Dragonfire (9 page)

“Did I not warn you—?” he began.

“Over there,” Dahl interrupted. “That boy—he’s been hurt.”

The guard hesitated, then looked to where Dahl was pointing. The stallion pranced nervously back and forth in the narrow confines of its cell. Foam flew as it tossed its head. The body of the slave lay inert, crumpled into one corner. The guard glared at Dahl, but sheathed his sword. He strode over to the stall, looked at the fallen boy and uttered an oath.

“One of our best workers. A waste.” Without further words he turned back to Dahl. “There’s something for you to do now, slave.” He unchained Dahl, then motioned to the stall. “Bring out the body of that fool and throw it in the courtyard. Then take his place and clean that stall thoroughly. Mind you do not upset the horse further. It is the Master’s own and possessed with the temper of a devil, but if you allow it to injure itself you will be hanged by your thumbs until you die—if the horse doesn’t kill you first.”

Dahl stood up and rubbed his throbbing wrists. He stared at the stallion. The stallion returned his stare with wild, rolling eyes, and tossed its mane furiously. Dahl took a step forward. He looked around, but none of the other slaves would meet his glance. He took another step. The stallion let out a shriek of defiance. Dahl put his hand on the stall door. The fear he felt was such that, for a moment, the stable careened around him and he thought he would swoon again. His knees became water; he clutched at the door to keep from falling.

In that moment, he looked straight into the stallion’s eyes. Dragonfire there was not, but there was fire. And something else as well. Dahl became absolutely still. He felt a jolt, almost as if all the energy in the horse had shot through to him. His knees strengthened; he dropped his hold on the stall gate and straightened up. The stallion shuddered, a
deep skin-wrenching shiver, but it quietened. Dahl opened the stall gate. His eyes unwavering and still fixed on the stallion’s, he walked in. Memories of the winged horse flooded through him, mixed and mingled with the sight of the horse now in front of him. He came up to it and stopped. The stallion gave one last convulsive shudder, then lowered its head. Dahl reached out one hand and laid it on the broad forehead. The stallion stood immobile for an instant, accepting the homage, then it raised its head again and looked once more full at Dahl. The insanity was gone from its eyes. There was understanding this time. And respect.

The stallion stood quietly while Dahl dragged the body of the slave out of the stall and carried him to the courtyard. Carefully, Dahl laid the boy down in the cleanest corner he could find, in a small spot of shadow. The boy was dead; there was nothing more he could do for him. Then he returned to the stallion’s stall. The horse had not moved; in fact, it seemed as if it had been watching for Dahl’s return. It stood quietly while Dahl cleaned out the dirty straw and brought in fresh. It stood quietly while Dahl filled the water trough and the feed bucket. It even stood quietly when Dahl found a brush and began to curry it.

The guard kept close by, safely outside the stall. He had his sword drawn, but it hung from his hand as if forgotten. He did not speak again to Dahl. A
stunned, almost frightened look grew in his eyes as he watched Dahl work.

That evening Dahl was not rechained to the stall, but was allowed to go out of the stable with the other prisoners. He had no idea what to do, but followed the others. In silence, they lined up at the kitchen door. The old woman came out and began ladling a thin sort of soup into bowls. As each slave reached for a bowl, she also gave him a crust of bread. When it came to Dahl’s turn, he saw with surprise that he had been mistaken. The woman was not old; in fact, she was a girl probably not much older than Dahl himself. Her face was lined and wrinkled with despair, not age; her body bent with naught but overwork and illness.

He took his bowl thankfully, his stomach knotting convulsively at the smell of the food, then followed the others into a kind of pen with straw pallets on the floor. Each slave chose a pallet and sat himself down on it, then began to drink his soup. Dahl noticed that most of them tore their bits of bread into two pieces and tucked one piece into the straw of their pallet. His mouth curled in disgust. The pallets were filthy.

The soup was thin and cold. A solitary morsel of the strange, turnip-like vegetable was all that floated in it, but Dahl was so hungry that he drank it thankfully in one huge gulp. He tore at the piece of bread and ate it in two bites. Only then did he notice that none of the others had finished. They were drinking their soup slowly in small sips, making it last as long as possible.

