12th Knight

The 12th Knight of Strawberry Fife

Standing Guard

The stibogram lead to the oporopolist’s stall. A diminutive guard stood nearby. He wore a faded green cloak over his tunic and whenever he moved a distinctive phalerae could be seen. The guards name was Evaard and he was the 12th, and lowliest knight of Strawberry Fife.

Last week Evaard was still a page. This was his first gig as a knight of the realm.   Of course, every knight had to start somewhere, but Evaard would have preferred starting by battling a newly-hatched dragon or even a teenage ogre.  Guarding strawberries was embarrassing!

At Home

As the sun sank behind the far horizon, Chevall, the 11th Knight of Strawberry Fife took his position outside the locked fruit stand and bid Evaard good-night. Evaard watched the oporopolist close the shutters on his shop and put the strawberries to rest under wet gunny sacks, then he trudged home.

Evaard lived a ruricolous life. He had a little hut in the hills above the village. Since it was Evaard’s first day as a Knight, it was also his first day with his page, Vernal. Evaard was less than impressed when the chief steward introduced him to the scrawny redheaded urchin, but coming home to find his hut cleaned, a cord of firewood chopped and stacked, and Vernal preparing to ponask two rabbits, greatly improved Evaard’s attitude toward the boy.

As Vernal helped Evaard divest his armor, Evaard asked, “So tell me, how is it you came to the King’s court and ended up a page?”

“Well, this winter past, my da, he died of stiricide. He stepped out of the house one morning and yelled, Boys the thaw has come! His bellow loosed all the snow and ice on the roof and down it came. Then my ma, she couldn’t feed us, so she found my brother and me work. On payday, half my wages will go to her to support my baby sister.”

Striking a Deal

Evaard sat in a chair and offered his foot to the boy. “Son, do you know how much your wages are?”

Vernal obediently tugged on his master’s boot. He answered with obrumpent pride. “Seven cents a week, sir. One penny a day. And I am to be paid every seventh eve.”

“Yes,” Evaard agreed. He wasn’t found of quibbleism so he spoke bluntly, “But the Steward will deduct your room, board and clothing from that at 4 cents per week.”

The boot popped off Evaard’s foot and sent Vernal plummeting backward. Luckily he tripped over the cat and fell short of plunging into the fireplace. He sat on the dirt floor with Evaard’s boot in his lap and repeated. “Four pennies a week?”

Evaard held out his other foot. “Three meals a day at the castle, your bed, and your uniform laundered weekly.”

Vernal climbed to his feet, paused to check the ponask, then approached Evaard’s other boot. This time the boy made certain he wasn’t aligned with the fireplace before he tugged, and the cat, safely under the bed, made certain she wasn’t aligned with the boy.

“Is there no way I can lower the bill?” Vernal asked.

“There’s nothing you can do about the laundry,” Evaard said. “But if you do the butchering and the cooking you can take your meals here. And there’s a lean-to outside you can sleep in until winter, then you may want to rethink things.”

Vernal removed the second boot without mishap and set it on the floor beside the first. “And what is it you’ll charge me?” Despite the temeration in his voice, his gaze met Evaards proudly.

Evaard smiled. It was a wise question. The boy had promise. “I expect you to work hard, do well at your lessons, and not make me regret taking you in,” he said.

Murdered

Evaard woke in the morning to find Vernal already hard at work.  A kettle full of hot water sat on one side of the hearth.  A pot of  porridge  bubbled happily above the flames, and Evaard’s clean jerkin and tights hung from the back of his chair.  The boy was nowhere in sight, but the  rhythmic  cracking noises emanating from behind the shack led Evaard to believe Vernal was splitting even more firewood.

Evaard, wearing only his braies, approached the table.  He couldn’t help but smile.  Just over a week ago he had been Sir Tomlinson’s squire.  Now he had a squire of his own.  He thought it was marvelous — and terribly odd.  He was used to serving, not being served.  Still, it would be a pity to let the porridge burn.  Evaard filled his bowl to the brim, looked at what remained in the pot, then returned some of the porridge to the kettle.  The boy would need food for energy.  Too often Sir Tomlinson had left Evaard with scant victuals.

The sun was just starting to rise as Evaard opened the door and stepped outside, dressed and ready for work.  Vernal came around the building with his arms full of firewood.  ”Sir Evaard!” The boy exclaimed.  ”I didn’t know you were up!  Your breakfast …”

“I’ve eaten, boy.”  Evaard said.  ”You had it all laid out and ready for me.  Filling my bowl and pouring my tea was no task.  I can see you’ve been hard at work.”

“I’ve plenty more to do, Sir.  If I may –”

The pounding of hooves startled them both and they turned to the East.  A lathered war steed galloped out of the sun with a young boy sloped low across his back.  The horse came to a stamping stop a few feet in front of Evaard and the rider slithered to the ground.  ”I am Fencil,” he said.  ”Sir Chevall was my master.  He is … he is ….”  The boy dropped to his knees sobbing.

“Sir Chevall was your master?”  Evaard cried.  ”Tell me this instant what has happened!”  He reached down and lifted Fencil to his feet.  Vernal disappeared inside the cottage and returned with Evaard’s mug.  It was filled with water.  He thrust the cup into Fencil’s hand, then grabbed the warhorse’s reins and tugged the huge beast toward the water trough.

Words tumbled from Fencil’s mouth.  ”While my master stood watch over the strawberries, I stood watch over him.  A mariturient lady, Mistress Comida Patisserie, passed the first hour after sunset with him.  She has made it her habit this season to be there the same time every night, though my master gave her scant encouragement.  Tonight, moments after she left, we heard her scream.  My master and I dashed into the alley.”

Fencil struggled for words, his thin shoulders shaking under his tunic.  Evaard urged the boy to drink from the cup.  Over by the water trough, Vernal rubbed the war horse down with handfuls of sweet grass, carefully drying the sweaty beast without removing the tack.

“In the alley –” Fencil stammered.  ”In the alley we found the lady pushed aside, unharmed but three huge men stood shoulder-to-shoulder between her and us.  They had clubs.  Sir Chevall demanded they disperse and leave the lady be.  The men hefted their clubs and stepped away from one another.  By then the lady had already hastened away, but Sir Chevall raised his sword and yelled, “Curs!  You dare obstrigillate justice?”  One of the men swung his club. Sir Chevall blocked it, but his sword went flying.  One of the other men swung at Sir Chevall’s head.   I heard an ossifragant crunch and I … I –.”  The boy sagged in Sir Evaard’s hands, sobbing.  ”I ran,” he wailed.

The slight child was probably no more than 8 years old.  Evaard sighed wondering how the boy had become a squire. He  patted the child awkwardly on the back and kindly said, “Of course you ran.  It is good you came to me.  Now stay here with Vernal.  I must go to town.”

A Clue

Evaard rode into Strawberry Fife on the back of Sir Chevall’s war steed. The sun had barely cleared the horizon. The street was occupied by only a few bonded servants, most of them girls visiting the well. Dismounting behind the strawberry stand, Evaard secured the beast’s reins to a tree branch and hastily made his way to the alley.

He wondered how Mistress Comida Patisserie came to be outside after dark unescorted. That seemed highly suspect, yet Fencil said it was a common event. And if she was Mistress Patisserie, was she not already wed? Why was she courting Chevall? Fencil said she had marriage in mind, but that simply could not be. Evaard knew the merchant, Olaf Patisserie. He was a rotund man with a fleshy, glabrous head and sagging jowls. That his wife might want to be rid of him came as no surprise, but the fact that Patisserie allowed her out alone after dark most certainly did.

Evaard drew his sword before stepping into the alley. He entered sideways with his back to the wall, remaining in shadow as much as possible. He paused, looking the scene over carefully. He saw no signs of Chevall or his sword. The club wielders were no longer on the scene.

Evaard scanned the shadows carefully, looking for possible places of ambush. The alley remained surprising clean, save the hitonious pool of stagnicolous water bisecting its length. The only concealment to be had lay behind the closed back door of the Royal Dragon Pub. Evaard stepped from the shadows and approached the foul puddle, noting a glimmer of silver near its northern edge.

Carefully using the toe of his boot, Evaard nudged the silver disc from the sludge. It was a phalerae and it bore the distinctive symbol of Strawberry Fife, a dragon coiled around a giant strawberry.  XI was engraved on the back of the phalerae.  Eleven.  Sir Chevall would never have parted with his badge of office if he were still able to fight.

Mourning Complications

Sir Evaard left the alley to it’s vacivity, and made his way to the bakey. Olaf Patisserie always timed his baking so that the scent of loaves fresh from the oven greeted the morning sun.

The bakery was closed and no delicious scents wiggled through the shutters.

