Were of the Drakon

by B Cameron Lee

  He was tall for someone from Cheshwon and inscrutable as he took his time looking over the assembled merchants. He pointed at two lucky individuals and gestured for them to follow him up the gangplank. They hurried to comply, then following the Captain they embarked on an inspection of the Trade goods in the ship’s hold. The Captain spoke the common tongue passably enough and after the merchants had inspected the goods, he took them to his cabin. There they tasted some of wine on offer before he asked their price from them. He wrote the sum they gave and their names on a sheet of parchment with a quill pen before walking them back to the base of the gangplank. There the Captain once again looked over the assembled merchants before selecting another two to accompany him aboard his ship.

  Immediately the Captain’s plan was obvious. The merchants who bid the most would probably obtain the contents of the ship’s hold. The first two merchants looked at each other resignedly, they thought they had been chosen as the sole buyers and had offered a fairly low price, trying to cash in, thinking the Captain was an easy mark. Not so. Their greed had been their downfall.

  The process went on throughout the afternoon and by the time nightfall had arrived two lucky merchants had been selected and their gold and silver delivered to the ship. Immediately the crew opened the hatches to the holds and started unloading cargo onto the quayside. The merchants were hard pressed to organise enough wagons to take their recently purchased goods to their respective warehouses as the unloading progressed throughout the night. When the citizens of Conurbal arose the next morning, the empty ship had sailed.

  News of the ship and its unusual origins reached the palace the following morning. It was extremely rare for any vessel to dare the Wardang Straits and sail into the Inland Sea, running the gauntlet of the Reavers but the rewards were great and sometimes the odd ship did just that in the hopes of making a small fortune. The Duke soon found out who the two lucky Traders were who’d bid for the cargo and had them summonsed to the palace. He advised young Prince Lermond to demand ten percent of the cargo as his right, as the Royal Levee applied to any goods brought into Melintana. One look at the Duke, standing behind the throne, drove all thought of disagreement from the two merchants. Everyone in Conurbal knew that crossing Duke Erkhart was quite possibly fatal.

  Later that day, two wagons wound up through town from the Trader warehouses to the fortified palace perched on top of the hill. They made a delivery of silks, wine and spices to pay the levee demanded of them. It was no hardship, they would still make a handsome profit on the deal. The Duke helped himself from the goods and needed a small wagon to transport his share of the haul to his estate. He’d never married but there were a number of women of breeding who cast a favourable eye on him. Some of whom he spent time with. Silks would be a good present for them. Besides, what did he need silk for.

  There were those in the palace who saw the Duke for what he was but there was little they could do about it at the moment. It was well known that the drakon Serkahn, which used to dwell on top of a tower at the palace now lived on the Duke’s estates. In fact the drakon was known to be close to the Duke, probably the only human acquaintance Serkahn had or wanted. If any crossed the Duke directly, they might find they also had to deal with a large male drakon and no one would wish for that.

  There were however, ways to influence things and when the Duke was away at his estate, words were whispered into the ear of the young prince. He was not stupid, in fact he was very clever and could see for himself which way the wind was blowing. He didn’t like the Duke one bit but was stuck with him. His father, on his death bed had appointed the Duke as Regent. Any man with a drakon as a friend, especially a large male drakon, held power and as much as the other nobles disliked the situation they had to bend their knee to their Regent, Duke Erkhart.

  In his private moments, young Prince Lermond feared for his safety. His parents had both died of a strange, lingering malady when he was young. No one seemed to know what it actually was, some claiming it was an exotic ailment, others claiming it was normally a disease of birds or animals. Healers were called in from across the land but to no avail, the disease progressed without let or pause and his parents slowly died.

  Prince Lermond didn’t know who to trust. His tutors subtly reminded him that one of the prices he paid for his position was being constantly watched and Lermond just wasn’t sure who reported to whom in the palace. He was purposely isolated from everyone, apart from his carefully, hand-picked tutors and was completely on his own. One word in the wrong place could have disastrous repercussions for him.

  There was a knock on his door.

