Dragons Unremembered

by David A Wimsett

  Shara stood at the entrance to the lodge and waved at Ryckair’s return. He ran up and wrapped his arms around her. They kissed until one of the children pushed on their legs to try and clear them from the doorway. Ryckair and Shara laughed, then stepped inside the hall.

  Fires blazed in the two hearths. Ryckair sat on the floor and wrapped a hide blanket around his shoulders. The other hunters entered the hall and sat near the fire. Shara came up behind Ryckair with kan. He took the mug. “Thank you. Sweet Lord of Dragons, I never imagined such cold, and it’s supposed to be spring.” He savored the flavor as he listened to the other men greet their wives in similar fashion.

  Shara sipped the steaming liquid from her mug and smacked her lips. “I am not certain how you take it. Snow and ice have always been a part of my life, yet even I find this cold bitter.”

  “Soon we will be in the Palace at Kackar, my love. Just two more trials.”

  The next day, Ryckair was seated on a stool near one of the fires. Two Fadella chiefs grasped him from behind. Knives were brought to his throat. Sintalay said, “This is the test of the bard. It is written that the Parili will have knowledge spanning the ages.” A healer from another clan sat books on a table. Sintalay took one. “Here, gathered and preserved from generations now forgotten, is the wisdom of the Fadella handed down from the dragons. Each question I ask must be answered accurately. If you fail, the knives will pierce your skin. She opened the book and ran her finger down the page. “I ask you again. Will you continue the trials of the Parili?”

  “I will take this trial.”

  Sintalay asked points of history and poetry, all of which Ryckair had read in his studies with the Kyar. He was amazed that the Fadella versions matched exactly the books in the vaults beneath the palace at Meth.

  “Name now, the sisters of Neles.”

  “Pare and Fito.”

  “What lay speaks of the battle of Tenatily?”

  “The Kura Gotenag.”

  For another span the questions continued. Ryckair answered each correctly.

  “The Kura Kar mentions a meeting in a forest between King Gotenag and his enemies. By what calling did the king disguise his identity?”

  Ryckair hesitated. He had worked for months translating a version of the epic poem from the oldest known manuscript. The popular version said the king told his enemy he was a wheat merchant from the east. The older manuscript used the word rena whose literal translation meant scraper. It was often applied to either a tanner or a butcher. Ryckair had argued that the king meant butcher as a veiled threat of what he would soon do to his enemy.

  “Butcher,” said Ryckair.

  Sintalay looked up. “The book says wheat merchant.”

  Ryckair felt the knives press against his skin. “Wait. That’s a later translation. I found the original writings in a book within a book. It reads, ‘Se matta lan rena. I am a great butcher.’”

  “Hold.” Sintalay retrieved another book from the table. A quarter of the way through it she came to a place where the pages had been cut out to make a hole. Inside that hole was a second book. “Only the healers know of this hidden tomb, and none know what is written within, for to read it outside the of trial is death. It is written that the Parili will know of this book and the Parili alone will know its contents.”

  Two chiefs moved behind Sintalay and placed knives to her throat. “I will now silently read from the tongue of the dragons the lay of Kura Kar and see if you speak correctly. If you are wrong, both of us will die, for it is forbidden that any know the answer to this final question until it is revealed by the Parili. I ask you again, will you continue this trial?”

  Ryckair feared for his life and that of Sintalay if the hiddden book had another answer. He questioned if he had the right to put her life in danger. At the same time, he knew the answer was rena. He said, “Yes.”

  Sintalay opened the hidden book and read. She closed her eyes and bowed her head. “Se matta lan rena. You have passed the second trial.”

  The knives were withdrawn and a great cheer resounded in the hall. The book was laid out for all the chiefs to read and confirm. Shara put her arms around Ryckair. “I thought you dead.”

  He embraced her. “There is one trial left.”

  “Don’t speak of it yet. Just hold me.”