The door to the Confectioner’s Shop opened and the tragematopolist stepped out. “Good-morning, Sir Evaard.” The rotund man looked as though he tasted too many of his own sweets. “Twenty years I am next door to Olaf and every day his shop, he opens. Today, not so. So I sent my boy. Boy, I said, go see if all is well with Olaf. The boy comes back. All is not well.”

“And may I inquire the nature of Master Olaf’s complaint?” Sir Evaard asked.

“I mean to say,” the tragematopolist continued as though Sir Evaard had not spoken. “Olaf himself is well, but his wife and daughter fare less so. The misses was set upon by brigands late yester-eve. I understand that quite roughly they handled her. Your commrade, Sir Shovel –”

“Chevall –”

“Just so.” the fat man nodded and cleared his throat. “Sir Shovel, indeed. On the scene he arrived, and the misses, her escape she made, but the knight, he perished.”

“Perished?” Sir Evaard repeated. “Do you know where they’ve taken his body?”

The rotund tragematopolist shrugged. “Tell that, I can’t, but closed the bakery will remain for the days three of mourning as customary it is.”

Sir Evaard thanked the confusing man and turned away. Patisserie was no relative of Sir Chevall. Evaard was certain of that. So why would the baker and his family choose to observe the offical mourning? Was it simple gratitude, or something else? Evaard made his way to the Patisserie Cottage.

He stopped several yards from the house. A black wreath adorned the door and black curtains covered the windows. Disregarding such symbols of mourning would surely be a misqueme of epic porportions. Sir Evaard bit his lip and stood in the street, undecided.

Fragile Honor

Sir Evaard turned away from the Patisserie household. With the black wreath hanging there he could not bang upon the door demanding answers. Maybe, if he were and older knight, one with tried and true experience, he could get away with such a thing. Now, if he started making accusations without proof, they would probably accuse him of nubivagant fantasies. He needed utibleproof before going any further.

He walked back toward the Strawberry stand. Yesterday he thought guarding strawberries an embarassment. This morning he wished that strawberry thieves were his greatest concern.

The oporopolist saw him coming and let out a wail. “You boy! What kind of Knight are you? The sun has been well up for at least an hour!”

The morning was still cool, the shadows were still long, and in truth it hadn’t been full-light for even half that time. Further more, Sir Evaard was no longer a boy, he was a knight of the realm. He considered how his former master, Sir Tomlinson, would have reacted if faced with such disrespect. Sir Evaard tensed with his hand poised above the hilt of his sword. He lowered his chin a fraction, and stared at the fruit seller.

A look of shock crossed the man’s face. He scuttled behind the counter of his fruit stand and stuttered, “P-pardon Sir E-evaard. I-I am c-certain you kn-now the K-king’s business b-better than I!”

Sir Evaard started at the man just a moment longer, then turned his gaze on Sir Chevall’s war horse, clearly dismissing the fruit seller. The horse remained tied to the tree as Evaard had left it, but someone had brought water and feed. From where he stood, Evaard could see a pair of small feet. He approaced the horse and found Fencil leaning against the tree. “I thought I told you to stay with Vernal?”

“I must stay with the horse,” Fencil said. “That is the last order my master gave me.”

“Sir Chevall is dead,” Evaard answered.

“He is not dead until I see his cold body,” Fencil responded.

Evaard knew those words. They were among the first things taught to a page. He considered ordering the boy to return to Vernal and the cabin, but child or not, he had a sworn duty to uphold and he seemed determined to do so. Evaard nodded at the boy. “You are an honor to your master.”  His offered the words as a healing salve for the boy’s tenellous pride.

Fencil’s lower lip quivered and his eyes filled with tears.  Evaard looked away as the boy furiously swiped his eyes with the hem of his tunic.  Once Fencil was under control, Evaard spoke, “If you wish to help your master, I have more questions.”

Fencil gave his nose a swipe on the sleeve of his shirt and nodded his head.

Through the Back Gate

“Tell me about Mistress Patisserie.” Sir Evaard questioned.  ”You said she was a mariturient lady, but isn’t she already wed?”

Fencil looked at Evaard in surprise. “Well, yes sir, she is; but not her daughters.”

“Her daughters?” Sir Evaard frowned. “Mistress Patisserie wanted to arrange a marriage between Sir Chevall and one of her daughters? Which one?”

Fencil shrugged. “Dulce or Tarta. I do not think it mattered. The Patisseries just wanted a Knight in the family.”

“I see.” And Sir Chevall did see. The Patisseries were trying to elevate their social status. He considered the black wreath on their door. It was not Sir Chevall they were mourning, but the death of their hopes and dreams. Without Chevall, they would not be moving into the castle. “I wish to to talk to the Patisseries,” Sir Evaard said. “But the black wreath on their front door prevents me from entering. Could you watch the house and notify me when the baker or his wife emerge?”

Fencil shrugged. “Sure I could,” he said. “But why don’t you just use the back gate like the servants?”

How simple. Sir Evaard knew that using the back gate to contact the family was unacceptable, but he could question the servants. Perhaps one of them would know where he could find Sir Chevall’s body. “Fencil, you’re brilliant!” He said. “Stay here and watch the horse, and don’t let anybody steal any strawberries!”

A strong sense of xenization followed Sir Evaard through the back gate of the Patisserie cottage. City gardens were alien to him, but he was certain most didn’t smell this maleolent. Only gross pigritude could be to blame for the offal stench. It turned his stomach.

Sir Evaard walked on his tippy-toes with his nose pointed toward the sky as he struggled for a breath of fresh air. That’s why he didn’t see the body in his path until after he had tripped over it.

Dragon Eggs

The tristifical sight at his feet caused Sir Evaard to heave, generally adding to the maleolent atmosphere of the Patisserie’s garden. Reluctantly, Evaard rolled the body over. It was Olaf Patisserie. The baker’s skull was concave. Dried gray matter crusted the side of his face.

Despite his roiling stomach, Sir Evaard knelt and inspected the bloating body. Vermin and bugs had already feasted upon the wounds and left their eggs behind. Evaard’s gaze fell upon the jeweled silver broach still securing Patisserie’s cloak. Reluctantly, he searched the dead baker’s pockets and found his purse suffarcinated with coin.

Whoever had killed the baker was not intent on robbery then. Evaard stood and carefully surveyed the garden. It was a broad, fenced expanse and contained the requisite herbs, vegetables and flowers, but almost everything except Olaf Patisserie was coated in a brown spiscious goo that bore an offal stench. The animal that produced such waste was not one Evaard knew.

He turned his attention toward the house. Olaf’s Patisserie’s body had been here for quite some time, perhaps even since he’d left his bakery the afternoon before; so why had nobody found it and why had no cry been raised? He could well understand it if nobody within the house ever entered into this accursed garden but surely when Mrs. Patisserie ventured out last evening, she knew her husband had not returned home. Why hadn’t she said anything?

Or perhaps she had. Evaard moved purposely toward the back entrance to the cottage. He needed answers so it was time to start asking questions. As he stepped onto the hearthstone, a pile of broken giant urns beside the door claimed his attention. He grabbed one of the shards and examined it. “Holy saints,” he exclaimed. “Dragon eggs!” At least a half-dozen of them.

Missing Persons

Evaard stashed a piece of the dragon shell in his cloak pocket, and banged upon the back door of the Patisserie cottage. It was more than apparent that somebody had desecrated the dragon caves. Evaard glanced nervously at the garden and cast his gaze toward the skies. The dragons would come soon and demand justice. He could only hope that when the time came, he would have justice to give them.

He pounded upon the door again. No sounds issued forth from inside. Even a house in mourning would assign a servant to answer the door – especially the back door where discreet deliveries would be made. Evaard grabbed the door handle and pulled the latch.

After the bright light of day, the tenebrous entry hall appeared sinister. Evaard unsheathed his sword and stepped inside. He proceeded slowly, his back pressed to the wall. The first door on the right opened to reveal the kitchen, which had obviously been deserted in the midst of meal preparation.

Evaard approached the table. It bore a platter of cheese, dried and crumbled around the edges. An ewer of milk, warm and yellowing, sat alongside a plate of sliced and drying bread.

The stove was cold to the touch. A pot of stew with puddles of congealed grease waited beside a kettle which had been left to boil dry. Apparently the kitchen help left in a bit of a hurry.

Evaard searched the rest of the house. Madam Patisserie and her servants were not at home and it seemed doubtful they’d planned their outing. Madame Patisserie’s cloak and reticule remained in the front hall.

The vacivity of the house posed a puzzle. Olaf Patisserie’s body posed a puzzle. The fact that he couldn’t find Chevall’s body posed a puzzle. Evaard patted his cloak. The dragon’s eggs posed a puzzle as well. He had far too many questions and no answers.

First Evaard wanted to speak to the tragematopolist and his servant boy – possibly the last one to see the Patisseries alive. Then he planned to re-question Fencil about the alley fight. And then, whether he had any utible evidence or not, Evaard knew he’d have to report to the King.