  “Enter.”

  The door swung inward, revealing a young serving girl bearing a tray with a small plate of sandwiches, a portion of cake and tea. She dipped her knee and respectfully lowered her eyes.

  “Time for your afternoon refreshment Sire.”

  He pointed at his desk where he’d been working and without being told, she went to it and deposited the tray then turned to leave. Before she reached the door, the Prince spoke.

  “Wait. What’s your name?”

  “I be Kristen, Sire.”

  She stood waiting to be dismissed but the young prince walked past her and stuck his head out of the doorway, checking the corridor in both directions. It appeared empty so he shut the door before turning back to Kristen.

  “What do you think of Duke Erkhart, Kristen?”

  “Sire?”

  “The Duke, acting Regent, what do you think of him?”

  Kristen didn’t know how to answer this question posed to her and looked everywhere but at the Prince.

  “He’s a’right I s’pose,” she answered carefully.

  Lermond looked down on her guarded features and said softly.

  “I need to know, honestly. I’m so alone here and I don’t know what my people are thinking. I should, it’s important to me if I’m to rule one day.”

  Kristen looked up into Lermond’s open, honest face, where deep blue eyes gazed back down on her and she quickly made up her mind.

  “He’s not real popular. Not many likes him, bit of a tyrant really. Claims everythin’ he does is at yer orders but methinks you don’t know the half of it. The palace staff don’t like him either but we likes you. All of us is loyal to you, Sire.”

  Lermond blushed at this compliment and looked away for a moment before settling his gaze back on Kristen once again. He’d made a decision.

  “Kristen. I want you to bring me refreshments every afternoon I’m in my rooms alone and I want you to bring me news of the common people. Don’t tell anyone the real reason why you are coming here just tell cook I ordered it to be so.”

  It was Kristen’s turn to blush. When Lermond paid attention he realised she was a pretty little thing and maybe she had the wrong idea regarding his reason for her to visit him.

  “I have no bad intentions toward you Kristen; I just need to know about my people. Now off you go.”

  Kristen curtsied and almost ran to the door. Just before she reached it, Lermond called out in a fierce whisper.

  “Don’t let the Duke find out about our arrangement or we’ll both be in trouble.”

  Kristen darted a look back over her shoulder before slipping out of the door. Prince Lermond let out his breath, not realising he’d been holding it. Now he would have some idea of what was actually going on in his capital, Conurbal and hopefully, the whole of Melintana.

  5. Balfour’s Keep

  Balfour’s Keep was much bigger than Trag had imagined it would be but not having seen any form of castle before, he’d had nothing to compare it with. The biggest building Trag had ever seen in his life up until now was the Village Hall in Bardton which could fit most of the villagers in, all at one time. As the wagon halted in front of the closed gates of the keep, a voice spoke from above.

  “State your name and your business here.”

  Trag’s Grandfather sat the wagon seat easily as he looked up and replied.
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br />   “Septican Mycindun, here to see Wiley Balfour. If he still lives.”

  “Wait there,” the brusque reply came down.

  Bit silly really, Trag thought, as the gate was already shut and they had spent near twelve days getting here. They weren’t exactly liable to wander off. Were they?

  While he was thinking, one side of the gate was thrown open and a large burly man with a ruddy, clean-shaved face, dressed in leather pants and a fur jacket, strode through beaming widely as he approached the wagon.

  “Septican bloody Mycindun as I live and breath. Never thought I’d clap eyes on you again. Welcome to Balfour’s Keep.” He looked toward Trag. “This your weedy lookin’ get or a stray you picked up from some place?”

  Septican jumped down from the wagon and went to embrace Wiley Balfour in a huge bear hug which was returned equally as fiercely. The two old men looked as though they were dancing together for a moment before Septican let his friend go and pointed toward Trag.

  “This is Traginal, Trag we call him. He’s my only grandson. You may or may not have heard that the Duke rounded up my son and his wife in one of his pogroms and they’ve never been heard from since. The Duke and I have unfinished business but I didn’t want to embark on it while I was rearing young Trag. Just in case anything happened to me.”

