DragonKnight (3 page)

         
3
         

T
HREE!

Bardon dragged the snake’s body farther into the woods than was necessary. With every step, he pondered the question of what his reaction should be to these two inconvenient women.

Gracious Wulder, by Sir Dar’s example, I know that when someone is in need, that need takes precedence over any personal plan. So, here I quibble. Where it would be expected to set aside a personal plan, it would be unacceptable to ignore a mandate from You. Is my sabbatical a personal plan or a divine assignment?

The snake’s body snagged on a bush, jerking Bardon to a halt. He turned and yanked. It didn’t budge. He walked back, held the lower branches back with his foot, and pulled. The bush let go, and he trudged on along the narrow path. He entered a forest glade and headed for the other side.

You and I both know that there really aren’t two choices, but only one. You wouldn’t have put this need in my path if You didn’t want me to react as You’ve taught me. I will do as You require.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Bardon unsheathed his sword at the first rumbling growl. He let the dead weight of the snake slip from his fingers and took a step backward. Crouching with his weapon ready, he looked into the cool yellow eyes of a five-foot-long mountain cat. Just within the line of trees, the animal pressed its entire body close to the ground, legs bent, ready to pounce. Golden stripes adorned the animal’s tan hide. The cat’s tufted ears lay back against its skull. With its lips pulled back, the wild beast’s snarl showed pointed teeth.

“I am
really
not in the mood for this, cat.”

A growl vibrated through the meadow. The cat’s tail swept back and forth across the forest floor.

“Wouldn’t you like this snake for dinner? You can have it. My treat.”

The cat stepped forward.

“Believe me, the snake would be a tastier, easier dinner.”

He inched back. The cat inched closer.

Bardon sighed. He flexed his fingers on the hilt of the sword. The weapon had been crafted by Wizard Fenworth and placed in Bardon’s hand by Paladin himself. On the occasions he’d had to use the sword, it had never failed him. Sometimes, he thought Fenworth had embedded special powers within the weapon. Other times, he thought Wulder had blessed the blade for righteousness. But killing a mountain cat over a dead snake did not seem to be a noble cause. Still, being eaten seemed less than a noble end to his career as a knight. He pulled his hunting knife out and balanced the two weapons.

Bardon’s lip twitched in humor. Greer would tell him this awkward situation was his own fault. “Never mess with a snake,” was the dragon’s creed.

“Never mess with a mountain cat” is more apropos at the moment.

Where are you, Greer?

He watched the cat as he listened for the mental connection to his dragon. Greer answered readily, having already placed a large giddinfish on the grass in front of the fair N’Rae. As usual, the dragon’s take on Bardon’s problem sounded impertinent. Bardon concentrated on the wild animal before him as he responded.

I do not think the cat prefers warm-blooded, fresh meat to cold, dead snake. But I prefer not to test your theory. Could you hurry a bit? I want to be out of here before I become its next meal.

He managed to ease backward a few steps before the cat prowled into the meadow. The feline warily approached the serpent carcass, nose quivering, large eyes on the man, not the snake.

Yes, of course I want a ride, Greer. This is ill-timed humor.

The cat didn’t come straight at him, but sashayed in zigzag fashion, always with whiskers trembling and eyes fixed on the man. Bardon held his sword and knife ready but hoped Greer would reach them before he had to fight.

He had plenty of battlefield experience. He’d matched prowess with skilled bisonbeck soldiers. He’d engaged many grawligs, and they were barbarous creatures.

One-on-one with a wild cat involves different skills. Wild beasts fight with a finesse lacking in the savage low races. Still, I’ve fought a trundle bear and won.
Bardon shook his head slightly and clenched his weapons.
But trundles are a smallish bear. Not at all in the same class as this beast.
He looked at the magnificent cat, a creation of Wulder, and willed Greer to swoop in over the trees.

The dragon’s grumbling rolled through his thoughts, and he answered.

It’s not my fault you gorged yourself on fish and berries…I know you like to nap after a feast…I’m not the one who offered to catch dinner for the women…The sooner you get me out of here, the sooner you can stretch out beside the lake and bask in the afternoon sun.

The cat curled its lip and snarled.

Hurry!

He had succeeded in reaching the forest line. The snake’s remains lay in two pieces across the middle of the clearing. The cat stopped and sniffed. The animal’s head jerked back, its chin lifted to the sky, and it roared.

Shivers surged over Bardon’s arms and back. He flexed his fingers on the hilt of the sword, then the hand that held the knife. The muscles across the cat’s shoulders bunched. Its paws kneaded the ground.

