Were of the Drakon

by B Cameron Lee

  “Well done.” His Grandfather pronounced and at the interruption, Trag lost control and the mug fell back to the table with a thump, spilling its contents across the top. With a smile his Grandfather made a gesture or two and all the liquid ran back into the mug which managed to right itself.

  “Time you learned some more spells lad. Now off you go and get washed and into your sleeping clothes, it will be time for supper soon and maybe a little homework afterwards.”

  As Trag lowered himself down from his special seat and onto his trolley, the old man watched lovingly, his eyes moistening at the sight of the boy’s deformities. No one deserved to be born like that, especially a boy with such a searching mind.

  Once supper was over and his Grandfather had talked to him about the sun and the moons and how they moved around the earth, Trag was tucked into his sleeping cot. He lay there thinking of all he had learned that day as he fell asleep. During the night his dreams were of flying, soaring into the sky like a bird and looking down on the country beneath.

  2. A Knock on the Door

  Trag’s grandfather wore a frown on his face as he strode down the cobbled road, the tap, tap, tap of his steel-shod staff preceding him. Septican Mycindun was an imposing figure in his dark blue flowing robe with his long white beard reaching down to his chest but he wasn’t as old as he appeared, having lived a mere sixty or so years. He was tall and well put together, walking easily without a stoop. It may have been his Healer skills which kept him in such fine shape but one suspected a little magic in the mix.

  Septican was concerned. Word had just reached him through secret and somewhat nefarious channels regarding a new drive by Duke Erkhart to winkle out illegal users of magic and those with too much knowledge. Also, the message said, the Duke intended to finally rid the Kingdom of Melintana of all its cripples and beggars, who he regarded as a bane of society and a downright nuisance. As the Duke was currently Regent of Melintana, a position he had occupied for the last sixteen years and would hold for a further two, at least until his young nephew the Prince finally came of age, he could enact any changes he desired. The boy’s parents, the previous King and Queen, had both died soon after the Prince’s birth, supposedly from flux, although some suspected poison. The Crown Prince was due to celebrate his eighteenth birthday in a couple of years and then take his rightful place as ruler of Melintana. However, there were some who doubted he would reach that milestone, because really, the Duke ran the Kingdom and was loathe to relinquish his position. His version of ruling involved an iron fist in a mailed glove and the use of a spy network second to none. Woe betides any who questioned his methods.

  They simply disappeared.

  Folk on the street scattered out of Septican’s way as he sailed on toward his destination. They were used to his ways by now and often, when called to an accident or someone desperately needing healing, Septican travelled swiftly to their aid, deep in though, his mind far above such mundane matters as people being in his way. The townsfolk appreciated his unique Healing abilities and did not hold his distracted nature against him, merely smiling at one another with amusement as they regrouped and came together again like weed on a pond after he’d passed through their midst.

  Septican was not a quitter. The decree didn’t really bother him, he’d been hiding his magic for years and could well look out for himself. He could have easily remained in Bardton with his hoard of illegal vellum books but he was worried about Trag. The lad was really bright and such a cheerful soul in spite of his deformities. It was quite possible the boy could have grown to be as bitter and twisted as his body but the lad had something special. He cared for the people around him, even those who poked fun and occasionally bullied him, as well as those who helped make his life a little easier. He had a good word to say for all and bore his disabilities with equanimity. Septican loved the little mite dearly, as much as, or more than he’d loved his only son, who’d been taken in one of the Duke’s early cleansing drives.

  He certainly wasn’t finished with the Duke yet. But that was another story. The Duke would keep for now; it was his grandson who was important at the moment.