Kexy Clues

Evaard left the Patasserie’s cottage by the front door and went straight to the tragematopolist’s shop. It was locked and no one answered his pounding upon the door. Evaard tried to see through the shutters covering the windows, but it was too dark within the store.

He squished his way through the garbage in the valley to the shop’s back door. A boy sat on the stoop. “Do you work here?” Evaard greeted him.

“Aye, sir!” The boy stood up and bowed smartly. “I am Yohan, at your service.”

“Well, Yohan,” Evaard said. “Where is your master?”

“If it is candy you want,” the boy said. “You do not need my master. Though only an apprentice, I am already a renouned candymaker!”

“Yes, well, it is not candy I seek, but a word with your master. Where can I find him?”

“I know not,” Yohan answered. “I came this morning to work and found my master talking to you, so I stirred up a batch of exquisite fudge, would you like…”

“No thank you,” Evaard said. “Are you the boy that visited the Patasserie’s this morning?”

“No sir!” Yohan answered sharply. “My master and the baker, Patasserie, do not get along and I have been instructed not to speak to him. Why just last week they had a fierce quarrel over a gardeviance my master had here in the shop. The baker was angry and had the huge thing carted away. My master was furious.”

“Do you know what was in the gardeviance and where it was taken?” Evaard asked.

Yohan shook his head. “I care about nothing but my candy making.”

Evaard reached up and touched the dragon’s egg shard through his cloak. He suspected he already knew what was in the trunk anyway. “Were there other such trunks?” He asked.

The boy nodded. “I did not see them, but the baker and my master argued about others.”

“Do you know when your master will be back?”

Yohan shrugged. “I have been paid for this week,” he said. “I will wait only that long. With my skills I’ll not have trouble finding another possition.”

Evaard nodded, thanked the boy, and retraced his steps through the alley. He figured he might as well collect Fencil and the war horse, then seek an audience with the king. He wished he had at least once answer to go with all his questions, but the most he knew for certain was the candy maker’s apprentice was an aretaloger and Strawberry Fife was in serious trouble.

Gone

Evaard crossed the village square, rounded the oporopolist’s stall and stopped. Fencil and the war horse weren’t where he’d left them. “Merchant!” He called to the oporopolist, “Did you see the boy and the horse leave?”

The merchant came from his stall and stood beside Evaard. “My name is Al Vacado,” he said. “The boy and I were sharing our lunches when the horse suddenly reared. It started bucking and jumping and pulling at the hitch. I told the boy to stand back, but he jumped up — left his lunch right here on the ground — and freed the reins.”

“So the horse ran off.” Evaard said. “And I suppose the boy followed it?”

“No, Sir,” Al Vacado said. “The boy leapt onto the horse’s back and the two of them shot out of here like an arrow. They took the mountain path.” The oporopolist’s pointed.

Evaard thanked the fruit seller and started walking. At least the mountain path lead past his own house. Maybe Vernal would have some news for him.

As he walked, Evaard wondered what might have spooked or frightened the horse. He seriously hoped the beast hadn’t scented dragons. As a trained war horse, he might have taken it into his head to charge, and with a boy on his back rather than a knight, stopping him would be difficult. If the dragons captured Fencil, would they harm him, or hold him in trade for their own young?

About two miles out of town Evaard came upon an drunk sprawled in the road. “Are you injured?” Evaard inquired of the man.

“Aye,” the drunk said. “I’ve gone daft.”  Then he launched into a garbled story about war horses, small boys, purple dragons and a headless knight. Even had the man been an aquabib, his brochity rendered his story unintelligible. Just the same, Evaard understood enough to know there were dragons about and that Fencil and the war horse passed this way.

“What do you know of the headless knight?” Fencil demanded. “Where is he?”

“Probably in the belly of the great purple beast!” The drunk said. “They went that way, the lot of them,” he pointed toward the noon sun. ”

Evaard shook his head and bid the man good-bye. The drunken sot made no sense whatsoever.  Dragons were black or green, not purple.  Most of his story was ficulnean — pure halucination.

Visitors

Evaard left the drunk behind. He’d pretty much believed the old fellows story until he got to the part about the purple dragon. Since there was no such thing as a purple dragon, Evaard had to wonder exactly how much fantasy had made it into his drunken tale.

Evaard knew the boy and the war hourse to be reality. Everything else the drunk said was in doubt — but why would he mention dragons at all unless he had cause? Evaard chewed that thought all the way home.

When he topped the rise and looked down on his little shack, Evaard was pleased to see the war horse staked beneath the tree. At least he wasn’t going to have to tell the King he’d lost one of his prized chargers on top of everything else. A curl of smoke issued from the chimney and the little glen looked peaceful. Vernal came around the back of the shack with a yelve in his hands. Fencil followed with the garden cart. They stopped near the front door. Vernal climbed into the garden cart and went to work forking large brown clumps out of the cart and onto the doorstep.

Evaard was perplexed. The last time he’d seen the garden cart, it had been full of manure for the garden. There is no way the boys would be pitching that on the stoop of the cabin. The boys were so intent on their work — stomping in and pounding down whatever they’d shoveled from the cart — that they didn’t notice Evaard’s approach until he was mere yards away. By then he’d caught the odor of their labor and knew they were indeed smearing offal at his door.

Both boys froze with looks of horror on their faces. “I think an explanation is in order,” Evaard said.

Fencil and Vernal looked at each other and shrugged, then turned their wide eyed gazes back to Evaard. Vernal opened his mouth, but never had a chance to speak. The cabin door opened to reveal Chevall. His tunic sported dried black blood stains and an equally stained bandage swathed his head. “The boys are following my orders,” Chevall said. “Offal was the only thing I could think of that might cover the scent of the dragons.”

“Dragons?” Evaard repeated. “Here?” He looked around, even glanced toward the sky. There wasn’t a dragon in sight.

“You’d better come inside,” Chevall said.

Evaard lept over the manure and into his house. Going from the bright sunshine into the dark interior of the cabin left him momentarily blind, but Evaard could still make out the major shapes, including the tremendous form taking up the center of the room. Evaard blinked, knuckled his eyes and blinked again. As his vision cleared he couldn’t help but think he owed the drunk an apology. There was an adolescent purple dragon where his dinner table should have been.

“This is Troga,” Chevall said. “Seven eggs were stolen from the dragon caves just a little over a week ago. We know that at least three of the eggs have hatched. Patisserie helped Troga rescue them from, the tragematopolist. They kept the hatchlings secreted in Patisserie’s back garden for over a week.”

“Why!” Evaard demanded. “Surely that would bring the wrath of the dragon’s down upon the town!”

“The hatchlings didn’t have their eyes open and weren’t ready to fly,” Chevall said. “Patisserie, of course, told Jack what was happening …”

“Told who?” Evaard interrupted.

“Jack.” Chevall said. “King Vellum. Patisserie told Jack and Jack sent me to DeMajick …”

“The dragon King?”

“Yes,” Chevall nodded. “So DeMajick knew we were trying to save the dragons and gave us 10 days — a dragon can fly at 10 days old — to return the hatchlings unharmed. The only thing is, the hatchlings start trying to fly at about seven days old. There was quite a ruckus going on in Patisserie’s backyard.”

“So the tradgematopolist discovered the dragons?”

Chevall sighed and nodded again. “They raided Patisserie’s garden. Mrs. Patisserie came to tell me and a half dozen armed thugs jumped me in the alley. They knocked me out cold and the next thing I know I’m stretched out next to Patisserie — he’s dead bytheway — in his back garden. I’m sure the thugs thought I was dead, too. Troga was there as well. She’d been stabbed several times and was too weak to fly. We rested all day and then crept out of the garden just before dawn. Going was pretty slow since Troga is so weak. We stayed to the woods and circled town.”

“You were seen,” Evaard said.

“Yes, by a drunken sot. No one will believe anything he says.”

“The tradgematopolist will,” Evaard said. “Even with dung at the door, you will not be safe here long.”

“We need to get to the King,” Chevall said. “Four of the dragon eggs are unaccounted for and they will hatch soon if they’ve not done so already.”

The door opened and Vernal stepped into the room. “There are men coming,” he said. “At least a dozen of them. And they’re all on war horses.”

“What banner do they fly?” Cheval demanded.

“No banner,” Vernal answered.

“They are bandits then,” Evaard said. He pulled his sword free of his scabbard. “We will fight.”

Chevall loosed his sword as well. “Aye!” He cried.

Fencil and I have garden forks,” Vernal answered.

Troga rose to her feet. Her voice, surprisingly light and musical, echoed in Evaard’s head. “I am not strong, but I shall fight. I have an aeipathy to see the patration of this crime.”

Evaard opened the door and stepped outside.