  Wiley came over and shook Trag’s hand, catching sight of the uneven arm lengths and the withered legs beneath the travel rug. He said nothing, merely swung around and bellowed for the gates to be opened before taking Rundle’s reins and leading them into the castle. The cobbled yard was quite large and besides the tall keep itself, which Trag had seen from up in the hills, there were numerous outbuildings and stables built up against the inside of the encircling, defensive walls. Wiley led Rundle over to the front of the keep where he stopped the wagon in front of the entrance.

  “You stayin’ for a while Septican?”

  “I was going to ask you if I could. The Duke’s cracking down on Wizards again.”

  Wiley observed Septican closely, his head tilted slightly to one side.

  “That’s not all, is it?”

  “No Wiley, it’s not all. The Duke has decided to rid the Kingdom of Melintana of its cripples and beggars too.”

  Wiley looked across at Trag, who saw the pity in his eyes and scrunched up inside. He hated being given pity. It lessened him somehow.

  “Ah, I understand. Well, you’re welcome here for as long as you want to stay my friend. Dramad knows you helped me enough in the past when things weren’t going too well.”

  Just at that moment there was a loud roar and Rundle reared in fright, backing the wagon up, Wiley hanging off the reins, his feet clear of the ground. The hair on the back of Trag’s neck stood up as he hung onto the plunging wagon and he saw colours in his mind, as well as feeling pain in his left arm. In his arm? But there was nothing wrong with his arm.

  Wiley found his feet, laughing at the surprised looks on the faces of both Septican and Trag as he quieted Rundle down.

  “Don’t mind the noise. We captured a drakon a few days ago. It’s chained up in one of the empty barns.”

  Trag’s mind was reeling as Septicon lifted him off the wagon seat and took him inside the entry to the keep where he placed Trag on the little indoor cart he’d unpacked from the wagon. They followed Wiley Balfour inside, Trag easily propelling himself over the level flagstones while his mind was afire. A drakon, a real drakon and right here in a barn outside. Trag was so rattled he nearly forgot his manners when he was introduced to Wiley’s family. There was Wiley’s rotund and jovial wife, Malena, who smiled at Trag without a hint of sympathy, as though she met crippled people on carts all the time and was quite at ease with them. Trag liked her immediately, which was unusual, as he hadn’t had much experience with women and generally shied away from their maternal sympathies and suffocating bosoms. Then there was Vigano, Wiley’s eldest son who was well into his late teens and Bromala, his eldest daughter who was distant and seemed too good for common cripples like Trag. They were followed by Bustan, another hale and hearty son and finally, Vistala, a girl about Trag’s age who regarded him cautiously but also with a little curiosity as Trag gazed up at her from his indoor cart.

  With the formalities over, Septican and Trag were shown to a table where a seat with arms was drawn up to it for Trag’s use. He could smell the food being prepared in the kitchen and his stomach rumbled a little in response, his most excellent breakfast was at least nine hours behind him now. Vistala appeared beside his chair, her bright blue eyes shiny beneath the luxurious red of her hair.

  “How did you get broken?” she asked him, without any hint of negativity, merely curious.

  “I was born like this.” Trag replied, hoping there wouldn’t be too many more questions of this type.

  “Ahh,” was all Vistala said on the subject before she looked at Trag again.

  “Would you like to see the drakon?”

  Trag’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Can I? Are you sure your father wouldn’t mind?”

  “I’ll ask him,” Vistala replied, “But I’m his favourite so it should be okay.”

  She trotted off toward her father and stood waiting until her father excused himself and broke off his conversation with Septican before she whispered in his ear. Trag saw Wiley’s head nodding and his heart lifted. Vistala returned.

  “He says its okay but not to be long, as dinner’s nearly ready. Do you need any help?”

  Trag had already pulled his fingerless, leather gloves from his pocket and drew them on before arm over arming down the chair and onto his trolley.

  “No thanks, I’m used to this. I can get around on my wheels.”