“Getting ready to attack, aren’t you?” Bardon noted his hands squeezing and relaxing on the handles of his weapons, much as the great feline kneaded the turf. The squire grunted. “Well, so am I! But I’d prefer to just go our separate ways. You go have dinner with the snake. I’ll go eat fish with the emerlindian ladies.”

The cat licked its lips.

“No, kitty.” Bardon kept his voice low and soothing. “This is a bad idea.”

A rumble emanated from the cat’s throat, and it sprang across the dead snake, launching himself directly at the sword. Bardon twirled out of the way, allowing the animal to fly past and crash into the underbrush of the forest. The cat recovered and thrashed out of the branches, leaving a mangled bush behind. It charged Bardon, who stepped aside barely in time. He pricked the cat’s shoulder as it went by.

The feline didn’t charge again but circled. Bardon carefully kept turning, sword and knife at the ready.

“I didn’t want to do that, cat. But you don’t appear to be familiar with the high races and their weapons. This blade hurts. You should avoid it.”

Leathery wings beat the air above them. The cat snarled and crouched, backing toward the woods.

Bardon sheathed his weapons and waited. Greer landed in front of him, bellowed at the cat, and flashed his large, sharp teeth. His tail lay flat on the ground, pointed directly at his rider. Bardon ran up the incline of the tail, sat high on the dragon’s back, and hooked his feet under the shoulder joints of the wings. He pressed his body against the back of Greer’s neck and gripped the spikes that protruded from where the dragon’s head joined his neck.

Not exactly comfortable because of the ridges running down Greer’s back, Bardon nonetheless felt secure. He’d ridden bareback before in many training sessions.

The dragon spread his wings and lifted into the air. The cat darted into the cover of the trees.

That worked. It’ll go off and lick that wound I gave it. Possibly, it has learned to be more cautious of the high races. “To the wise one, a prick on the finger avoids a hole in the heart.”

Greer snorted and shook his head.

Yes, I know I don’t need to quote Wulder to you. It’s habit. For three years, I’ve had to back up every action of the day to Scribe Moran at the evening vespers. The girder exercise, you know? An act of will must be consciously chosen with principles to support the deed, and ramifications accounted.

The dragon stretched his wings, caught a thermal, and circled. Bardon knew Greer found the tedious girder ritual boring. But the young squire knew it was necessary. The practice forced novices to order their lives, and the exercise prevented chaos. But Greer would not prolong any conversation dealing with girdering.

Yes, I know you have rescued me twice in one day. Pardon me for not expressing my gratitude more promptly…Of course I’m aware that your loyalty is a blessing of great practical value.

The dragon continued to circle, rising higher. Bardon felt the chill as they climbed. With Greer’s droll comments still registering in the back of his mind, the squire turned his attention to Wulder. After years of study in The Hall and under Sir Dar, he still didn’t have a grasp of what to expect from his Creator.

You’ve sent me on sabbatical, Wulder. I know You order my days. What is the purpose of a writher snake, a hungry cat, and these women?

Oh, Greer, give it a rest. Let’s return to these two women and find out just what their quest is. Maybe they only need an escort down to the valley to market.

Three? Three! Three women?

         
4
         

B
IG
S
URPRISES

The aromas of baked bread and fried fish wafting from the cabin did much to improve Bardon’s temper. He slid off Greer’s back and strode toward the open door. Getting rid of three females shouldn’t be much harder than dispensing with two.

I’ll find out what this quest of theirs is, then offer to escort them to the nearest town where they can find appropriate help.

He paused.

Greer can’t carry three women and me. That means a hike down the mountain. Three days. Bintuppi is the closest town. A walk across the foothills. Best to follow the Gilpen River. Two days. Time consuming, but doable.

He veered off to the well and pumped a bucket of water. A bar of soap sat in an earthen bowl, and a towel hung on the stone siding. Bardon washed his hands and face. He wanted to change his damp clothing, but the meal smelled as though it was ready to serve.

Bardon smoothed his hair over his ears, rebuttoned his tunic, and walked through the door with a smile on his face.

On the kitchen table sat a brown loaf of bread, a platter of fried fish, a bowl of wild greens…and a tiny table. In the chair beside the fist-sized table sat a gray, furry creature wearing a cape. The material oddly resembled the dress N’Rae now wore. A belt woven from thin strips of brightly colored cloth encircled the creature’s waist. A long tail wrapped around the carved wooden chair she sat upon.

A plump figure covered with fur, the creature appeared to be more beast than intelligent race. But her tiny black eyes studied him warily, and her face carried an expression of consideration. Between round, stand-up ears sat a bleached mobcap, white, frilly, and completely incongruous. The maids at the castle wore such hats, and Bardon had never figured out why. The head covering did not keep the sun off, hide unruly hair, or look becoming. On the funny little person, the prissy, starched cap looked comical.