The Mage Warriors

Evaard stood and watched the riders come. Behind him, still inside the house, Troga waited. Chevall and the boys had slipped from the cottage and, using the building for cover, made their way to into the woods.  Ten war horses thundered up to the cabin, each of them carrying a battle scarred warrior.  One man urged his mount ahead of the others and stopped less than a yard from Evaard.

Evaard and the warrior stared at one another in silence.  The warrior wore black leather marked with hand tooled runes.  Evaard recognized them as symbols of magic.  These then were not mere warriors, but sorcerers trained in sword and spell.  Now Evaard understood the theft of the dragon eggs.  These men wanted to adimpleate themselves in dragon magic.

Just before the silence stretched to long for politeness, Evaard spoke.   “Well met, wayfarers.  What brings you to my home?”

“May we water our horses at your well?”  The black clad mage-warrior asked.

Evaard gestured toward the pump.  ”Please,” he said.  ”Help yourself. You will find the water cold and sweet.”

With the exception of their leader, the men moved with lubency toward the pump.  The black clad mage-warrior dismounted and remained with Evaard.  ”I am Ranold,” he said.  ”Mage Warrior to King DeMagik.  We seek a rogue Knight and an errant dragon.  Have you seen either of them?”

DeMagik had no mage warriors.  Evaard was surprised by the man’s bold lie until he realized that he had left his cape and phalerae in the cabin.  To Ranold, Evaard appeared to be a fighting man without allegiance.  ”It is unwise to hunt dragons,” Evaard spoke.  ”Especially dragons who willingly keep company with men.”

“I do as the king commands,” Ranold answered.  ”And you.  Is this your cabin?  Is your allegiance to King DeMagik?”

“I am simply passing through, ” Evaard said, stepping sideways so he could see both the black mage and his men who were stripping their gear off and splashing happily in the well.  Evaard pointed at the shack.  ”I came upon this cabin empty and decided to rest for a couple of days.  The roof is sound and as I said, the water is sweet.”

“I am afraid I must insist on checking the cabin,” Ranold said.

“By order of the king?” Evaard queried.

“Yes, of course.  By order of the king.”

Evaard stepped aside, far aside, as Ranold approached the door.

“Dragons are pamphagous, are they not?” Evaard asked.

Ranold paused with his hand upon the door latch.  ”Yes, they are,” he said.  ”Why do you ask.”

Evaard waved his hand toward the mountain.  ”It may not be related, but yesterday I talked to a farmer from the next valley and he said his cattle were disappearing.”

Ranold said, “Not an hour ago I talked to an old drunk who said the dragon came this way.  Perhaps you are trying to distract me?”

Evaard laughed and motioned toward the cabin door.  ”Please, go in and you will know the truth.

Ranold lifted the latch and pushed on the door.

The Thespian

“Help! Help!”  Vernal stumbled from the woods.  Hair mussed, tunic torn, leaves and brambles sticking to his leggings, he collapsed beside the water trough at the feet of the warriors.  “Dragons!”  He panted, pointing toward the ridge.  “Huge!”  And then he fainted.

“See!” Evaard looked at Ranold while pointing toward the boy.  “That is the very way I told you the dragon’s had gone.”

The warriors splashed water on Vernal and pulled him to his feet.  Ranold strode forward.  “How many dragons boy?  What color?  And was there a Knight with them.”

Vernal stared at the warriors wide-eyed and apparently awed to find himself suddenly subject to their undivided attention.

Evaard, certain this was an attempt to roblet the mages, wondered if the boy was about to give the show away.

Ranold reached out, grasped Vernal by the front of his tunic, and lifted the boy to his toes. “Speak boy!”

Vernal raised his trembling hand and pointed to the ridge.  “P-p-purple.” He stammered.

The mage warriors murmured amongst themselves.  Several prepared their horses to ride.

Ranold eased the boys heels to the ground but kept his grip on the tunic.  “And a Knight? Was there a Knight with the dragon?”

Vernal tried to shrug. “A man.” He said.  “If he was a Knight, I saw no cloak or phalerae.”

Ranold pulled the boy close and studied him carefully.  Evvard noticed sweat beading on Vernal’s lip.  The boy was genuinely afraid, yet still holding the charade.  Evvard wondered if he could have managed such a task as a brand new page.

Ranold turned his gaze from Vernal’s face, but did not loose his hold on the boy.  “Loget,” he said to one of the men, “Take five men over the ridge and search for the dragon. The rest of us will remain here.

Loget nodded curtly and pointed to several men.  They swung into their saddles and rode away.

“Fan out!”  Ranold told the remaining mages, “Search the parameter.  Fronesk, you stay here.  Don’t take your eyes off that one.”  He pointed at Evvard.  Fronesk was shorter than Evvard, but much broader across the shoulders.

Ranold turned his cold black gaze on Vernal and just stared for several minutes.  The boy trembled. “Tell me,” Ranold said softly, “How is it that a common boy knows enough of Knighthood to identify a phalerae?”

Evaard ’s optimism took a dramatic plunge.

However, Vernal was not one to give up. Despite his awkward position and trembling limbs, he raised his chin and answered “I studied to be a page, but the king would not take me.  My father was a common farmer.”

Ranold stared at Vernal for another long moment.  The boy met his gaze defiantly.  Suddenly Ranold released him. “Not good enough, ay?” Ranold taunted.

Vernal stumbled and almost plunged into the water trough.  He collapsed against the pump and hung on.  “I am good enough!” He said, hanging from the handle.

Ranold laughed. “Of course you are boy.  You are strong, level-headed and quite brave. I will take you as my page. You can study to be a Mage Warrior.  What say you to that?”

Vernal grinned like a fool.  “Really?”  He exclaimed.  “You would take me in?  Train me to be a Mage Warrior? What would you have of me?  When would my duties begin?”

“Now,” Ranold said, answering the second question first. He looked at Fronesk and nodded.  The stocky warrior moved surprisingly fast. He grabbed Evaard, twisted his arm painfully into the small of his back and pinned him to the the cabin wall. Evvard cursed his scaevity.

Ranold drew a dagger from his belt and handed it to Vernal.  “You must be blooded to serve a Mage Warrior.”  He jerked his chin toward Evvard.  “Kill him.”

Vernal looked uncertainly from the knife to Evaard, then turned his gaze to Ranold.  “But why would I kill him?  I don’t even know him.”

“A page does not question,” Ranold said.  “He obeys.  Kill him!”

Vernal advanced on Evaard.

“It is a trick boy!” Evaard exclaimed.  “You’ve been gnathonized into doing their dirty work.They’ll kill you, too, you know!”

Vernal clenched his fist, drew his arm back, and plunged the knife forward.  Cutting through bone and muscle, he buried it to the hilt between Fronesk’s shoulder blades.  Ranold barely had time to register what happened before a knife plunged into his own back. He fell face first into the mud beside the water trough.

Chevall emerged from the woods.  “Glad I haven’t lost my throwing arm,” he said.

Evaard tossed Fronesk’s body aside and grabbed Vernal just as the boy heaved. “The first one is always hardest,” he said.

Vernal shuddered. “When … when will this pass?”  He heaved again.

Evvard urged the boy toward the water pump.  “If you’re one of the lucky ones, it’ll stay with you forever.  That’s what keeps you from killing any more often than you have to.”

Vernal plunged his hands in the water trough and splashed his face to hide his tears.

Respite

Chevall planted his foot on Ranold’s shoulder, grasped the shaft of his knife and wrenched it free. He used the edge of Ranold’s soft leather tunic to clean the blade. “You know it isn’t over,” Chevall said. “Mage warriors forge a mental bond with their men. His men knew the instant Ranold died.”

Evaard nodded. “We don’t have much time to plan our defense and I fear trickery won’t work twice.”

“Open the door,” Troga’s soft, melodious voice sounded in Evaard’s head. “I am strong enough to fly now. I can distract them.”

Evaard reached out and opened the door. He looked at Troga. How she’d gotten into the room was a complete mystery, but he was pretty sure it hadn’t been through that door and she wasn’t coming out it either. She was just too big.

Troga’s laughter echoed softly inside his head. “I will fit,” she promised. Evaard watched as her neck and head emerged, but her shoulders were wider than the portal. Troga leaned to the left and shifted her right shoulder through the door, then she leaned to the right and eased her left shoulder out. As she moved her back lowered and her spine stretched full length. Evaard realized that Troga was much longer and slimmer than she’d seemed inside. She freed her hips the same way she’d freed her shoulders. Evaard shook his head, “That’s incompossible,” he said.

“Dragons are like cats,” Chevall said. “If their heads will fit through an opening, their bodies will follow.” Then he asked Troga, “Are you certain you’re strong enough to fly?”

“Dragon’s heal quickly. I am fine.”