A boy of about Dahl’s own age sat on the pallet next to his. When this boy finally finished his soup, he reached in with his fingers and drew out his shred of turnip. He put it in his mouth, then closed his eyes and savored it. He looked back into his bowl, took the piece of bread that he had not tucked into his pallet, and wiped out the inside of the bowl with it. He sucked the liquid out of the bread, then wiped the bowl with it again, and yet again, until he finally put the bread, too, into his mouth. Dahl was aghast at the performance, but his own hunger had not been appeased at all by the meager meal, and he found himself staring at the other’s food with a painful intensity.

When at last the boy had finished, he looked up at Dahl. The door to the pen had been closed, and in the gathering darkness low voices were beginning to be heard here and there.

“I saw what you did with Magnus,” the boy said cautiously, his eyes darting around to make certain he was not being observed. “It was magic! Are you a wizard, then?”

“A wizard? Of course not!” Dahl answered. His voice rang loud; several of the others looked at him, startled.

The boy motioned to him to be more quiet.

“They don’t bother us if we talk in here, but only if they can’t hear us. Be careful,” he whispered. Then he went on. “No, it’s not likely that a wizard would be in here, it it? But I’ve heard tell of wizards—men who have magical powers over animals and over other men as well. And no one has ever tamed Magnus before except the Master himself. It has killed five men just since I’ve been here.” He looked at Dahl with something approaching awe in his face. “How did you do it, then?”

Dahl hesitated. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I just looked at it. It was almost as if we knew each other already…” His words died out. Truthfully, he had no idea what had really happened in that stall. “Is that the horse’s name? Magnus?”

“It is, and it belongs to the Master himself. None but the Master has ever ridden it. It is a wondrous beast.”

“Truly, it is,” Dahl answered, “and yet, I know of another even more wondrous.”

“Even more wondrous?” The boy was incredulous. “Surely that is not possible.”

“It is,” Dahl insisted, but went no further. He knew not whether the winged horse was still alive. He knew not whether he would ever see it again. Or
Catryn. At the thought of Catryn his heart twisted. Then the enormity of his plight suddenly engulfed him. The small triumph he had felt at gaining entrance to the castle vanished. What good did it do him, locked up here?

In the morning he found out why the others had saved bits of their bread.

The guards threw open the door to the pen before it was yet light.

“Rouse yourselves!” they shouted, and began striding up and down between the rows of slaves, hitting out ruthlessly with their cudgels, sometimes even with the flat of their swords. The boys and men struggled to their feet, cowering at the blows. A few remained where they lay, ominously still.

They lined up. Dahl fell in behind the boy who had been his neighbor during the night. Surreptitiously, the boy slipped his leftover bit of bread into his shirt.

“Out! Out, you lazy wastrels! There is work to be done!”

Dahl kept close to the boy in front of him and followed his lead in all that he did. He was terrified that he would do something wrong and be singled
out. His only safety was to remain an anonymous part of the mob, but as they straggled out into the courtyard, the guards began separating them.

“You!” The guard pointed to the boy in front of Dahl. “Over there.” The boy shuffled over to the space indicated.

“You!” He pointed now to Dahl. “You are strong and healthy, over there as well.” With an irrational sense of relief, Dahl hastened to stand beside the boy. In all this confusion and strangeness, he felt as if the boy were his only friend.

Their labor this day was to haul huge logs from where they had been dumped at the castle gates to a clearing at one side of the compound. Others there were already at work splitting them and sizing them. They worked without ceasing until the sun had risen high into the heavens. At one point Dahl found himself alone with the boy as they worked together to haul one log. The boy looked quickly around and, seeing no one watching them, pulled out his bread. He tore the already small piece into two and pressed one half into Dahl’s hand. “Eat it quickly,” he hissed. “It’s all you’ll see until evening.”

Dahl’s immediate instinct was to refuse. In spite of the boy’s generosity, he couldn’t help recoiling at the sight of that gray and dirt-encrusted lump, but his stomach hastened to decide the issue for him.

“Thank you,” he whispered back. He held out his
hand to the boy. “I am Dahl,” he said. “I will remember your kindness.”