Bardon’s eyes shifted to Granny Kye, then N’Rae.

Careful, young Squire.
He could almost hear Sir Dar’s voice in his ear.
Many a test of your ability to be a knight is not in how you tackle grand endeavors, but how you treat a small circumstance.

Bardon took several steps into the room and bowed before the tiny woman on the table. “I would like to be presented, Mistress.”

N’Rae rushed to the table, taking his arm and giving it a little squeeze. He liked the warmth the contact gave him. The young emerlindian radiated friendliness, and the joy in her expression thawed a spot in his heart.

She nodded to the creature on the table. “This is Jue Seeno. She’s a minneken from the Isle of Kye.”

Isle of Kye?
Bardon’s eyebrows shot upward.
How could anyone be from an inaccessible island? And didn’t that granny say her name is Granny Kye?
He made a concerted effort to tame the surprise he felt.

“How do you do, Mistress Jue Seeno?”

He heard a squeak.

N’Rae tugged at his sleeve. “You’ll have to get closer to understand her words.”

Bardon knelt beside the table as if he were kneeling before a sovereign of one of the many provinces of Amara.

“I am well. Thank you,” said Mistress Seeno with a nod of her head.

Her high-pitched voice barely reached his ears. He leaned forward slightly and cocked his head.

The minneken smiled. “And you?”

Bardon blinked, and a grin spread across his face. “Pardon me, Mistress, but I am trying to remember every bit of geography, history, and folklore of the Isle of Kye. Until this moment, I thought Kye was the name of an inaccessible island.”

“It is mostly inaccessible.” Her small, twinkling black eyes moved to Granny Kye. When the minneken smiled, a row of tiny white teeth gleamed between thin lips. The front two were quite a bit larger than the rest. “There have always been members of the Kye family who fly in on the strongest dragons. The air currents are as treacherous as the pounding surf battering our sheer cliffs.”

“Am I right in assuming that Granny Kye is a member of that family and has visited the Isle?”

“Partially. She is a Kye of Kye Island but was born on the mainland. I don’t think she has ever ventured out to our little paradise.”

Granny Kye shook her head and placed a hand on her chest. “Oh dear, no. Never.”

Jue Seeno tapped her fingertips together, then folded her hands in her lap. “Very rarely does one of the minnekens leave the isle.” She preened a bit, one small gray hand touching the collar of her cape. “I believe I’m the first in over five hundred years.” Her beady eyes turned back to stare earnestly at the squire. “Most of what you had categorized as folklore, you may now move under history. In talking to N’Rae, who is a woefully ignorant child due to her upbringing, though we’re rectifying that”—she smiled briefly at N’Rae—“I’ve discovered that the folktales among the seven high races concerning the minnekens are based mostly in fact.”

Bardon’s ears perked up. “That raises a question often debated at The Hall, Mistress Seeno. Wulder created the seven high races, yet no mention is made of how other races came into being. The dragons are intelligent and could be said to be a race. And now that I know minnekens are more than just fable, I wonder how this race came to be.”

The tiny lady tilted her head and looked quizzically at the young man kneeling before her.

“Wulder is the Creator of all,” she said.

“I agree.”

“The books He has given to guide and instruct deal with this land. There is no reason why they would mention the creation of life in other places.”

“What other places, Mistress Seeno?”

“Places too far to imagine.” She smoothed her shiny gray fur with tiny hands. “And this is a conversation for after dinner over a cup of tea, under a starlit sky in summer, or by the hearth in winter.”

N’Rae stirred beside him. “Now that you are accustomed to her voice, your ears should be able to make out her words from a greater distance.”

Bardon stood and faced her. “How great a distance?”

She grinned. “Four, maybe five feet.” Then she scowled. “I’m not so totally ignorant.”

“I’m sure you aren’t.”

“My mother and I lived with a band of ropma for many years. My mother educated me. We didn’t have books to read, but she told me everything she could remember.”

He looked at her gentle face and asked, “You lived with ropma?”

“Yes, I liked them. But after Mother died, they became afraid that I would endanger their band by being with them.”

“How could you do that?”

Granny Kye carried a pot of tea to the table. “We’ll talk of that as we eat. Sit, children.”

After Granny asked Wulder’s blessing on their food and fellowship, they passed around the simple fare. Heavy crockery served as their dinnerware. The bowl from which the minneken ate looked like an acorn cap. Her tin drinking cup had no handle. Miniscule eating utensils were also fashioned out of tin.