  It would be hard for Trag to avoid becoming a victim of the Duke’s desire to cleanse Melintana of cripples and beggars. It was state sanctioned murder, was what it was and it made no difference that Trag was well known in Bardton and the local population nearly always responded positively to his resilient cheerfulness. He often came home with a piece of fruit or the end of a little cake someone had given him. When he was younger and exhibiting a thirst for knowledge, Septican had gone to the village school and asked, nay demanded that Trag be enrolled in class. All sorts of reasons why he couldn’t be were raised, first among them his deformed body but Septican persisted and took Trag to the school himself whenever he wasn’t called to a healing.

  Initially it was awkward for his grandson and Trag had to wear a nappy under waterproof pants to get through the day but after he had grown a little more and was strong enough in the arms, they devised little trolleys for him to get around on. Septican was the one who had built the ramps over the doorstep of the school room to give Trag more independence. He was especially proud the day Trag applied physics to a design of a cart which could be propelled by pushing and pulling on its handle. Even though Trag’s arms were of an uneven length and his spine was twisted, he still had a lot of strength in his upper body. After Septican had carefully constructed the cart and they had tested it together, Trag became far more self-sufficient, as he could come and go whenever he wanted so long as there was a paved road between him and his destination. The roads around Bardton were quite trafficable in that particular respect and not too hilly, although the cobbles gave the lad a bit of a shake up. Trag’s young life improved considerably as he gained more freedom and was able to explore his environment.

  Now that young life was in danger.

  Septican heard the chanting of the multiplication tables well before he turned right off the main thoroughfare at Widow Danklin’s house onto the street which led to the schoolhouse. As far as innovation went, Trag’s teacher, Maestra Winholme demonstrated a distinct lack of it in the brain department at times and she could be hard on her students but she was still an excellent teacher. Her gifts were enthusiasm and a burning desire to instil learning into a child whether that child wanted it or not. Bardton’s inhabitants were, on the whole, much brighter than those in many other nearby towns thanks to Maestra Winholme’s tireless efforts over the many years she’d beaten knowledge into her students. The town was successful, its inhabitants generally happy and well off due to the application of the knowledge she had managed to instil into its populace. Not quite enough knowledge to be dangerous to them but enough for them to do well and prosper.

  The day being warm, the door to the classroom was propped open and although the students had their backs to Septican they must have picked up something in the demeanour of Maestra Winholme, as her eyes widened in response to the large, white bearded man filling the doorway. The class fell silent as small heads swivelled around on scrawny necks to look up, and then up a little more, to take in the Healer standing there.

  Everyone knew the Healer. He was an institution and famed throughout the county. Some said that Bardton was lucky to have such a capable Healer living in the town. Septican’s blue eyes soon locked on the object of his visit and he nodded at Trag, giving the lad a wink to relax him before addressing the now silent and wary teacher. She’d locked horns with Septican a number of times over Trag’s attendance at her school and found herself coming off second best each time but not knowing why. So now she waited to find out why Septican came to her classroom.

  “Greetings Maestra Winholme. My apologies for interrupting your lessons but something has arisen which requires me to remove Trag from your most excellent class. Would it be alright with you if I did so?”

  Septican may be a Healer and a very well known one at that but he didn’t believe in being rude. This was Maestra Winh
olme’s territory and it would be most disrespectful of him not to defer to the teacher. It would also be a bad example for the children present.

  “Ah, Healer Mycindun, good morning to you. I hope the news is not bad. Yes, Trag may go with you, missing a little time from class will not harm his studies.”

  She turned her penetrating gaze onto Trag.

  “It won’t, will it Trag?”

  The lad shook his head rapidly, as he gathered his books up.

  “No Maestra, I’ll be ready for the next lesson.”

  “Good. I’ll see you later then.”

  The Maestra turned her back, walked to the blackboard and proceeded to write on it, Trag no longer of any concern to her as the bent and twisted boy propelled his cart out of the classroom. Septican felt the urge, as he always did, to help the lad but resisted it. Trag was proud of getting around under his own power, it made him feel more normal. Septican slowed his pace so Trag could keep up, his uneven length arms pumping the lever to propel his cart along the cobbles. Binding the wheels with strong rope and covering them with pitch softened the bumping but it was still a teeth chattering ride for the young fellow over the cobblestones.