  He pulled her close, feeling her body tremble against his. He remembered how Craya had always goaded him for studying in the Kyar’s vaults, declaring him a weakling and a fool. The thought of Craya filled him with rage. He told himself that he would need that hatred to pass the trial of the warrior.

  Ryckair was dressed in fur clothing and gloves the next morning. The chiefs and Sintalay waited outside the lodge. She said, “This is the trial of the warrior, the last and the most dangerous. There is only victory or death. Are you prepared?”

  Ryckair said, “Who do I fight?”

  “When you reach the mountain you will know.”

  He set off alone with a tinder box, bow, arrows, a knife and provisions. Soon, he was out of sight of Ichary’s camp with no idea of where to go.

  The sky remained clear. He began his ascent of the slopes. His only goal to that point had been to reach the mountain. Now, he began to question just what the Fadella expected of him. Was he to bring back some relic, or did they expect to see a severed head as a trophy?

  Ryckair climbed for three days in search of a sign that would lead him to the warrior. Doubts began to fill his mind.

  For most of his life, he had believed he was unfit to rule. He was convinced the key would reject him and choose Craya. Because of Shara’s false documents, he now believed this had come to pass. It seemed that everyone who ever followed him was imprisoned or dead. He feared he was about to lead the Fadella to the same fate.

  It had seemed so easy in Ichary’s camp with their praise and Shara’s urging. He wondered if he had fooled them all, or if he was only fooling himself. He might be able to overthrow Masalta with the help of the Fadella, but what good would they be against the Carandir army, and worse, the Barasha?

  He thought of Shara sitting as queen next to him as king. He imagined a fulfilling life with her and pictured their children running through the palace at Kackar. He could make the city great, clean the filth, improve commerce. It could be a good life. He questioned if his future was in the north.

  A strong wind grew as clouds gathered overhead. Snow fell, light at first, then heavy and wet. He pushed himself up the mountain with no idea of where he was going.

  His face was numb from the sting of ice pellets. The wind pulled the breath from his lungs. He took a step, then another. Everything around him was a shifting gauze of white. He turned and found his own foot prints barely covered with snow. He realized that he could easily die there.

  The wind shifted. He saw the entrance of a cave in a cliff face just ahead. Forcing his feet to move, he trudged across the snow until he was inside.

  The cave continued ahead into near darkness. To his right hung a curtain of matula hide. In a niche next to this was an oil lamp. His hands trembled from the freezing cold as he lit the lamp. He pulled the curtain aside and entered a small chamber. Mats lined the floor. A crude hearth was carved into one wall.

  Hide blankets were piled on one side of the hearth. There was wood and tinder on the other. He built a fire, removed his soaked clothes and wrapped a hide blanket around himself before sitting next to the flames.

  He was certain some Fadella tribe had created this place as a base for hunting parties. The wood and hides were a life saver. He made a meal of matula jerky and hard biscuits from his pack as he sipped water between bites.

  The room became surprisingly warm in a short time. He stretched out before the hearth and was soon asleep.

  When Ryckair awoke he was famished. An unseen voice said, “There is food and drink, young master.”

  The prince spun around to find an aged man whose hair was speckled with gray. He wore dark blue robes with white fur trim. Next to
him stood a black hound.

  Ryckair retrieved his hide clothing and got to his feet. “I mean you no harm. I found your cave in the storm and sought shelter.”

  The old man said, “You do not need to explain yourself. You seek the warrior of the mountain. This place has been prepared for you.”

  Ryckair moved his hand toward his knife. “You are the warrior?”

  The old man laughed. “No. You will meet him in combat soon enough. I am here to serve and guide you to the arena.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “To reach this spot takes great stamina. You are exhausted from your effort and must regain your strength before the challenge. Come. Eat.”

  Along the far wall a table was laden with meat and cheese and sweet fruit and mead. Two stools sat next to the table. Ryckair cut a piece of matula meat and brought it to his mouth, then stopped and examined it.