Chevall ran his hands down Troga’s side. Three jagged lavender lines marred her hide just behind and below her left swing. The wounds were sealed and free of scabbing. “In just two days?” Chevall said. “Now that’s incompossible.”

Troga lifted her snout to the breeze. “They’re coming fast,” she said. “I’ll lead them away.” She charged forward, spread her great wings and lifted effortlessly into the sky. Evaard watched with his mouth open.

“Yo!” Chevall called. “Let’s harl these bodies into the bushes and prepare our stand.”

Fencil moved to help Chevall with Ranold. Evaard and Vernal hefted Fronesk. They drug the bodies around the shack and buried them in the compost heap. “Seems fitting, don’t it?” Fencil queried. Vernal grimly shoveled manure over the bodies.

Evaard reached out and put his hand on his young page’s shoulder. “Remember, boy,” he said. “They’d have throppled the both of us without a second thought. Don’t think about taking his life. Think about saving mine.”

Vernal shifted free of Evaard’s hand and kept shoveling.

Burn It Down

Had it only been three days since he’d become a Knight?  For a moment Evaard wished he was back at the castle polishing Sir Tomlinson’s armor and hoping his aging mentor would decide to tackle something more daunting than a dinner steak.  He’d been thrust into his duties so fast he’d had no time to accustom himself to the thought.  And poor Vernal, even though the man he killed was thoroughly facinorous, he was still a human being.  The boy was too young to have to wrestle with such guilt.  How would it effect him?

Chevall signalled with his head for Evaard to follow him, and the two men moved several yards away from the shoveling boys.  “Don’t worry so,” Chevall said.  “You went through it.  I went through it.  The boy has to come to terms with this on his own.  You can’t do it for him.”

Evaard nodded.  “I know.  I have not forgotten how I felt or how long it took for the nightmares to stop.  In fact, sometimes I have them still.”

“We are fighting men,” Chevall said.  “We kill or we get killed.  We have to remember what it is we’re fighting for.  We’re protecting our country and the people we love. If we don’t extirpate the enemy, the enemy will extripate us.”

“Yes,” Evaard said.  “And right now we have a job to do.  Should we make our stand here and fight, or try to reach the castle and roust the King’s army?”

“I don’t know how long the Mage Warriors will follow Troga.  Which is more vital to them right now, procuring the dragon’s heart, or avenging Ranold’s death?” Chevall shrugged.  “If we wait here, they may not return at all.  If we leave, they may follow and catch us in the open.”

Evaard looked around the small clearing and raised his hands.  “I like my home, but it offers little in the way of a strong hold.”

His one-room cabin sat squarely in the middle of the clearing.  Behind it was the vegetable garden and the compost pile, by which they now stood.  Attached to the side of the cabin was a lean to which Evaard suddenly noticed was larger and sturdier than he remembered.   In fact, it was looking less like a lean to and more like an additional room.  The boy was obviously a talented builder, but this really wasn’t the time for thinking of such things.

Chevall greed with him.  “I guess we have to risk the journey. We have a long way to travel across the fen and we’ll find scant cover there. ”

The boys, having finished their task, approached the Knights in time to hear Chevall’s words. “But the fens are huge.  Perhaps the Mage Warriors won’t find us,” Vernal said.

Chevall answered, “They are Mage Warriors. As long as they have something that belonged to anyone of us, they will be able to track us.”

The quartet studied the house.  Evaard sighed.  “We will have to burn it,” he said.  Chevall agreed that there was no other choice.  The boys dropped the things that would not burn into the well, then caved the wall stones in on top of them.  Then the outhouse, privvy and garden shed were all put to the torch.

As the two Knights and their pages walked away from the clearing Vernal said, “Well, I guess if I survive this I’ll be sleeping in the page’s quarters at the castle after all.

“We’ll both be paying hebdomadal boarding charges,”  Evaard said.  “I’ll need a place to live, too.”

Cross Country

The quartet moved through the forest. The thick undergrowth made them choose meandering paths and slowed their travel, but it would slow their pursuers as well. For the most part they traveled silently, each lost in their own contemplations of the brephophagist Mage Warriors, who could even now be feasting on the flesh of baby dragons.

Four miles into their trek the group came to the river Honah Lee.  Honah Lee was wide, but rather shallow and easy to cross in the fall. However it was Spring and the river roiled from the rains and the run-off from Mount Dyre’s melting snow cap. “How will we cross?” Fencil queried. “If Troga were here we could fly.”

Vernal looked toward the sky. “I hope she is safe.”

“So do we all,” Evaard said. He reached out and put his hand on Vernal’s shoulder. “Dragons are smart and crafty, son. She will be fine.”

“Aye,” Vernal answered. He turned away from Evaard and looked back they way they’d come. “But we hid our tracks so well. How will she find us?”

“Troga has forged mind links with both Evaard and myself,” Chevall answered. Our minds don’t have the power to connect to her unbidden, but she will be able to find us even from dozens of miles away.”

“But how will we cross the river?” Fencil demanded again.

“Well, not here that’s for sure,” Chevall said. He looked at Evaard. “Up or down?”

“About a day’s journey North there is a nice, safe ferry crossing. It lands in Honah Lee Village, and King Velum’s castle is five days south. Or, we can turn south now. About three day’s journey down stream we will come to Dragon Falls and ….”

“… the rope bridge!” Vernal’s eyes lit up. “My father used to tell of the time he crossed it. Can we go that way?”

“DeMagik’s cave is at the foot of the gorge. With the current situation, it may not be wise to pass so close.” Chevall cautioned.

“But we are on a dragon quest!” Vernal said. “Surely they would not …”

“They have no idea who stole their nesting eggs,” Evaard interrupted. “They will see us in their territory and take action to defend it.”

“But –” Vernal started to protest. Chevall waved his hand. “Enough! Let us think.”

Vernal’s eyes flashed angrily, but he held his tongue.

“Going up river will waste time we don’t have,” Evaard said.

“Yes, but if we go down river, we may run out of life.” Chevall countered.

“I’m hungry!” Fencil interrupted.

“I could use a meal,” Evaard said. “What food do we have?” He asked Vernal, who had packed their provisions.

“Most everything from the house,” Vernal said. “The horse is carrying all the victuals. Would you like me to cook something?”

“No fire,” ChevalI said. “And we eat on our feet, walking.”

“And which way shall we walk?” Evaard said. He pointed south, to dragon country. Chevall nodded.

Vernal wore a smile as he found the victual satchel he’d stuffed with dried venison and boiled eggs. They each ate a boiled egg, took a long drink of cold water from the river and, gnawing on jerky, resumed their trek.

Four hours later, Fencil was limping. The sun seemed to balance on the peak of Mount Doom, and it was time to stop for the night.

“It is time to find a safe camp,” Evaard said. “If we were walking on a road, maybe we could continue on, but it is too dark and the ground too rough for us to continue here.”

“Aye,” Chevall agreeded. He looped the horse’s reins around a tree branch and told Fencil, “Stay with the beast.” He, Vernal and Evaard spread out in search of a likely camping spot.

Vernal was the last to return to the rendezvous, . He’d found a ravine that harbored a massive willow tree whose branches grew thick and swept the ground. The tree jutted from a rock wall leaving the quartet with only one direction to guard.

“This is perfect,” Evaard said as they stepped through the overhanging leaves.

“There is even enough room for the horse,” Vernal said.

“Well done.” Chevall told him. “I think we can even chance a small fire and hot food if you use very dry wood. You and Fencil take care of that. Evaard and I will see how much of our back-trail we can obliterate while it is still light.”

The two Knights moved away from the shelter. “Fencil is limping,” Evaard murmured.

“Let’s hope a night’s rest puts him right. He’s young and will heal quickly,” Chevall said,

Cheval shook his head, “We have no odynometer, but judging by the way the boy was dragging that leg, I’m willing to wager that tomorrow the king’s noble steed will be carrying a boy along with the victuals.”

Vernal also noticed Fencil’s limp. “Fencil, you stay here and build a fire ring, I will look for wood.”

“I can help!” The boy said stubbornly, suspecting he was being left behind because of his injury.

“Yes,” Vernal said, “but the horse knows you and not me, and we can’t very well leave him unattended.”

“Oh! ” Fencil said. ” I will stay and build the fire ring.”

Vernal nodded and stepped from beneath the sheltering branches. He looked up river, the way the knights had gone, and then turned and hurried deeper into the ravine.

* * *

Evaard and Chevall returned to the river.  “If I fanced frozen feet and wet boots, I’d wade ot and turn a few rocks to make it seem we tried to cross this way,” Chevall said.

Evaard crossed his arms, chewed his bottom lip, and made a slow turn, studying the country side.  A long, sturdy, wrist-thick bit of driftwood caught his eye.  It was silvered and dry from baking in the sun on the river bank.  He picked it up and carried it to the edge of the stream.  Once there he used it to stir the pebbles at the stream bed and dislodge a couple of the large rocks, leaving an apparent disturbance in the river bottom, then he hefted the limb into the middle of the stream and watched it rapidly float away.

