled away, and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Evil would like nothing more than to be left alone, to be hidden from the world, to be able to spin its webs of lies, and to convince everyone that it is the most powerful force around.

  “Evil doesn’t attack the weak; the weak are its pawns. Evil goes after the strong. If it can stop one good person from doing good, it has won a war. That’s a war the world cannot afford to lose.”

  “I’m just one person,” Zaria said. She gestured at her friends. “We’re such a small group, we don’t even have Geirr with us. What good can we do that’s permanent? That helps? That makes a difference? It’s impossible.”

  Hector’s expression turned stern. He jabbed at her collarbone. She rubbed the spot. “Koll went after you, Princess, because inside of you is a well of good that is deep and true. Do not let Koll convince you otherwise.

  “You are capable, strong, powerful, and sincere. You must not be discouraged, Zaria. Your path ahead holds many traps. You must be alert to them, and believe in yourself, in your friends, and in good. If you can do that, how could you lose?”

  “It’s not fair,” said Zaria, running her fists over her eyes and scrubbing at her reddened cheeks. “There’s still so much more you can do.”
>
  “Alas,” Hector said gently. “There is one task I need to do more than all the others. This is it. My time has come, and I’m ready for it. You mustn’t be sad for me, Princess.”

  “I’m going to miss you,” she whispered.

  “I won’t be dead, Princess,” Hector said, chucking her under the chin. “Just transformed – at one, as the giants would say. It’s time to relieve my father of being king. It’s time for Hart to become the next Stag Lord. You know what to do. It’ll be all right.”

  With that Hector stepped away. His tall, erect figure strong and determined. He would do the right thing. He fixed his hood with its golden antlers so that it was square on his head and raised his arms.

  At first nothing happened, all was silent and still. Then with a shift of the air, in a blink of an eye, their friend was transformed. His familiar form melted into that of a shining golden tree. Hector was Stag Lord no more. He was now a Golden King.

  His frame lengthened and grew, shooting upwards toward the domed ceiling. His white cloak grew into beautiful white leaves. His antlers merged into massive sturdy branches. They tangled securely with his father’s roots, and those of his neighbors’ to form a gridlock.

  The rot on Hakon vanished wherever Hector’s branches touched. It was similar on the other Golden Kings. The children watched as the rot retreated, vanquished by Hector’s presence in the circle. He strengthened them all. The black gloom of the Under Realm was transformed into a glowing golden paradise.

  When it was accomplished, the leaves on Hector’s branches sighed and settled, a soft song of satisfaction. He had succeeded in reversing the corrosive rot. His goodness bringing healing to his people.

  All around the Golden Kings grew fresh white leaves. They whispered in excitement to each other, spreading the good news to their neighbors that their new King had finally joined them. The circle was complete and whole.

  With the Under Realm secured from collapse and safe from the dragon’s rot, Zaria should have felt victorious, but Hector would never again rejoin them, and that left her feeling lost; her heart sore. She looked to see if the others felt his absence, as keenly as she did.

  At the base of his father’s tree stood Hart. His sorrowful amber gaze met hers. He hadn’t changed yet. Should he have? She opened her mouth to ask Hector and snapped it closed, realizing she wouldn’t be able to hear his response. She could never talk to him again.

  Hart bowed his head, his antlers touching the trunk of Hector’s tree. It was a reverent stance; a silent communion between father and son. Or maybe not so silent, for Hart stamped his hooves, kicking up dirt and old leaves before launching upright onto his hind legs. He bugled so loud, his call filled the circle like a tangible weight until it swelled to capacity and burst.

  “What’s gotten into him?” Christoffer asked, covering his ears.

  Zaria shook her head, gathering her braids to the side. “I have no idea.”

  “He’s changing,” Aleks said. “Look!”

  As Hart’s trumpeting call echoed into silence, his form shifted. He pawed the air, once, twice, and collapsed. Zaria ran to him and touched his flanks, only to realize he wasn’t an elk anymore, but human. A human boy. A human teenage boy.

  The golden antlers that had adorned his head so regally were now sewn into a white pelt cloak, a near exact replica of his father’s. It looked huge on him. His feet, once hooves, were now in laced, knee-high boots… golden, like the rest of their footwear. He stood abruptly from his crouch and spun to face her.

  This boy, Hart, had pale brown hair, wavy and thick, which slashed across his forehead, high cheekbones, thick straight brows, sun-kissed skin, piercing blue eyes, and full lips.

  “Your eyes are a different color,” she said, feeling stupid as she gazed into them. “They’re no longer golden brown.”

  “Princess Zaria,” he said, bowing low. “We meet face-to-face at last. I’m –”

  “Hart,” Filip called out, reaching out and walking over to shake hands. “Good to see you, mate.”

  “Actually, I’m no longer Hart,” the boy said.

  “You’re not?” Filip asked, confusion on his face. He looked over at Aleks and Zaria.

  “If you’re not Hart, then who are you?” asked Aleks. “What do we call you?”

  The boy, not Hart, smiled and said. “Hart is the title of my previous position. I’m now the Stag Lord.”