The tea in Bardon’s mug tasted spicy. The dark brew warmed his throat and took the edge off his trepidation concerning these women. He bit into a chunk of bread and savored the sweet, nutty taste. His appetite awakened, and for a few minutes, he concentrated on enjoying the food.

He noticed the silence around the table. He rarely ate alone and expected chatter during the meal. In the palace dining hall, rapid social prattle would have accompanied each repast. Bardon would answer appropriately but allow those more skilled in social graces to carry the conversation. When out on expeditions, the men swapped stories. Bardon listened well.

Shifting uncomfortably, he wondered if he should initiate a conversation. He wiped his mouth with the napkin provided. “So, how long have you been staying in the mountains?”

“We spent the winter here,” said N’Rae.

“Alone?”

“Grandmother is never alone for long. We had visitors every week. Sometimes twice in one week. They came through the gateway.”

“Sir Dar didn’t mention a gateway.”

“It’s in the cellar. Have you ever been through a gateway? I thought I would suffocate.”

Bardon thought Sir Dar had left out several important details about this little cabin getaway. Perhaps one of them was the presence of the ladies. He practiced his court calm and answered civilly.

“Yes, I have. It’s uncomfortable but an expedient way to travel across the continent.” Bardon slowly ate the rest of his fish, then put down his fork. “I think it’s time you ladies tell me what service you require of me.”

“An escort to the Northern Reach,” stated Granny Kye.

“We’re going to rescue my father,” said N’Rae.

Oh, is that all?
Bardon couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his thoughts.
And what outrageous ideas does this little minneken have?
The squire leveled his eye upon the smallest member of their party.

Mistress Seeno solemnly returned his gaze. “I have been charged to be N’Rae’s protector.”

His training in diplomacy had, indeed, been effective. He didn’t sputter the absurdity of a three-inch-tall, rodentlike lady being anyone’s protector. He also managed to stifle an immediate objection to a journey starting at the southernmost region of Amara and proceeding past the northern border into a barren, sparsely populated land. Instead, he posed a question, hoping for a rational answer.

“Who is your father?” he asked N’Rae. “What are we rescuing him from?”

“My father is Sir Jilles. Wizard Risto holds him captive.”

“Risto is dead.”

N’Rae squirmed in her seat. “Well, yes. We had heard that. But the stronghold is now under the possession of Crim Cropper and Burner Stox. I guess I should have said that
they
now hold him captive. But he was first taken prisoner by Risto.”

Bardon crossed his arms over his chest.
If Sir Jilles’s capture is common knowledge, why hasn’t someone else made an effort to penetrate this stronghold and bring out the prisoner?
“Why have you chosen this time to begin the quest?”

Granny Kye poured more tea into each mug. “The knights have been under Risto’s spell for many years. At the end of the appointed time, the spell must be renewed, or they will die. Risto is dead, as you pointed out. However, the spell remains intact until the Wizards’ Plume blazes across the heavens and passes beneath the Eye of the North.”

Bardon recalled the beautiful new addition he had seen in the sky only the night before. “This Wizards’ Plume wouldn’t be a comet rising from the southwest, would it?”

“Yes, indeed,” Granny Kye smiled at him. “You’ve seen it?”

Bardon managed a polite smile in return. “Yes, I have.”
So much for a harbinger of peace and contentment.

Granny Kye offered tea to Mistress Seeno, and the minneken declined. “Crim Cropper and Burner Stox may not know the particulars of renewing the spell. They may not even remember that the chamber holds sleeping warriors. They may not care to interrupt their own enterprises to journey to the north. We intend to undo the spell and bring the knights home.”

“Knights? There is more than one knight in this chamber?”

Granny Kye nodded. “We don’t know exactly how many, but our resources indicate quite a few.”

Kale’s father! He’s been missing for years. Kale’s mother said he was under Risto’s spell. Perhaps he, too, is in this chamber.

Bardon leaned forward. “How have you acquired this information?”

The minneken piped up. “See, a sensible young man. Thinks things through. Wants all the facts up front.” She pointed a finger at N’Rae. “Take note.”

Granny Kye patted her granddaughter’s arm but spoke to the young squire. “I have been working for years to find the right contacts. You see, Sir Jilles is my son. He was captured by Risto and enchanted. His older brother Joffa went to his rescue. Joffa first intended to transport his own lady and child to a safe haven. However, as the family left their estate, they were attacked, and all were killed.”

“So,” said N’Rae with a sigh, “Grandmother and my mother lost Uncle Joffa and all hope of saving my father.”

Bardon forced himself to remain still. The women’s story made him want to squirm. Or maybe it was the instinct to spring to his feet and vow to avenge the loss of this family that made him squirm. He would not jump into their wild scheme.