Chevall chuckled.  “You know, Evaard, with your brains and my sagittipotent skills, we just might survive this.”

Erasing the Trail

Fencil built the fire ring and started a very small fire with dry wood, then he sank down next to it gratefully.  His left leg hurt horribly.  He wrestled his boot off and pulled up his trouser leg.  Somewhere when they were wandering through the brush and climbing over deadfalls, he picked up a Canterberry thorn.  It was deeply embedded on the inner side of his left leg just above his knee.

Canterberry thorns weren’t poisonous, but they did have razor sharp edges with duel hooks, like an arrowhead.   Pulling the thorn wasn’t an option.  The barbs would break off and fester under his skin, leaving him open to gangrene or some other defedating blood infection.  Fencil pulled his hunting knife from his belt and thrust the blade into the flames.

Evaard and Chevall, walked over a mile upstream obliterating their trail.  “This will do.  We want to make it obvious we’ve covered the trail.” Evaard said.  “That way they will be expecting a trap or a trick, and they won’t miss the over turned stones in the stream.”

Chevall agreed.  “If we are due any luck, they will try to cross the river there themselves, and not follow us downstream. And with greater luck still,” he continued, his tone rife with amarulence, “They’ll all drown and save us the trouble of killing them.”

“I have an idea of how we can guarantee their assectation,” Evaard said as the two knights carefully made their way back to camp.  “Do you think you can shoot an arrow across the river?”

Caught

Vernal was happy to leave Fencil behind for two reasons. The boy was injured and the rest would do him good. But more urgently, when Vernal found the willow tree camp, he knew his father’s tales about the lands of Honalee weren’t all fantasy like his mother claimed, which meant the cave filled with dragon treasure could very well exist. Vernal hastened up the ravine.

Vernal had no intention of being greedy. He wished to take only one ruby or one gold coin. He wanted only enough so that his mother and baby sister would be well provided for. He and his brother were capable of taking care of themselves. But if he took two coins perhaps his mother and sister would be well enough off that his sister could draw the attention of a Knight. Better to wed a Knight and live in the castle then to marry a farmer or one of the king’s serfs.

And why shouldn’t he and his brother each have a coin to tuck away in case times ever got bad? Maybe two coins even. That was it. He would take six coins. Two for his mother, two for himself, and two for his brother. But shouldn’t his sister have a coin of her own as well? Yes. Two coins for his sister. Eight. He would take eight gold coins.

By now Vernal was practically running. The ravine was drawing to a wedge. The rocky walls were steep and towered on either side of him. When the walls were no more than four arm spans across, he would look for the hidden entrance to the cave.

Vernal skirted a landslide, jumped a fallen tree truck, and rounded a curve in the trail. Suddenly the ravine walls loomed overhead. A dense canapy of brush at the top blocked the sun. In the gloaming evening, the ravine seemed far too dark and small. Fear trembled in Vernal’s stomach.

Vernal scrambled back over the tree trunk and flattened himself on the ground. He pressed his face into the dirt and peered beneath the trunk, trying to make out the trail ahead. The ground quaked beneath him. A noxious smell burned his nose and lungs. A shrub to the left of the trail crumpled, flattened beneath the foot of a huge golden dragon.

Trembling, Vernal held his breath. He wanted to bolt to his feet and run. Had the dragon sensed him? Vernal couldn’t see the beast’s head, only that one, massive foot. Judging by its size and shape, that foot was attached to the dragon’s left, rear leg. If that was it’s hind leg, where was the front of the beast?

Slowly, holding his breath, Vernal eased from his stomach to his side and looked toward the sky. Two glowing red dragon eyes peered down at him. The beast was so close, Vernal could see shimmers of red in the intricate golden scales covering the dragon’s snout. Its ivory teeth were startlingly white — and sharp.

Vernal couldn’t move. He knew he was about to die. For years he had dreamed of battling dragons, then the truce had come and he dreamed of someday befriending a dragon. Not once had he dreamed of being eaten by a dragon.

The huge neck arched. The dragon’s maw opened wide. Vernal caught a glimpse of it’s forked tongue and massive molars. I’m going to die, he thought, as a rumble issed from the creature’s gullet. The dragon reared up. Blue and yellow flames roiled from its mouth and flared toward the sky. The dragon whimpered and the air filled with noxious fumes. Vernal gagged.

The dragon swung it’s head down and glared at Vernal. “Human,” a resonate voice boomed in Vernal’s thoughts. “Dare you violate the King’s lair?”

“N-n-not on purpose,” Vernal managed to stammer.

The dragon snorted. Smoke curled from its nostrils. “Enjoying a little noctambule, were you?” It queried drily.

“I-uh-”

“Don’t lie.” The dragon raised its right front claw. Vernal stared at the six inch long, razor sharp talons. “I can smell a lie. You came to steal treaure, yes?”

Vernal nodded.

“And have you determined that that was a bad idea?”

Again Vernal nodded. The dragon lowered its forearm ever so slightly and Vernal scotted away and sat up. Another wave of noxious air enveloped him. The dragon reared its head and shot golden flames into the sky as its gullet rumbled. Vernal used the creature’s distraction to scoot even further the away.

The dragon pinned him in place, caging his torso within it’s right forepaw. Talons pierced the ground on either side of Vernal’s head and either sid of his hips. “Puny human,” the dragon voice rumbled in his head. “You live because I let you live. Be still or I may choose otherwise.”

Vernal quaked in fear, his teeth chattering. “I-I d-don’t want to d-die.”

The dragon surprised him by answering, “I don’t want to kill you. I ate three mage warriors today and they have upset my digestion something fierce.”

Vernal realized the dragon’s eructations were signs of dyspepsia. He decided not to ponder long on the source of noxious fumes that enveloped him. Who knew how sensitive a dragon might be about such things?

A rumble issued from the dragon’s chest an its great maw opened. Vernal braced himself for a death strike that never came. He opened his eyes and looked up. The dragon was laughing.

“I can read your mind,” the dragon explained. “You are an entertaining little coxcomb. Perhaps I shall keep you for a pet.”

A Matter of Pride

Realizing that he was the mouse in a cat’s game, Vernal tried to clear his mind and relax. If the dragon found him no fun to bait, perhaps he would set him free. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and tried to concentrate only on the dark behind his eyelids. He felt a nudge on his shoulder as the dragon snuffled his head. “Your father tried that, too,” the laughing voice echoed inside him.

Vernal’s eyes popped open and he looked up at the dragon. “You knew my da?”

~*~

Fencil lifted the tip of the knife to his tender thigh and pressed. He shuddered in pain. His teeth sunk into the soft fibers of the driftwood stick he’d jammed in his mouth. He whimpered as he made a small incision just below the Canterberry Thorn. Once the incision was made he pressed on his flesh just above the thorn, fully expecting the barbs to pop free, instead the thorn broke to pieces. Had he known it was fissiparous, Fencil would have automatically carved it from his flesh. Now he would have to make certain every little piece was removed. He tore a strip of material from his tunic and reached for his canteen.

Once he’d scrubbed and bandaged his thigh, Fencil took a long drink from his thermos, piled the rest of the kindling on the fire, propped himself up against the cave wall, and wondered why Vernal hadn’t returned yet.

~*~

It was well after dark when Evaard and Chevall returned to the willow camp. The fire had burned to embers and Fencil was fast asleep. Chevall knelt by his young page and touched the boy on the shoulder. Fencil opened his eyes and blinked blurry-eyed at the knight. “Why two of you?” He asked, then his head dipped to the side as unconsciousness claimed him.

“He is suffering accidie,” Chevall said. “Get firewood.” It was both command and request. Evaard understood. He nodded and left the enclosure. As well as firewood, they would need woodwort tubers to draw the poison from the boy’s wound. Luckily the tree they’d camped under would supply willow bark to ease the child’s pain, finding woodwort in the dark would be a challenge.

Evaard focused first on gathering firewood. He quickly filled his arms with fallen limbs and branches then returned to camp and ducked through the willow branches. As he’d expected, Chevall had already peeled a strip of bark from the tree and was peeling away the soft red fibers beneath to make a pain relieving tea.

Evaard rekindled the fire as Chevall retrieved the cooking pot from the haversack beside the horse and filled it with water. “I’ll make tea for the boy first and our food after, ” Chevall said.

Evaard nodded his agreement. “The sky is clear and the moon should be bright tonight. I will look for woodwort.” He did not add that he would look for Vernal, but it was understood.