  Vistala merely nodded and set off toward the big doors, opening the right side one to allow egress. Trag followed, pushing his cart along behind her. He found there was a doorstep and had to get off his cart to lift it over the stoop. Vistala helped him unselfconsciously in a manner which made it seem like she’d been doing it all her life. Trag found he actually didn’t mind, which was, in itself, unusual.

  Trag bounced and bumped on his inside cart with its smaller wheels as he pushed it over the cobbles in the yard following Vistala as she made her way toward a large stone-built barn butted up against the outer wall. His teeth rattled with the jolting but it wasn’t only the cobbles causing his teeth to chatter. He felt odd, a bit lightheaded and Trag couldn’t shake the colours he saw or the pain he felt in his left arm. A man was exiting the barn when they arrived at the tall wooden door. Vistala whispered to Trag that it was one of her father’s men. He looked her up and down.

  “Ah, little mistress. Does your father know you’re here?”

  “Yes Helmar, he gave his permission for me to show Trag the drakon.”

  Helmar looked down and Trag saw the look of disgust as the man registered Trag’s deformities. He sniffed disapprovingly and looked back toward Vistala.

  “Right, well, don’t get too close to it or it might eat you and I’d hate to be the one to tell your father.”

  Helmar grinned at his own joke then moved on, leaving the door ajar. A strange smell curled out of it, musky, earthy with just a hint of dead things. Trag shivered, cringing when an ear shattering roar suddenly blew through the doorway but Vistala paid the bellowing no mind and walked into the barn. Trag was obliged to shed his fear and follow her.

  The inside of the windowless barn was quite dim and it took Trag’s eyes a little while to adjust to the low light. Vistala stood in front of a chained bronze coloured drakon and Trag could see the fetters, attached around its neck and to all four limbs, were anchored to ringbolts protruding from the floor. The drakon roared again as Trag wheeled over to stop beside Vistala, the noise deafening as it echoed in the enclosed space leaving his ears ringing. Trag’s head hurt nearly as much as his left arm as he sat silently regarding the drakon. It stopped moving restlessly and turned its gaze directly on him. Trag was transfixed by its stare and felt some sort of
weird sensation in his head before a picture emerged there of a young girl and a cripple on a cart resting beside her.

  He was seeing himself through the drakon’s eyes!

  His own vision came back as the drakon slowly lifted its left wing and Trag saw the bone at the front was broken toward the end. The wing sagged like a limp sail from the break. Was this why his own left arm was hurting? Trag could only speculate.

  “Vistala. The drakon has a broken wing. Why doesn’t someone fix it?”

  Vistala looked down at Trag and replied.

  “Because this is a wild drakon and it would tear anyone apart who ventured near it.”

  “But why did your father capture it?” Trag asked, hoping against hope the answer was not what he thought it might be.

  “Because there are Traders in Boronia who will pay a lot of money for a live drakon, silly. Enough to keep us all in food and clothing for at least a year, plus pay our servant’s wages.”

  Trag was unsettled. He wanted to help the drakon. It must be painful to have a broken wing bone flopping around. Without realising what he was doing, he suddenly propelled his cart forward, his hands flying over the ground. Vistala screamed at him but Trag didn’t stop. His mind seemed disengaged from reality and in a very short space of time he found himself in front of the bronze coloured drakon looking up as the animal’s jaws opened to reveal row upon row of very sharp teeth. A forked tongue flickered out, brushing Trag’s face with the twin tips and Trag closed his eyes, waiting for the snap and crunch of his own bones as he became drakon dinner.

  Nothing happened though. After a moment or two, Trag slowly opened his eyes to find the drakon quietly regarding him. There was a question in his head but it was more a feeling of curiosity than actual words. The drakon extended its left wing and gave Trag a nudge toward it with its head. Trag understood and rolled over in his cart to look at the break in the wing. It was a clean break and neither bone end had protruded through the tough hide. All it would need for healing was a padded splint but Trag had no idea how long drakons took to heal. Maybe Septican did. He returned to place his cart in front of the drakon again. Looking up, he spoke clearly.