  The old man laughed again. “Do not worry. The food is not poisoned. If I wished you dead I could have slit your throat while you slept. Come now. You must regain your strength if you are to face the warrior.”

  Ryckair hesitated, then took a bite. It was tender and succulent as he had never known matula meat to be. The cheeses were ripe and the mead refreshing. “This is wonderful. I have not eaten like this in ages.”

  The old man said, “I am glad you enjoy it, young master. It’s not often that I have visitors.”

  Ryckair felt oddly lightened by the man’s mirth. “Who are you?”

  The hound came over to the table and the old man patted its head. “You may call me Maganda.”

  “The one who teaches?”

  Maganda raised an eyebrow. “A scholar of the ancient tongue! Well met.”

  The old man bid Ryckair rest by the hearth while he cleared the table. When he was done he joined Ryckair by the fire with two mugs of hot kan.

  The prince took a sip and stared into the flames. Maganda said, “Your worry knits a cap on your brow.”

  The prince laughed at the old adage. “Does the warrior employ you?”

  “No. I am indifferent as to who wins the battle. But, you look as if you have a more pressing question.”

  “It’s just that, now that I’m here, I don’t know…”

  “Whether or not you are supposed to be. You may speak freely, for I know who you are, young Prince Ryckair Avar. There is only one who can face this challenge.”

  Ryckair knew it was best to be suspicious. Yet, he felt an unexplainable trust in Maganda. “Why have I been chosen to take this test? My brother was always better and now he wears the crown.”

  Maganda said, “You seem to have convinced yourself that you’re inferior, yet you have no idea who you actually are. To face the warrior you must know and have faith in yourself.”

  “Isn’t that a little simplistic? It takes more than belief in oneself to win a battle.”

  “I said faith, not belief.”

  “They’re the same thing.”

  “Oh, a scholar should not say so. The words we use are very important. What would I have to show you for you to believe something?”

  “Well, proof, of course.”

  “And you would be a fool to believe anything without it. But, what if there is no proof? What do you do then? You know nothing of the warrior. There is no proof that you can defeat him.”

  “So, you think I will fail?”

  “Again, you do not hear the real question. More, you do not ask yourself that question. You have come all this way to face the warrior without any proof that he even exists. That takes something beyond belief. Those who only believe would call it foolish. They are not here.”

  “I’d have to have believed to come this far.”

  “What is your proof?”

  “Look. I just know there’s a trial and I have to face him. I can’t prove it or justify it. I just know. That’s all.”

  Maganda smiled. “That, young master, is faith. With it we have the strength to step beyond what we believe to see what truly is. Real power comes from faith and that comes from within ourselves.”

  The fire burned low and Ryckair felt exhaustion coming on. He settled into a matula hide and fell asleep with Maganda’s words running through his head.

  Ryckair dreamt of a giant with a massive sword and awoke with a start. Maganda stood over him. “The warrior awaits.”

  Maganda carried a lantern as he led Ryckair deep into the mountain. The prince held his knife in his right hand and slung his bow over his left shoulder. The hound padded behind them.

  The walls were covered in a sheen of ice that reflected light from the lamp. They walked through the twisting passageway for what felt like several spans. Other paths led off of the route. Maganda guided him forward without hesitation.

  Ryckair said, “What does the warrior look like?”

  “You shall see soon enough?”

  “Are you forbidden to answer my questions?”

  “I may do whatever I please.”

  “Then tell me what weapons he will use.”

  Maganda stopped and turned around. “Look into my eyes and tell me how many stalactites hang over your head ready to crash down on you.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Better to worry about where you stand than where you might stand.” The old man turned and walked on.

  He grabbed Maganda by the shoulder. “Enough of your games. I need to know what I face.”

  He heard the hound growl. The old man said, “You face an angry dog somewhere in the dark who can tear out your throat.”

  The dog fell silent.

  Maganda said, “I will tell you this. The warrior will carry only those weapons that you bring to the combat. Nothing more. It will be for you to determine which will overcome him.” The old man smiled. “You must look to the faith within yourself.”