A wry smile flickered across the boy’s lips. “Much good that will do me, I’m sure, but you’re welcome, anyway.” He held out his own hand and grasped Dahl’s. “I am called Bruhn.”

Dahl tried to keep track of the time, but as the days passed he lost count. He made plan after plan in his mind as he lay on his pallet after the day’s work was done, but the guards were everywhere. The only time the slaves were left alone was at night in the pen. He had circled the enclosure quietly several times after the others were asleep, but had found no way out. The pen was made of stout stakes, set side by side with not even a slit between them. There was no roof, and although the days were warm, the nights were cool. When it rained, their lives were
made yet more miserable. The stakes were so high, and were sharpened to such murderous points at the top, that escape by climbing them was impossible. He and Bruhn were kept at work on the logs during the days, and the guards were doubly vigilant then. He began to despair. His initial exultation at being inside the castle died. It was to no avail. He was so closely watched, it was impossible to make a move that was not overseen by the guards.

In the nightly darkness, his mind turned often to Catryn. What was happening with her? With the horse? Sometimes, in the depths of his misery, he began to feel he had only imagined them. That they didn’t really exist. That they were only a dream he had had in the hopeless nights of his imprisonment. The loss of the Protector was real to him, though, and was a continuing pain that burned as deeply as the dragon scar on his face.

At night, Bruhn was eager to talk before going to sleep. He was curious beyond belief about the world outside Daunus. He questioned Dahl incessantly, but Dahl was evasive. He said only that he was from a much smaller village very far away, and that he had wanted to catch a glimpse of the famous city of Daunus and had been captured by outlaws. Bruhn was much more forthcoming.

“I am a citizen of Daunus,” he told Dahl. In spite of everything, he announced the fact with pride. Daunus was, after all, the largest city in Taun. “I was
born and brought up here. I knew it was forbidden to leave the city, but as I grew older I began to burn with a greater and greater curiosity to see what lay outside my own town.” He looked at Dahl enviously. “We were so penned in, Dahl. You can’t understand how it made me feel. I knew there was a whole different world outside our city walls, and I could not bear that I was not allowed to explore it.”

“I know how you feel better than you can imagine,” Dahl said quietly. He thought back to the inn that had been his only home for sixteen years. He, too, had been forbidden to explore beyond its boundaries, but at least he had always known that one day he would do so.

Bruhn shook his head. “You cannot possibly,” he argued. “After a time I became almost crazed with the notion that I had to escape. Had to see for myself what lay out there. I snuck out after dark one night and tried to climb the wall that ran behind our house. It was a futile attempt. Stupid. I was caught by the guards immediately.” Bruhn’s voice trembled with bitterness.

“They could have killed me, I suppose, but because I was young and healthy, they sentenced me to slavery instead. Another, slower form of death.”

Dahl could not see his face in the darkness before star rise, but he heard Bruhn take a deep breath.

“I saw, though. I saw the fields beyond the city. And I saw hills—hills that you have wandered
through, Dahl. How I envy you,” he said. His voice trailed off with a sigh. “I had to try, Dahl,” he said. “I couldn’t live my life shut up like a trapped moth. I had to try.”

Every night he questioned Dahl about the way things were outside Daunus. His questioning was a threat, Dahl knew, but his friendship was the one thing that kept Dahl from lapsing into complete hopelessness.

Then, one morning, Dahl was assigned back to work in the stables.

“You’re the boy who managed not to get himself killed, aren’t you, tending to the Master’s horse?” a guard asked him.

Dahl nodded.

“Well, get back there and see what you can do today. We’ve lost two more to that demon, and the Master wants it made ready this morning.”

Dahl’s heart lifted. To work in the stables might not offer any better chance of escape, but, then again, maybe some opportunity would present itself there. At least it was a chance. And the guard had said that the Master wanted his horse made ready. The Usurper himself! Could it be possible that Dahl would see him?

Before he even entered the stables, he could hear the stallion screaming and the thud of hooves against wood. A man rushed by him, blood streaming from his forehead.

“The devil himself lurks within that beast!” he cursed as he pushed roughly by Dahl. “I’ll not go near it again. Where is the slave who is to tend it?” he shouted.

“I am here,” Dahl answered.

The man whipped around to face him. “Better you than me,” he growled. “Get to it, then. The Master wants it made ready within the hour.”