  “But Hector had a real name,” Zaria said, quirking an eyebrow at him.

  “So will I, but first I need to pick one out.”

  “Whoa, wait. Hector didn’t give you a name? That’s crummy parenting,” said Christoffer.

  “We pick our names on the day of our transformation.”

  “Do you have a shortlist? Maybe we can help.” Zaria offered.

  “The last five kings in my family have been Hagbard, Helmut, Henok, Hakon, and Hector, so I thought perhaps, Henrik.”

  “Well, now, I don’t know,” said Christoffer, standing back and taking a long look at him. “It doesn’t seem to suit you. It’s kind of fussy and old-fashioned, right? Maybe you should think on it a bit and then decide.”

  “I like Henrik,” Zaria said, blushing a little. She cleared her throat. “We should probably get moving. We have to find Helena – my, um, birth mom, and stop Koll and the other dragons.”

  “Do you know the way?” asked Aleks, looking to the new boy.

  Henrik shook his head. “This is my first time down here. I’ll ask my father.”

  He turned back to the newest tree in the circle and laid a hand on it. Zaria watched him close his eyes and lean his forehead against the bark. Hector moved and twitched. She saw a branch flick once, twice, and then still. Henrik dropped his hand and faced them.

  “My father says that the surest way to find Queen Helena is to seek out the dragons.”

  “Which means we follow that storm,” Filip said, glancing in its direction.

  “I’ll take the lead,” Aleks said. “Before we go, though, everyone check around and see if there’s anything you can use as a weapon – sticks, stones, swords, shovels, you know, something… anything useful. We’re going to need it.”

  The children left the circle of the Golden Kings carrying a makeshift of strange weapons – a motley arrangement from stones to sticks. It wasn’t until they were outside the glade that Zaria spied silver flashing in the Gjöll and slapped herself in the head.

  “There’re daggers in the river,” she explained. “You can have real weapons!”

  “Zaria, wait!” Henrik called out, hand outstretched, as she raced to the water’s edge.

  A blast of magic thrust her backward into the air. Filip ran to catch her and the two toppled to the ground, the wind knocked out of them. Zaria lay there dazed, staring up at the root-covered ceiling, wondering what just happened.

  “The wild magic in the river prevents anyone from touching it or crossing it.”

  “I seem to recall someone saying that,” she wheezed, sitting up with Aleks’ help. “Wow, the river sure can pack a punch.”

  “Why is it against Zaria? She’s the daughter of the queen of the Under Realm,” Christoffer said.

  Aleks peered down into the water. “The blades flash like fish scales in the water. I never understood that. Why are there blades in the water?”

  “It’s part of the river’s defense,” Henrik explained. “The blades will swarm and attack anyone who tries to wade or swim across the water.”

  “So they work against dragons?” asked Filip, climbing to his feet.

  Henrik nodded. “They’re effective. We – the elves and ellefolken – think the daggers drain magic, but never having gotten close enough to touch one, it remains a theory.”

  “I’m not magical,” said Christoffer. “I’m just human. Maybe I can pull one out of the water.”

  “I don’t recommend that,” said Henrik, frowning. “You could get seriously hurt – what’s he doing?”

  “Getting a dagger,”
Aleks said, rolling his eyes. “Idiot.”

  Zaria and the others watched with trepidation as Christoffer eased down by the river and stretched his hand over it. The silver light from the blades flashed over his skin. He hesitated a moment and plunged his hand into the water. Zaria cringed, half turning away.

  He pulled his hand out with a whoop. “I got one!” he cried, waving it in the air.

  “That’s not possible,” said Henrik, striding over. “Let me see that,” he demanded.

  Christoffer handed it over, hilt first, and as Henrik reached out for it, the blade whipped around and stabbed him. He jumped back, clutching his hand as a thin red line appeared. The dagger fell to the ground, flopping from side to side, reminding Zaria of a fish.

  “Oh man, I’m so sorry about that,” Christoffer said, scrambling to get a grip on the dagger.

  The thing flip-flopped, trying to escape back toward the water. He scooped it up, holding it tight as it squirmed. After a brief struggle, the blade went limp in his hand.

  Henrik frowned at the wound in his hand. He tore off a strip of his shirt and wrapped it tightly. “Zaria, Aleks, can you see if you can get near it?” he asked. Then added, “Be careful.”

  Aleks went over to Christoffer and leaned over to grab the dagger. He jumped backwards as the blade tried to flip over in Christoffer’s grip and stab him.

  “That’s a negative,” Aleks said, stepping away. “I wouldn’t go close, Zaria. That thing is ill-mannered.”

  Christoffer petted the blade. “Don’t say bad things about her. She’s got spunk.”

  “Let me see that,” Filip said, holding out his hand. “I don’t have magic either.”

  Christoffer shrugged and gave him the blade. The transaction went smoothly. Filip switched it back and forth between his hands, a wide grin stretching across his features.

  “Cool,” he said. “I guess it pays to be a normal, boring, human sometimes.”

  “You’re not boring,” Zaria said, rolling her eyes.

  “I’d like to be boring,” said Aleks.

  “Really?” asked Christoffer, surprised. “But why?”