Day 11. Dragon and Dungeon

Chapter 26. 

   The second youth was named Hal and Valia found him more easy to talk to than Ben, the other boy. Alett didn’t care for either of them. 

   The second week on the road had come and gone, and there was only one loss so far. One of the soldiers ate some questionable pork at an inn on their ninth night out from the Citadel and woke up with terrible sweating and shaking and a stench on his skin that could have killed a man with no nose. Valia couldn’t go near him, and after trying to find help for him for half the morning, Captain Oren decided to leave him with a medicine woman in the village along with his horse and enough money for a week, and told the man he could follow if he improved, but if more than a week of the sickness passed, he should return to the Citadel. The party was down one. 

   The Spokesmen still avoided Valia though she thought there was less anger towards her from Meino, the red haired man, than there was from Luc. There still hadn’t been a conversation between him and Valia longer than four or five words since the night when he told her he hated her. For all Valia could tell, the sentiment hadn’t changed. 

   They reached the edge of the Midcharian guarded territory on the twelve day and the next two days found them riding in much tighter formation with one of the soldiers riding further ahead to keep a scouting eye. The land was rolling hills with small groups of wooded clumps here and there, and Captain Oren warned of bandits. 

   Valia was raised in the forests, and while none of the Knights of Arl would claim it they were practically thieves, and she hoped she would still be able to notice the signs of a camp of bandits in the area. 

   Hyg the bard hadn’t vanished since the soldier fell ill and was left behind, and Valia found the man to be a wonderful conversationalist, albeit frequently odd and off topic. His silly charm never faded and he was quick to put in a joke even into conversations he was not a part of, often shouting asides across the camp or down the line of riders. 

   Mostly, Valia had spent her days with Alett, the sweet serving girl from the citadel, and the two potential Spokesmen, Ben and Hal. She forced Ben to read some of his poetry to her and she found that she hoped the boy was good at carpentry, for there didn’t seem to be much hope in his hobby. Hal, on the other hand, was apprenticed to his uncle who was a blacksmith and though Valia assumed he would be larger and more muscled than Ben he was not. Though strong, his frame was more narrow and defined and he might have passed for a courier or gardener before a blacksmith. Perhaps it showed Valia how little she knew about the trades. 

   They rode across a wide but shallow river, likely one that changed depths greatly between seasons, and Valia road next to Hal with Alett tailing just behind. The boy was telling a story about his uncle and a pair of iron bands he couldn’t keep straight, when a crashing sound came from the opposite bank near where the first rider was about to cross onto dry land. Small bushes lined the river and they shook as the sound came to all. 

   Captain Oren held up a fist and the soldiers all backed up, coming together into something of a circle, forming around Valia, the Spokesmen, and the boys. The horses tossed their heads and flapped their lips, blowing puffs of air from their nostrils, and Valia tried to calm her mount with gentle words whispered and soft pats to his neck. 

   “A bear?” one of the soldiers asked quietly. 

   Oren shook his head as he stared at the low brush. It rustled some more, and a roar issued forth. 

   “Ikylong,” said Hyg, and all eyes that could, turned to him. 

   The bard sat high in his saddle with his eyes trained on the shaking brush, his pink scarf up over his mouth and nose as though he was trying to hide his identity or keep out the cold. Both prospects were ridiculous. 

   “Legend,” said one of the soldiers. 

   Hyg reached into one of his saddle bags and produced an apple. He took a bite of the rosy pink skin, pulling his teeth away with a satisfying crunch and a spray of apple pulp, then threw the apple high over head and into the shaking scrub. 

   There was another roar and a dragon burst out of the brush into the shallow edge of the river bank. 

   Quickly, Valia realized it was not a dragon. At least, not the ones from the story books or paintings. 