~*~

“Like you, like many others, your father came here looking for treasure,” the dragon thought-spoke. “Some are allowed to leave, and some are not.” The dragon belched and flames flickered from his snout. As Vernal contemplated the cause of the dragon’s upset stomach, it continued speaking. “My name is Threfel. I am three hundred sixty-nine years old. I met your father here and his sire, and his sire’s sire. Of the three, two walked away and one remained.”

Vernal recalled his father saying that his own da had left home one day and never returned. Was it because he’d encountered this dragon — Threfel? And what was it that was required to leave alive? Vernal waited for the answer, but the silence stretched.

Twilight had faded to night. The air was chill, as was the ground beneath his back. Vernal wasn’t certain how much of his shivering was shock, how much was fear, and how much was cold. He knew moving wasn’t an option, not with those razor sharp talons surrounding him.

“If I let you go, will you run?” Threfel asked.

Vernal remembered the speed and ease with which the dragon captured him in the first place. “I will not run,” he stated.

“That is the truth,” Threfel said. He lifted his fore arm and set Vernal free. Vernal stood slowly. He stomped his feet and rubbed his arms briskly. His teeth chattered and he quickly bit his tongue to silence them.

“Prideful,” Threfel’s voice came ruefully. “That is never a good sign.”

“What is wrong with pride?” Vernal asked.

“There is nothing wrong with pride itself,” Threfel answered. “But many people hold it for the wrong reasons.”

That made no sense to Vernal so he didn’t answer.

The dragon seemed to sigh. “Tell me son of Elun, have you the pride of your father, or your grandfather?”

Vernal answered, “I don’t know, but I fear I will never be the man my father was.”

Threfel stepped backward. His great, golden body disappeared into the foliage until only his head remained in the clearing with Vernal. “You are free to go, but first, see that plant there by your left foot? Grab it as close to the ground as you can and pull it up.”

Vernal did as he was bid without question. The plant stalk was fibrous, rough and as big around as his little finger. A good section of soil and a large root cluster lifted with the plant.

“That is woodwort,” Threfel said. “Pull one of the tubers and tuck it into your satchel, then tamp the plant back into the ground.

Again Vernal did exactly as he was bid, wondering if this was a test.

“It is no test,” Threfel answered his thoughts. “You are free to go. The path is wide and the moon is high so you should have no trouble finding your way. Even so, keep your eyes open for a cromack for you will have need of it tomorrow.” Then, in the blink of an eye, the great dragon was gone.

~*~

Vernal stood where the dragon left him, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that something so big could absquatulate so quickly.  “Go, boy,” Threfel thought spoke into his head.  “It is late.  Your friends are anxious.”  Vernal nodded even thought the dragon wasn’t there to see, then he turned and hurried down the path.

~*~

Evaard returned with an arm load of firewood, but the night was moonless and far too dark for him to identify one plant from another. “How is the boy,” he asked as he stepped into the cave. “I could find no woodwort.”

Chevall twitched the boy’s bedding aside to show Evaard the cut and swelling on the boy’s knee. “The cut is clearly from a sharpened instrument. I am guessing Fencil’s knife. He probably lanced the wound to remove whatever caused the initial infection. However, without woodwort to draw out the poison it will just grow worse. By morning it may have spread too far.”

Evaard said, “We could chance a torch, but if any of the mage warriors are nearby –”

Chevall shook his head. “Not yet, but it may come to that. What of Vernal? Did you find no sign?”

“It’s too dark to track,” Evaard said. “And if this is the ravine I think it is, the back entrance to the dragon cave is within an hour’s walk. The boy might have stumbled on it.”

“In which case he may never return,” Chevall said. “I have heard that the dragon, Threfel, has little mercy.”

“Threfel values honesty and integrity, and Vernal has both.” Evaard said. “On the other hand, he cares little for pride and Vernal can be prideful.”

Chevall stared at Evaard in surprise. “I thought Threfel was condemned to forever guard the Treasure cave?”

Evaard nodded. “King deMagik laid the malison on Threfel over 200 years ago when he was still an adolescent.  As a young dragon Threfel had an eye for things that glitter and sparkle, but since adolescent dragons are forbidden to fly beyond the boundaries of dragon hollow, he couldn’t collect his own treasures, so he stole from the other dragons.  As punishment, deMajik condemned him to guard the royal treasure.  It is said that he can no longer fly and is unable to venture more than a few feet beyond the cave.”

“So if Threfel cannot leave the cave, that means you have been inside?”

“No,” Evaard said.  “As far as I know, no man alive can claim to have entered the cave and lived to tell of it.  Threfel met me just beyond the mouth of the cave and scared me righteous.”

Chevall said, “You went there to collect gems?”

Evaard answered, “Do not hesitate to vocitate the truth.  I went there to steal.”

“So did I,” came Vernal’s voice from the darkness beyond the the willow boughs.  He pushed through and into the cave.  “I have returned with no gems, but Threfel bid me bring you this cromack and this tuber. He reached into the pouch sewn on his tunic and brought forth the tuber.

“Woodwort!” Cheval exclaimed.

Unexpected Blessings

Chevall gave the woodwort a careful snilch.  “It is perfect,” he said, looking at Vernal.  “If  Threfel let you go and gifted you with the woodwort, then like as not King deMajik knows of our mission.”

“So we can press on the Dragon Falls and cross the rope bridge?”  Evaard asked.

Chevall shrugged.  “It seems so.  They’ve not come to stop us.” He soaked the hem of his tunic with water from his drinking bladder and scrubbed the woodwart tuber.  “Boil up a mug full of water.  I am going to seep a couple of slices of this tuber in the water.  We’ll treat Fencil from within and without and hopefully he will mend more quickly.”

“Woodwart will uberate his health in no time,” Evaard said.  “But we will need bandages to bind the root to the cut and we brought no spare tunics.”

Vernal reached into one of the packs and pulled out a ball of cloth. He tossed it to Evaard.

“Real bandage!”  Evaard exclaimed.  “Where did you get this?”

Vernal said, “From the palace acersecomic after he blessed me as your page.  He put his hands upon my head and had a vision.  Afterward he handed me these bandages and told me to keep them always in my possession until you stated their need.”

“Well, well,” Cheval said, “it seems we have both woodwort and holy bandages.  Fencil may be up and running by morn!”

Unexpected Ally, Unexpected Enemy

Evaard built a tiny fire with a flame barely big enough to bring a cup of water to boil. Chevall dropped several slices of the woodwort in to steep.

Evaard dug through a satchel and retrieved a cloth wrapped bundle. “Dried venison,” he said. “I wish we could risk a cooking fire. I have had enough salted meat to preserve my gut from the inside out.”

“We wouldn’t have risked even this much fire if we hadn’t needed the uberating tea for Fencil,” Chevall said.

Vernal jumped to his feet. “Are you certain?” He exclaimed.

Chevall and Evaard exchanged a look. Vernal was facing the shadows at the rear of the cave. Evaard snilched the darkness, but saw nothing remarkable. “Are we certain of what?” He asked Vernal.

Vernal pointed at the blank wall. “Threfal says that we can build a bonfire if we wish. The willow tree will defuse the smoke and the curve of the ravine will conceal any glow that might escape our thicket, plus, the nearest mage warrior is over five miles away.”

Evaard immediately added twigs to the small fire and blew gently on the flame.  Chevall stared intently at the back wall of the cave.  “Vernal,” he said.  “You realize that Threfel isn’t really there?  What you’re hearing is mind speak.”

“I am hearing mind speak,” Vernal agreed.  “But Threfel is just beyond that wall.  He said the entire mountain is riddled with caverns and he can travel mile upon miles without ever stepping outside.”

“And he is certain we are well hidden?” Chevall asked.

Vernal nodded.  “He is certain.”

“Good,” Chevall answered.  “I am going to clean Fencil’s wound.  If he cries out, no one will hear him.”  Chevall lifted the cup to Fencil’s lips and fed him several sips of the woodwort, then he dipped a bit of bandage in the potion and pressed it against Fenci’l’s thigh.  The boy moaned but did not wake from his accidie.

Evaard continued building up the fire, and removed a packet of vegetables from the satchel.  He pulled a knife from his belt and began slicing them into a pot of water.  He added a handful of the dried venison as well.  “In no time at all we’ll have a nice stew.”

Vernal looked at him in surprise.  “Sir Evaard!”  He exclaimed, “I am supposed to be cooking for you!”

“Battle situations often make assigned duties irrelevant and incompossible. I know how to make a fast trail stew, therefore I am making it. You can roll out the bedrolls. If Threfel is correct and we are alone in the ravine, then no one will have to stand watch tonight.”

Vernal went still and his face paled.  He turned from the back wall and faced Evaard.  “Threfel says you will still have to stand guard tonight to keep from getting throppled in your sleep by a noctambulator.”

“Fencil?”  Chevall queried.  “I think the drug will keep him down.”

“Not Fencil,” Vernal said.  “Me.”