  Ryckair felt a sense of panic rising. There was too much he did not know. He felt the dog nuzzle his leg and looked down to see it wag its tail.

  They reached a point where a fissure cut across the floor and blocked their way. In the dim light, Ryckair was unable to see how wide it was.

  Maganda handed Ryckair the lantern. “The warrior awaits you in a hall of ice across the gap. This is as far as I can lead you. You must find your own way from here.”

  Ryckair carefully approached the edge of the crack and peered across into the darkness. “How wide is it?”

  “It is as wide as it is.”

  The prince walked along the edge. The chasm extended from wall to wall. He picked up a loose chunk of ice and threw it across. It echoed as it hit the other side. He was still unable to gauge how far that was. “I don’t believe I can make it.”

  “Then, you have failed.”

  Ryckair peered back across the gap. He tucked his knife in his belt and held the lantern high. With a burst of speed, he ran toward the edge of the chasm and leapt into the darkness.

  A freeing exhilaration pumped through him as he sailed over the gap. There was no turning aside; no pulling back; no second guessing. Yet, there was no fear. His heart raced. He laughed and howled and the sound echoed throughout the cavern.

  Then, he was sliding across for floor on the other side. The exhilaration grew to ecstasy as he jumped up and danced a jig. “Did you see, Maganda? I flew like a dragon.”

  No response came from the darkness on the other side of the crevasse. His chest began to itch. He opened his parka to find the dragon mark glowing. Covering his chest once more, he continue on with the lantern held before him.

  A few hundred paces brought him to a large chamber whose walls and ceiling were encased in ice. Several wagon size boulders littered the floor. Stalactites hung from the ceiling. In the center was a round pit whose bottom was hidden in darkness. The light of the lantern reflected off the ice to cast a dim radiance throughout the space.

  Ryckair spied a face on the opposite side. He ducked quickly behind the nearest boulder and peaked up over its top. The warrior peeked out from behind another
boulder. Ryckair could not make out his face in the dim light. “I’ve come to take the challenge. How shall we do battle?”

  Only his own words echoed back in reply. He sat the lantern on the floor and notched an arrow. “Name the contest, warrior of the mountain.”

  Again, there was no reply. He jumped from behind the boulder. The warrior appeared across the chamber with a notched arrow in his bow. Ryckair raised and fired. The warrior, matching him in speed, fired his own shaft.

  Ryckair jumped back behind the boulder. He heard a crack and looked up. A large stalactite fell toward him. He jumped aside and the mass of rock crashed to the cavern floor.

  With another arrow notched, he looked to the right. The warrior, bow in hand, stood before him with an arrow at the ready. Ryckair fired again and charged round to the other side of the boulder only to find himself running head long toward the pit. He tried to stop but his boots continued to slide across the floor. Dropping to one side, he drove his knife into the ice. The blade bit into the frozen floor and slowed his movement until he came to a halt with his feet dangling over the edge.

  The prince scampered back behind the bolder. The warrior now stood near the opposite wall. Ryckair reached for another arrow and found his quiver empty. He dropped his bow and ran behind another boulder. He could not believe his opponent was able to follow him so quickly. Yet, as Maganda had said, the warrior had dropped his bow and did not attack with any weapon Ryckair did not carry.

  Another stalactite broke off. Before the prince was able to jump aside, it brushed his right arm. Pain radiated from his shoulder to his hand. He dropped the knife and fell to his knees.

  He could grasp nothing in his right hand. After several deep breaths, he took the knife awkwardly in his left and stepped out from behind the boulder. The warrior appeared across the chamber, a knife in his right hand. Ryckair took a fighting stance. The memory of every duel he had fought with his brother rolled through his mind.

  I never really beat Craya, he told himself. The match Yetig awarded me was through trickery. Craya would have killed me in a real battle. Why should I think this is any different? His only thought was to run back to the Fadella village and live a quiet life with Shara.