   It was long, perhaps twice as long as a horse, but as low to the ground as a boar. It had four legs that pistoned out from the wide body at right angles, and the wide body tapered down to a scaly point at the end, a body becoming a tail somewhere after the back legs. The creature had a wide wedge shaped head and no ears. Dark yellow eyes sat inside little ridges on top of the face, and when the thing opened its mouth Valia could see a row of white twisting teeth, each one as long as her finger. The entire beast was a pale green, the color dead moss. 

   It let out a terrible roar and dashed two or three steps forward, spun around, slapped its tail side to side, and then opened its mouth and two skin flaps like little sails on a ship opened up behind the eyes, flaring wide. 

   “Shields!” shouted Hyg, and though he was not the captain his voice spoke with such strong command that the men in the circle closest to the monster held their shields out before them, ready as though they were facing archers. 

   A strange sound came from the creature and a jet of green shot from the depths of its mouth. It hit one of the soldiers, though he was able to block much of it with his shield, but some landed on his horse. It began smoking where it landed and the mount reared and cried out in pain as the venom began eating his flesh. 

   “Break!” shouted Captain Oren, and the circle split up to surround the creature and not give him so many targets all clumped together. 

   Valia retreated further down the river with Alett at her side. The Spokesmen hurried back with her, and for a brief moment she caught Luc’s eye. There was concern there as their eyes met, but it flashed to anger in a second and though he stopped his horse between hers and the monster, he didn’t look back at her and held his reins in tight dark fists. From where they sat, Valia watched the fight. 

   Some of the soldiers were armed with spears and they neared the monster first, riding close enough to jam their weapons down at the scaly green hide. The weapons twisted off and though the monster stumbled, it did not fall and none of the spears pierced flesh. Two of the men had crossbows and they called out for space before letting their bolts fly. The darts ricocheted off the animal and into the river. 

   As one, as though they had a linked mind, the soldiers all stepped their horses back, out of range of the sweeping tail and biting jaws, and out of range of the stinging venom spittle. 

   The creature turned in a slow circle, yellow eyes burned as it surveyed the attackers. The man whose horse had been hit by the venom stood on his feet in the stream, his horse lay next to him crying terribly and twitching, trying to keep his head above water. It seemed that his legs worked no more for they lay splayed at odd angles, the ones above the river’s surface at least, and it was only a matter of seconds before the animal’s head dipped beneath the water and stopped moving. 

   “Draw his attention with your crossbows!” came a shout. 

   It was Hal, the orphan blacksmith, striding through the river up to his knees, his blond hair wet and spraying drops of water over his white tunic, his hands holding a long double handed sword. In that moment, as he marched toward the creature, the beast whirling and looking for an escape or one of the soldiers it could attack, Valia thought she was looking at a hero. Dramatic music played in her mind as the boy strode forward, nearly setting the stage as a theater play. 

    “Sorry, wrong note,” called Hyg, and Valia glanced away from Hal to see the bard playing his violin, bow sliding back and forth across the strings. It was he who was playing the dramatic music. 

   Valia glowered at the bard even though the twin was not looking, and returned her stare to the approaching boy. 

   The creature stopped moving and the flaps raised behind his eyes. Watch out! Valia screamed in her mind, but the boy didn’t cease his advance. Then the mouth of the monster opened and just at the last second, Hal threw himself forward in a tremendous dive, throwing himself under the shooting jet of green poison. He rolled through the water and came up on one knee, the sword tucked close to him and then lunged out in a burst of power, taking the creature right through the mouth. 

   It died in a terrible screeching cry, twisting and thrashing on the two feet of steel buried inside of it, the mouth snapping up and down, flaps opening and closing. No venom came out and the creature finally collapsed, bringing Hal down with it. The boy sank into the water just a bit before pulling his sword out in a burst of strength. He stood, shook water from his hair, and turned back toward his waiting horse as though nothing had happened. 

   The men cheered and some dismounted to help the boy onto his horse, tending to the scrapes the monster’s teeth had given his hands, while others helped the soldier who lost his horse transfer his gear to the packs of others. A few of the men stooped over the monster and cut teeth from its mouth, likely for souvenirs. 