“You?!”  Evaard exclaimed in surprise.  “Whatever are you talking about?”

“We buried and burned everything at the cabin so the mage warriors wouldn’t be able to find us through a possession which contained our aura,”  Vernal said.

“But they’ve found something of yours just the same?” Chevall asked.

“Worse,” Vernal said.  “I gave it to them.

What!”  Evaard exclaimed.  “When?”

“When I killed Fronesk, he took a piece of my soul forever.”

“Yes,” Chevall said.  “Taking someone else’s life always forfeits just a bit of your own.  That is true.”

“According to Threfal,” Vernal explained, “Fronesk claimed my bit of soul not in his own name to prolong his own life, but in the name of his commander.”

“Ronald?”  Evaard said.  “But he, too, is dead.”

Vernal shook his head.  “Both Ronald and Fronesk were commanded by the Mage King.  He has a piece of my soul.  Threfal says that when I sleep, which I must, the Mage King will be able to control my actions.  You must protect yourselves from me.”

Vernal Attacks

“In order to sleep, we will have to tie Vernal up,” Chevall said.

“Boy,”  Evaard put his hand on Vernal’s shoulder.  “I fear it was your wanion day when the king made you my page.”

“Not so,” Vernal said.  He stepped away from Evaard’s hand.  “I fear it was your wanion day when you were given me. I have brought nothing but trouble.”

“You did not bring the trouble,” Cheval said.  “It was brewing long before you or Evaard earned your ranks.  Sir Driscomb died fighting the Mage Warriors.  In retrospect, I imagine he encountered them stealing the dragon eggs.  At his death all of the Knights below him in rank advanced.  I became the 11th Knight of Strawberry Fife, leaving the 12th position open for Evaard.”

“Then I stumbled upon the intrigue and began investigating in a very swoopstake manner.  At every step I intended to take my concerns to the King, but there always seemed to be just one more thing to do first, and now we have come to this.  I have put my own page in grave danger.”

Vernal scoffed, “One cannot serve a battle warrior and expect always to be safe.”

“That is so,” Chevall said.  “And look, at least your page is still conscious.”  He pointed at Fencil, who moved restlessly in his fevered sleep.

“Gardyloo! Gardyloo!”  The call echoed up the cannon. Evaard and Chevall reached for their swords and moved toward the overhanging willow branches.

Vernal pulled his sword as well.  “I know who hails us,” he said.  “Do not answer.  And do not turn your back on me.”

Evaard turned to look at his page.  Vernal trembled violently. “You shall die!” He roared and his brown eyes flashed silver.  “I-I-I can’t c-control him!”  Vernal appeared to be fighting against himself.

“Drop the sword,”Chevall said softly.

“I cannot!”  Vernal answered.  Again his eyes flashed silver and he lunged toward Evaard.

Troga Returns

Tantivy, Evaard leaped aside.  Chevall stepped forward and struck Vernal on the wrist with the butt of his sword.  Vernal cried out in pain.  His sword clattered to the ground.  Evaard stepped in and grabbed Vernal by his uninjured arm, swung the boy around, and pinned him to the cave wall.

“Release him,” Chevall said.  “The pain should have driven the Mage Warrior away.”

“Tie me up!”  Vernal responded.  “He is growing stronger and he will be back.”

“What an imbroglio this is!” Evaard exclaimed.”Will Vernal ever be free of this curse?”  The exclamation was said in frustration, but hearing the words gave everyone pause.  The two knights stared at Vernal.

Vernal stared back at them in horror.  “What is to become of me?”

The willow branches rustled and parted.  A large purple dragon’s head invaded the shelter.  “Troga!”  All three humans cried out the name.

“What news have you?”  Evaard asked.

Troga’s thought-speak answered.  “The Mage Warriors didn’t pursue me far.  They turned back to follow you, but I’ve managed to slow them down.  I’ve singed them all and fairly toasted a couple. As far as I can tell, they are searching for the eggs and the hatchlings, as are we. ”

“I thought that the tradgematopolist was in league with the Mage Warriors,” Chevall said, “But if what you say is true, then he must have double-crossed them.”

“Aye, and he’ll die for that!”  Vernal roared, struggling to be free.  Evaard leaned on him a bit harder.

“What is this?”  Troga’s soft mind-speak was concerned.  She stepped further into the shelter, sniffing at Vernal.

“Careful now,” Cheval said.  “A Mage Warrior has possessed him.”

“In that case,” Troga responded.  “We must perform a delenda.”

Troga’s Plan

“A delenda?” Chevall said.  “How?  It’s not like we can restore Fronesk to life.  Death is very hard to erase.”

“Ah,” Troga said, “But we do not have to erase his death.  We have only to erase his possession of Vernal.”

“And how are we supposed to do that?” Evaard asked.

“We simply have to kill him,” Troga said.  She leaped forward, her massive mouth gaping wide. Her shoulder hit Chevall and knocked him backward, out of the cave.  She shoved Evaard aside with her snout.  He tripped over the packs and tumbled to the floor.

“No!”  Vernal screamed.  Troga’s teeth glittered with saliva as they snapped shut around him.  Vernal fainted.

Troga dipped her head, opened her mouth and rolled Vernal gently off her tongue.  Evaard climbed to his feet and Chevall re-entered the cave.

“Did it work?”  Evaard asked.

“We won’t know until the boy wakes.”  Troga answered in thought speak.

“That was close,” Chevall said.  “I’d drawn my sword before you told me it was a bluff.”

“Well, I had to wait until the boy fainted,” Troga responded.  “He had to think it was real. Hopefully neither he nor Fronsek are aware that dragons find humans quite jejune.  Pigs are cleaner and have much more flavor.”

Chevall or Evaard exchanged incredulous glances.  “Pigs are cleaner?”  Evaard repeated in disbelief.

“Yes,” Troga explained.  “They don’t insist in filling their bodies with alcohol and they never lather their skins with perfumes and soaps.”

“But pigs roil in offal and mud!”  Evaard exclaimed.  “They cover themselves in it!”

Troga nodded her massive head.  “Yes.  Delicious stuff.  Good for the digestive tract.”

Speechless, the two Knights stared at the dragon.

“Well don’t just gawp,” she said.  “Wake the boy.”

Evaard splashed a bit of water on Vernal’s face.  He shook his head, opened his eyes, then bolted upright and scrambled backward, away from Troga.  “You tried to kill me!”  He yelled.

“No, only frighten you,” Troga said.  “It was necessary I am afraid.”

Chevall pointed his sword at the boy, “Who are you?”

Vernal looked at him in confusion.  “I am me,” he said.  “Same as I always was.”  Then his eyes widened.  He sat up straight, counted his fingers, wiggled his toes, then turned his head this way and that.  Finally he smiled.  “I am me,” he said.  “I am me, and nobody else!”

“Well that’s a relief,” Evaard said.  He handed Vernal a sword, then turned away to straighten the packs.  “I’ve spilled everything out here,” he said.  “Come help me clean it up so Chevall can make the potion for Fencil.”

Vernal scrambled to his feet and began digging through the items from the pack.  “I’ll help until we find my clean clothes,” he said.  “I’m soaked in dragon spit!”

Troga’s laughter sounded in their heads.  “Proof there is no Mage Warrior in you.  He would be licking it up.”

Vernal gagged and started peeling out of his clothes.  “Disgusting!”

“What I am wondering,” Cheval said, “is what happened to Fronesk?”

“A Mage Warrior’s soul is not his own,” Troga answered.  “He swears it over to Legion, the high lord of the Mage Warriors.  Any soul free of a body returns to Legion.”

“So this Legion, the high lord, he is like the king of the Mage Warriors?”  Vernal asked as he pulled a clean tunic over his head.

“No,” Troga answered.  “He is more of what humans would call a god.”

An Almost Rebellion

“Oh this just keeps getting better and better,” Vernal said. “Now we have to battle a god?”

“What we have to do,” Troga said. “Is find the hatchlings. That may or may not include an encounter with Legion.”

“Right now?” Vernal complained. “I need food and sleep!” He snatched his bedroll up and clutched it to his chest. “I am not taking another step and you can’t make me! I’ve killed a man, fled for my life, and near been eaten by two dragons! No. More!” He turned away and brushed angrily at his eyes barely able to stifle a fatuous wail for his momma.

Evaard’s hand came down on Vernal’s shoulder, “It’s okay, son. We have trail soup ready to eat and we all need rest. I will fill your cup.”

Vernal cringed. He was the page, yet time and time again Evaard had done menial chores without complaint. Now here he was acting like a panjandrum and Evaard was about to wait on him. Vernal tossed his bedroll aside and stepped toward the fire. “I will serve,” he said. “It is my job.”

Evaard and Chevall exchanged knowing looks behind Vernal’s back. Sometimes kindness is a more effective reprimand than any jeremiad ever could be.