Dahl entered the low-roofed building and walked to Magnus’s stall. The horse was lunging and beating in fury at the stall door and walls with its hooves. When it saw what seemed to be the figure of yet another enemy standing by its stall, it let out a scream of rage, but Dahl didn’t allow himself to hesitate. If he thought about what he had to do, he would lose courage, he knew it. He could only trust that the stallion would remember him. That he had been right about the bonding he had felt so strongly between himself and the animal.

With a quick motion, he unlatched the gate and slipped in. The stallion screamed and, for one terrifying moment, reared above him. Dahl forced himself to stand, waiting, every fiber of his being shrinking away from the hooves slicing through the air toward him. He knew with a dreadful certainty that if he flinched, the horse would kill him instantly.

“Magnus,” he said. The name was spoken softly, too low to be heard by anyone else above the shrieking of the enraged animal.

The stallion shuddered. It dropped to a standstill. Its hooves missed Dahl by a hair’s breadth. It quivered. Skin rippled along the length of its gleaming, sweat-soaked withers and flanks.

“Magnus,” Dahl repeated. He took a step forward, hand outstretched. The horse tossed its mane, threw back its head, then exhaled a deep, puffing sigh through its nostrils. It lowered its head and butted Dahl’s hand gently.

Dahl groomed and curried the horse. He fed it and gave it water, then saddled it and made it ready. When he was finished, he called out to the man who had spoken to him when he arrived.

“The horse is ready.”

The man had been standing at a prudent distance, watching unbelievingly. Now he shook his head as Dahl came out and latched the stall gate behind him.

“I would not have believed such a thing if I had not seen it with my own eyes.” He looked at Dahl curiously, so befuddled with wonder that he forgot to give Dahl any further orders.

Dahl made haste to take advantage of it. He melted back into the stable shadows and, as soon as the man left, took cover behind a bale of hay, where he could hide and watch without being seen himself.

He did not have long to wait. A bustle at the stable entrance drew his attention. Two guards, heavily armored and bearing swords in their scabbards, swept in. The slaves who had been working in the
stable scurried to get out of their way. One, slower than the rest, caught a cuff on the ear before he could evade it.

“Out! Everyone out!” the guards’ voices thundered through the stables. Several of the other horses stirred nervously. The stable emptied of slaves within the instant. Dahl shrank back behind the hay.

The light pouring through the entranceway was suddenly blocked by a figure. With the sun streaming from behind him, the features of the being who strode in were hidden from Dahl, but an impossible feeling of familiarity swept through him, shocking him with its intensity. At that exact instant, the figure froze in mid-stride. Dahl could see his head swing back and forth, as if testing the air. Dahl stopped breathing. He had to keep the Usurper from invading his mind if he was to prevent him from knowing that Dahl was right here in the stable with him.

Dahl concentrated on forcing a shutter down over his thoughts, closing them off from the figure in front of him. Time itself appeared to stop. The figure in the doorway seemed to grow larger, to fill all the space in front of Dahl’s eyes. Dahl felt as if he were being drawn in, sucked toward an invisible, inexorable vortex. He almost raised his arms to protect himself, to break the current. Then he closed his eyes and concentrated on drawing in upon himself,
shielding himself behind an impenetrable shell.

A voice broke the silence.

“Where are you?” There was excitement in the words. Anticipation. “I can feel you. You are near! I thought I had lost you…” The figure turned, as if searching. “You are close. Very close. I know not where, you have learned to hide yourself well, but it matters not.” He whipped back around. “I will find you. Oh, yes. I will find you.”

Dahl felt rather than heard the figure stride past him and on to the stallion’s stall, then horse and master thundered out. He let out his pent-up breath and sank back against the wall, all the strength in his body drained out of him. So this was the Usurper. Frightening, yes—the pounding thuds of Dahl’s heart told him how terrified he had been—but why was his enemy so familiar? Even the voice. It hissed with hatred, but it was so like his, it could have been his own.