  “What is it Grandfather? Why did you take me out of class?”

  “We can’t talk here Trag. It’s secret business.”

  His Grandfather spoke softly and Trag immediately understood the nature of the event. Ever since he was young his Grandfather had cautioned him about some things being ‘secret’. What that meant was, ‘do not talk of these things in front of others’. Trag was well aware of the consequences. He was an orphan because of those consequences. When he was very young, someone had overheard his parents talking ill about the Regent’s harsh laws and ran to inform the Duke, who had acted precipitously to quash any possible resistance.

  All the way through the town, Trag concentrated on pushing and pulling the handle of his cart, trying to go faster. He knew his Grandfather was walking far more slowly than usual to help him out but rather than be resentful, Trag was mentally thankful. He loved his Grandfather like a son loves his father because really, Septican was the only father Trag had ever known.

  Once inside their house, Septican threw some small logs into the stove and gesticulated with a mutter. They burst into flames and soon the kettle boiled merrily, whistling its strident note to announce it was time to use the hot water within it. While the tea infused, Trag, who had returned from his visit to the privy, hauled himself up onto his chair and sat at the table opposite his Grandfather, who was staring off into space. He cleared his throat audibly and Grandfather’s eyes refocused and turned to him. He smiled at Trag.

  “Caught me.” He commented as he poured them both a mug of herbal tea, adding honey to Trag’s. The boy needed the sweetening for extra energy. Trag reached for his mug and blew on the hot brew before slowly sipping it while he waited for his Grandfather to begin.

  “Word has come to me that the Duke intends to hunt out magic users and those with too much knowledge.”

  “That’s always been the case Grandfather. You didn’t come to get me out of school just because of that. We’ve heard those decrees before.”

  “No, I didn’t come just for that. I came because the Duke has also decreed he is ridding the Kingdom of cripples and beggars and I don’t think he intends to send them away anywhere.”

  Septican raised one eyebrow at Trag. The lad knew that look. He was supposed to make the connection and did.

  “Then I’m in danger of being got rid of. Just because I was born like this. It’s not fair Grandfather, I don’t harm anyone, nor do I beg or steal money or cause problems. Why me? It’s not fair.”

  “Life is not fair or unfair Trag. It just is. It’s people who are unfair. People who think up ways to ruin the lives of others. Just because they can. Right now however, we have to decide what to do. The information I received is not far ahead of the Duke’s soldiers, so we have to act quickly.”

  “I’ll leave Grandfather. We can pack some supplies onto my cart with a change of clothes. I’ll be able to get quite far away in a reasonable time if the roads aren’t too bad.”

  “We’ll go Trag. Both of us. I’ll take the special wagon I had built. I think Rundle will be able to manage it.”

  “But Rundle’s old. Do you think he can still pull a loaded wagon?”

  “He’s not that old for a mule.” Trag’s Grandfather replied with a twinkle in his eye. “And its not a large wagon. I’m sure he’ll manage. I plan on leaving first thing in the morning. Is that alright with you?”

  Trag looked like he was just about to eagerly reply but then his face fell. Septican watched as the boy pulled himself together and put on a brave expression before finally looking up at his Grandfather. His lips quivered as he spoke.

  “Bethanty told me this morning that her first bleeding started last night. She’s so pretty. I’m sure they’ll pick her for sacrifice.”

  Septican felt for his grandson. The boy had so much empathy for others, especially for his true friends and Bethanty was one of those.

  “How old is she now?” Septican asked gently.

  “Fourteen summers, Grandfather.”

  “That’s a good thing Trag. You and I both know a girl has to have fifteen summers before she can be made the midwinter sacrifice. It’s the law.”

  Trag appeared somewhat relieved by this statement.

  “I forgot that point Grandfather. I guess she still has at least one more summer before she can be chosen.”