   “Ikylong, Ikylong, poison breath and tail so long, killed Gabe’s horse and screamed and cried, looked so silly while it died. Hal, Hal, one to trust, slayed the monster with one thrust, rolled through river to his goal, stole the monster’s poison soul!” Hyg sang as he strummed his lute, switching instruments when no one was looking. 

   “He seems to be the one you’re looking for,” Valia said to the Spokesmen before her. 

   Luc didn’t turn around but Meino did, a look of wonder in his green eyes. “I have not seen such a measure of poise and strength of will,” said the man. He spoke with an accent that matched his red hair, a foreign color to Raelle. 

   “Did you know he was a swordsman?” asked Valia. 

   Meino shook his head, looking back at the boy where he sat on his horse, cleaning blood and poison from his longsword. “He fit our mold in the mental state of things. We did not take into account his physical nature. Yet, it seems we gained a specimen of the body as well.” 

   “So it would seem,” said Valia. 

  “He could have killed himself,” said Alett, and Valia looked down to see the girl’s face flushed and her hand on her chest, holding tightly a clump of her dress. Valia couldn’t be sure without asking, but she thought she understood the color on the girl’s cheeks very well. 

   Hyg sang on as he strummed his lute, adding verses of Hal’s heroics, making up stories of star travel and giant centipedes and evil humans who drank blood. It was all terrifying and nonsensical and Valia did her best to tune the man out. She walked her horse to where Orem stood, watching his men prepare to depart. 

   “What was that?” she asked without needing to clarify. 

   “Not a dragon,” said the Captain, “though I will admit that was my first thought.”

   Valia smiled, thankful that she was not the only one. “I think the bard is right, as much as I am loath to admit it. There are stories of such reptilian creatures in these parts. The land beneath the civilized world, as civilized as southern Midcharia can be,” he said with a cheeky smile, “is yet cleaned of all monsters. Supposedly, the neck of the land, where we will travel further south with ocean on either side, the beginning of the Quakeslan, is even more corrupted by creatures.” 

   “Wonderful,” said Valia, feeling as though she might be sick, just looking at the corpse of the creature. An Ikylong, seen with her own eyes. Who could have imagined. 

   Hal rode up and gave the Captain a salute, one like the Knights of Arl made, with two fingers together at the center of his forehead, his hand turned sideways. Oren was not of the Knights, he was a captain of the King’s Guard, one whom Kit seemed to have trusted greatly, but the man took the gesture with a smile and a nod. 

   “You faced the beast with bravery and perhaps a bit of ignorance,” said Oren. “Your blade was sharp, where was it forged?” 

   “It was my father’s and his father’s before him. We were trappers in the mountains north of Taro Myule and such a weapon held us against ridgebears and bandits. I kept it with me after my parents died, and only brought it along on this journey for good luck.” 

   “Good luck is what we make of it,” said the Captain. 

   “Yes sir,” nodded the boy. His hands were wrapped over and over and looked like white gloves with some pink marks staining through. He gripped the reins lightly. 

   “Who trained you to fight,” asked Oren. 

   “My uncle,” said the boy. 

   Oren nodded slowly, his eyes narrowed just a little as if he were thinking deeply or attempting to parse out a lie. 

   “If another monster comes, I would urge you to take more precaution,” said the man finally. “You won today, but there is no telling what we might face. We have lifetime soldiers here, son, and though we may not be as quick in our older age, we fight with practice, and practice means something.” 

   Valia watched the boy process this with a bite to the inside of his cheek, but he nodded and saluted again, then stepped his horse away to rejoin Ben. The other boy did not seem jealous of the attention, and laughed with Hal as they walked their horses to the other side of the river. 

   “One man and now a horse,” said Captain Oren, bringing Valia’s attention back to him. The man looked slightly worried, though he hid it well in his rugged face. “We can’t afford to face many more setbacks, or we will have a difficult time returning home. We just have to pray there are no pirates on the oceans, for I have heard they sometimes come ashore in the Quakeslan, a place too dangerous for Midcharian or Southern Eyes naval ships.” 