That night Dahl lay motionless for a long time on his pallet, staring up at the sky above him. The two great stars rose and filled the pen with their soft light. His mind was seething. The Usurper, whoever he was, was the same age as he. He, Dahl, had been
replaced as a babe, by a babe. But it was hard to think of the figure he had seen in the stable as a boy such as Dahl was himself. The Usurper seemed so much bigger—so much more powerful. Was that the gift of evil, then? Evil, the Usurper was; Dahl knew that. The Protector had told Dahl that as soon as he had grown old enough, the Usurper had seized power from Launan. He had had his uncle imprisoned in one of the deepest dungeons of the castle. No one had heard of him since. It was long supposed that, his usefulness over, he had died. Or been murdered.

“Dahl.” Bruhn’s hiss broke through his thoughts.

Dahl looked over, his eyes blank.

“I thought you bewitched,” Bruhn whispered. “I have been trying to speak to you, but you seemed not to hear or sense anything. What has happened?”

“I saw the Master today. The Usurper.”

“Usurper? Why call you the Master that?”

Dahl started. He focused on his friend’s face, a pale glimmer in the darkness surrounding them. “Do you know how he came to be the Master?” he asked.

“Why…I have never thought of it,” Bruhn answered, his brow furrowing. “He is just—the Master. He has always been so. Always will be.”

“Does no one remember who was Master before him? Does no one remember a good king and his queen who ruled this country with love and kindness? Have you never heard the name Launan?”

Bruhn looked at Dahl as if fearing that he had taken leave of his senses. “Never…” he began, then he stopped. “Stay! I did hear my parents talking once, when they thought I slept. They did mention Launan, a man they called evil, but they spoke of him as if he were dead. When they realized I was awake, they stopped, and never spoke of it again. I had forgotten that…What means this, Dahl?” Bruhn looked at Dahl as if seeing him for the first time. “How do you know such things?” he asked.

“I have heard legends only,” Dahl answered hastily. “In the hills where I come from, they like to sit around in the evenings and invent things. Pay me no mind.”

“You are allowed to sit around in the evenings together?” Bruhn asked quickly. In the wonder of such freedom, he seemed to forget the mention of a king and queen.

Dahl was at a loss again. He truly had no knowledge of how the folk outside Daunus lived, aside from the Sele, and he had no wish to discuss them and possibly bring danger on them as well.

“What does the Master look like?” he asked quickly, hoping to divert Bruhn’s interest. “I could not see his face.”

Bruhn looked at Dahl incredulously. “I have no idea what the Master looks like,” he exclaimed. “No one is allowed to look upon him. It is a crime punishable with instant death. You must always keep
your eyes lowered to the ground if you are anywhere near him. How is it you escaped today?”

“I was hiding. He saw me not. But the sun was behind him and I could not make out his features.”

“You were fortunate indeed.” Bruhn shook his head. “You must not do that again, Dahl. You would be killed for certain.”

“But I must know—”

A curse and a shout from outside the pen interrupted them.

“You in there! I hear voices! Be quiet or suffer the consequences!”

“One of the guards must be in a fouler humor than usual,” Bruhn whispered, but he rolled over and said no more.

Dahl was left to stare at the stars rolling slowly by overhead. The Usurper had not known how close he, Dahl, had been to him. He had not been able to find him. As powerful as he was, Dahl had been able to thwart him.

Perhaps, Dahl thought, there is hope.

Sleep had been impossible. Dahl was so tired that he was only half-awake when he lined up with the others for his evening bowl of soup the next day. He
took his bread, but didn’t look up when the woman spooned out his portion. Suddenly, however, the woman made an awkward movement and knocked Dahl’s bowl out of his hands. He stared with dismay as the contents spilled into the dirt. All he had had to eat that day was the meager bit of bread he had learned to save from his previous night’s meal. He looked at the woman, knowing full well she would not refill his bowl, but desperate at the thought of going without his soup. Their rations were so impossibly skimpy that he was already weak and sick with hunger most of the time. Soon he would not be able to act to free himself, even if a chance did arise.

The woman’s hood covered most of her face, but as Dahl stared at her imploringly, she raised her head. Green eyes flashed. A jolt ran through Dahl’s body. It was Catryn!

“Move on!” The man behind Dahl growled at him under his breath and gave him a rough push. What was he to do? He had to do something—now! Without further thought, he allowed his limbs to go loose and he fell to the ground.