  Septican was relieved to see the despair leave the lad’s face and smiled.

  “Well it seems your grief hasn’t affected your maths.”

  They both had a chuckle over that, which improved Trag’s demeanour no end.

  It was not long after they had finished their lunch, when both of them had their noses stuck in books that the companionable silence was broken by a commotion out on the street. Septican rose and went to the front door for a look outside before returning almost immediately.

  “Soldiers, and we’ve no time to properly hide you. Quickly, sit on the reed mat please.”

  As Trag climbed down from his chair to drag himself over to the indicated reed mat, there came a noisy banging on the front door followed by a loud command.

  “Open up in the name of the Duke. We have orders to search the house.”

  Septican dallied and the cry was repeated again with more emphasis before he negotiated his way through the front room and opened the door. The uniformed soldier stepped back, surprised by the size and the hawk-like gaze of the blue robed old man before him. Septican glared at the soldier.

  “What’s the meaning of this? I’m a Healer. Everyone knows that. How dare you interrupt my day.”

  The soldier took a moment to gather him but he was loyal to the Duke and he’d been given a task by his superiors. He was going to see it through.

  “I’m sorry Healer but I have my orders. I’m to search your house for banned books and cripples. The Duke has decreed the Kingdom be rid of Mages and cripples, know-it-alls and beggars. I have orders to come in and look around.”

  Septican stepped back from the door and the soldier peered inside, his jaw dropping when he saw the front room was filled almost to bursting with waist high stacks of books, leaving just a passageway though them for access to the rear of the house. The soldier became immediately suspicious.

  “What’s them there. Magic books. Know-it-all stuff. What?”

  Septican put on his most reasonable face.

  “As I said, I’m a Healer. These books are about illnesses and ailments, anatomy and herb lore, remedies and poisons, fluxes and humors and all the other things I need to know about to do my job properly. You’re welcome to look through them, they’re all paper books. Not a vellum tome among them.”

  The soldier stepped into the room and negotiated his way along the bare walkway until he was near the centre of the room before choosing a book at random. He’d picked up an illustrated book of
childbirth problems and as he flicked through it, Septican could see his facial expressions shift from interest to abhorrence back to interest then disgust before he finally threw the book down to take up another. Septican watched the soldiers lips move as he slowly tried to read the instructions for making medicines. Finally the soldier put that book down too.

  “What’s through there?” he asked, pointing toward the kitchen.

  “Just the kitchen. Nothing of interest in there.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” the soldier said as he moved along the aisle of books and reached for the curtain covering the doorway to pull it aside. He went through into the kitchen, Septican close behind, almost bumping into the man as the soldier suddenly halted, staring at Trag sitting on the reed mat in front of the fireplace.

  “A cripple!” he exclaimed, almost in wonder.

  It was the last conscious thought he had for a few moments as Trag watched his Grandfather quickly grip the man’s neck and squeeze on a certain spot. The soldier slowly crumpled and Septican caught him before he hit the ground, lifting the inert form onto a nearby chair.

  “Watch closely young Trag. Everything can be an education if you let it. I pressed a nerve bundle in his neck which caused him to pass out. It doesn’t always work but it’s pretty reliable. He’ll be out for about five minutes, which should be just enough time.”

  Trag’s Grandfather moved to his medicine cupboard and searched for a small bottle, finally finding it near the back of the shelf. He blew the dust off it then poured some water into a mug and added a few drops of the greeny brown fluid from the tiny bottle in his hand. A few fumes floated up from the mix.

  “Excellent. It’s still active.”

  Just then the soldier groaned and started to come around’

  “Wha, wha ‘appened?” he slurred.

  “You seemed to faint man,” Septican told him. “Here, drink this.”

  He used his Healer’s tone of voice which brooked no argument and the soldier, being the obedient man he was, took the mug and drank. Septican smiled and looked over to Trag, nodding, before turning back to the soldier.