   “Seems to be a dangerous road ahead?”

   The man nodded grimly. “I fear we have only just begun.”

Chapter 27

   Kit pushed the chair along the hallway, forcing it over cracks in the stone and lips of carpet, the wheels squeaking and groaning under the load. Kit had the chair made earlier that week when the phsyicker told him that it would be good for Rusk to be out in the sunlight for fresh air, and that he had no pain when sitting up. 

   It wasn’t two days later that the monk had requested to leave the physicker’s office and Kit insisted the man stay in his chambers in the citadel so he could take care of him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had gotten the man injured and thus that he was indebted to his recovery. The week was nearing its end and Rusk had asked to visit Borneld to forgive the man to his face. It seemed the most vital tenet of their religion and Kit found he could not prevent the man from doing so, and if he didn’t help him get there the man would crawl on his hands and knees.

   So the chair had been built and Kit wheeled him through the citadel on a warm morning toward the week’s end. The banquet and ball would begin next week, only four days away, and much of the grounds were abuzz with servants running about with decor and niceties, all at Rogo’s whim. In the chaos, Kit realized how valuable the man was, and though it drove him a little mad that there was so much bustle around, he knew it was a necessary evil. 

   There was no bustle, however, in the halls below the Citadel proper, the place where the gaol was. Kit had Borneld moved to a solitary cell, a room of stone and mortar set with an ironwood door. Rogo insisted the man be executed, but Kit couldn’t bring himself to make the edict. The advisor argued that the solitary punishment might be worse than death, the longer the man was held in the cell. Kit couldn’t argue with that, but he didn’t know how long was too long. It seemed that perhaps they were nearing the end, if Rusk could make his forgiveness, it would be the last act that Borneld was needed for. 

   “It is a joyless place,” the monk said with sadness. He was still wrapped in bandages, though his healing had gone much quicker than the old woman had anticipated. She made it a point to let Kit know it as often as she could. 

   “Your god is kind,” she would say, and Rusk would just smile and nod. 

   Though his jaw bones were destroyed, the man had regained much of his facial strength in only the week and a half since he was beaten, and Kit almost wondered if the woman had been wrong about her diagnosis. That, or there was some powerful magic at play. If it was sent from the man’s god, Kit wondered if he should try to find the deity, for that was power indeed. 

   “Prisons are not meant to be joyful places,” Kit said as they walked. 

   “Defeats the purpose,” said Ulrig. The man wouldn’t let Kit go alone and walked slightly behind them, holding a lantern to light the way between wall lamps. 

   They reached the door set in the wall, a large wooden thing that seemed as if it were built to withstand battering rams, and Kit pushed the rolling chair out of the way so Ulrig could produce a key. 

   The lock was an intricate thing, with two holes for two keys, turned in succession to unlock a crossbar that, when raised, would allow the door to move on a hinge. Previous kings had needed the security, it seemed. 

   Ulrig turned the keys, raised the bar, and pushed the door open a crack. He held the lantern high and drew his sword, then pushed the door open just enough so he could step inside. 

   After a moment the door swung upon fully to show Ulrig standing in the cell, his sword raised in one hand, the lantern high in the other, shining a glow of light around the cell. The empty cell. 

   Kit left Rusk for a moment to step inside after his guard, and found that little more could be seen from within than from without. There was nothing there. 

   Shackles lay chained to the wall, two sets for wrists and ankles. Kit knelt down before them and examined the locks. No damage, no breakage, it was as though they hadn’t been used in a while. 

   “Is this the right cell?” Kit asked. 

   “He’s gone?” called Rusk from the hallway. 

   Kit and Ulrig exited. “No one there,” Kit said. 

   “I’ll find the captain of the gaol,” said Ulrig, and jogged off, leaving the lantern behind. 

    Suddenly, Kit felt vulnerable without his broadsword and touched the dried meat pouch at his waist, reading to eat in case something dangerous came. Ulrig’s jogging footfalls faded away until there was no sound but Kit and Rusk’s breathing. 

   “Sad place,” the monk said again. 

   “Sad indeed,” came a deep voice from the shadows. 

   Kit spun and looked the opposite way from whence Ulrig ran, and saw a figure stepping from the dark. He was huge, muscle bound without a tunic on, his wrists raw where shackles had held him tight, his hair and beard unkempt, and his dark eyes wide and crazy. 

  “Who let you free?” Kit asked, slipping his fingers into his pouch to find some of the goat meat. 

   Borneld stepped further out of the shadow and Kit saw the wicked hammer in his hand. It hung at his side, blood glistening on the end. 

   “I have friends too, little fox,” said the man. “Arloth was one long ago, the father you would never have.” 

   “He was my father,” Kit protested, taking a piece of meat from the pouch and forming a fist around it. He did it all with Rusk’s head blocking his motions. 

   “You didn’t let me mourn him,” said the man taking another lumbering step forward. “You buried him without giving me a chance to see him one last time. You let him die while I stood in the dung filled streets of this city!”

   It was the same story the man had told before, when Kit moved him from the joint gaol cell to the one he stood outside now. 

   “Eadric wouldn’t have wanted you there, after the way you betrayed his trust.” 

   This was the wrong thing to say, for the man moved quickly forward, his lumbering gait gone. 

   “My king,” said Rusk carefully. 

   Kit had no sword, and the ceremonial knife at his hip would do nothing but anger the man. He chewed and swallowed the goma meat as fast as he could, then gripped the back of the chair and pulled the monk quickly into the solitary cell. 

   “No!” shouted Borneld, but Kit was too fast, slamming the door shut and hitting it with his shoulder once, hard. The jarring motion knocked the drop bar into place and though Kit couldn’t lock the door from his side, he could brace himself against the floor stones and push against Borneld with all his might. Ulrig would return with the captain of the gaol, and the brute would be caught again. 

   But Borneld did not throw his weight against the door, did not shout and pound the bloody hammer on the wood either. He only stood there, his bare feet casting shadows through the food slot at the door’s bottom. 

   “You can not hide forever,” said the man. He sounded drunk.

   “I forgive you,” Rusk said suddenly, his face a pale mask in the dark. 

   Kit narrowed his eyes at the man, holding all of his elevated strength against the door. 

   “Who speaks?” asked Borneld. “The little man in the chair? I know you not.” 

   “It was I who–” 

   “I care not!” roared Borneld. “Take my word on this, little fox,” the man went on, more calmly, “You will not see the snow fall before your life will end. I vow upon Arloth and Eadric, men whom you will never be.”

   Then, his footfalls sounded departing and soon vanished entirely. Kit still pressed against the door until Ulrig returned with the captain, calling for Kit as he did so, the panic not lost in his voice. 

   Kit pushed Rusk from the room and told them of what had happened. Ulrig was angry with himself for leaving Kit alone, and the captain of the gaol confirmed that they were at the correct cell. He seemed entirely embarrassed that the man had escaped and after examining the shackles as Kit had, determined also that they had not broken. 

   “Forgive me, my liege, but I have a mole among my men.” 

   “Or there is an outsider who stole a set of keys,” said Kit. “Do not fear, there are many clandestine affairs in this Citadel, and they do not start or end in this hallway. Do your best to find what you can, and I will do my part.” 

   The captain continued to apologize even as Kit and Ulrig left the place with Rusk pushed before them. When they reached the outside world, the monk spoke. 

   “I tried,” he said. “But he did not know me.” 

   “He is a monster,” said Ulrig. “It might be surprising that he knew the king.” 

   “He does not see me as king,” Kit said. Rats and moles and spies with wings, all building in time for a banquet with foreign rulers. Wonderful.