Were of the Drakon Page 3
“It appears your search was fruitless. I guess you’d better carry on with your duties.”
The soldier looked up at Septican then around the room. His eyes fastened on Trag, still sitting on the reed mat.
“There’s a cripple there what needs dealt with,” the soldiers said, his voice sounding flat and dull. Septican grasped the man’s chin and swung the soldier’s head back to lock eyes with him, staring fiercely into their dull depths for a few moments.
“There is no cripple in this house. There is no cripple in this house. Repeat after me. There is no cripple in this house.”
The soldier’s eyes were locked with Septican’s, who by now had let go of the man’s chin and of his own volition the soldier repeated.
“There’s no cripple in this house.”
“Again!”
“There’s no cripple in this house.”
“And what will you report to your sergeant?”
“There’s no cripple in this house.”
As Trag watched in amazement, Septican helped the soldier to his feet. The man took one last look around the room before he was led to the front door and deposited onto the street. It was as if Trag had ceased to exist. His Grandfather returned to the kitchen with a slight smile on his face. Trag was agog.
“What did you do Grandfather? That was amazing.”
His Grandfather sat in the chair vacated moments before by the soldier and leaned his elbows on the table.
“After the nerve block I gave him a tisane which stills the mind and makes it more susceptible to suggestion. Then I applied something called mesmerism and set an idea in his head. As far as he is concerned, there is no cripple in this house. Trouble is, with some people, the suggestion isn’t permanent and by tomorrow, when the drug wears off, he may remember what he saw here. We have to leave. Tonight!”
Trag was both thrilled and worried. It was all so sudden. Just like that. One minute he was sitting in school, the next having to mentally prepare to leave the only home he’d known all his short life. His mind was in a whirl, trying to catalogue the things he thought he might need to take with him.
“Where will we go Grandfather? We can’t stay in Melintana.”
“North young Trag. As fast as that old mule Rundle can take us. It would not be good if the Duke’s men returned and made a close investigation of this cottage and its contents. We’ll have to travel into Boronia. Once we’re over the border we should be safe.”
Although Trag’s knowledge of geography was excellent, he couldn’t really comprehend distance, having never been anywhere other than Bardton, which wasn’t very sizeable as far as towns went. Or so he’d been told.
“How long will it take us to get to the border with Boronia?” he asked Septican.
“Maybe four or five days, maybe a week,” Septican replied. “Depends on Rundle.”
Trag was about to ask yet another question but saw the look on Septican’s face. The Healer was worriedly darting glances around the kitchen, no doubt carrying out a mental inventory of all the things they would need to take and could carry in the wagon. Trag realised he was distracting his Grandfather with his questions. The answers would come with time.
All he needed was to have some patience.
3. A Journey
Septican Mycindun’s ‘special’ wagon had been made for him by a friend in Conurbal, Melintana’s capital city, many years ago. In fact, it was shortly after the Duke came to power and started seizing vellum paged books. Oh, the beautifully illuminated, vellum-paged religious volumes were not considered to be a problem, no matter what was in them. No one in their right mind fought with the Church, fearing Dramad’s curse. However, all the other proscribed and banned books were systematically removed from circulation. It was a way for the Duke to dumb the population down and control more of his subjects’ daily lives as well as reducing the use of magic in Melintana. Septican had seen the writing on the wall and asked his friend to help, paying for a wagon to be built to his own specifications. He didn’t know he would be using it to take his books out of the city just a few short years later, right after the Duke’s soldiers took his son and daughter-in-law away. Never to be seen again.
The result of that friend’s help now stood in front of Trag, who watched silently by dim lamplight as his Grandfather continued ferrying vellum paged books from the secret hiding spot in the kitchen to the hiding spot under the false floor of the wagon. The wagon wasn’t huge but was four wheeled with a decent sized open bed to it. There was a canvas cover lying to one side which would be tied over their belongings once the wagon was eventually loaded.
Rundle stood in his stall, observing proceedings as he munched on mouthfuls of fresh hay pulled from the pile Septican had placed in the feed trough. Earlier, Grandfather had to go and fetch him from Widow Mankin’s field before nightfall and bring the stubborn beast home, otherwise he would never have found the dark brown mule until the first moon came up. Trag wished for the umpteenth time that he had a decent set of legs so he could help his Grandfather but as they said, ‘if wishes were horses then beggars would ride’. As it was, the beggars of Melintana were swiftly changing their profession, hiding or fleeing elsewhere.
Trag had gotten all his belongings together, rolling hither and yon on his indoor trolley, trying not to get under Grandfather’s feet as he ferried them out to a spot near the wagon. They would be taking his outside cart and one trolley for indoors plus his special chair and one of his mats. Trag was secretly glad he didn’t have to go by himself as he couldn’t have carried very much on his cart and he doubted whether he would have been able to make camp for himself in the evenings. Let alone procure food.
Trag’s Grandfather grunted as he dumped the last pile of books onto the back of the wagon before placing them carefully into concealment and replacing the boards which covered them.
“That’s the last Trag. All I have to do now is pack the medicine chest and a few of my legal books then all the little things we might need plus our clothes and some food. I hope to be away by midnight. You might as well try and get some rest.”
Trag knew there was no way he could rest. Excitement coursed through his veins and his eyes remained wide open as he watched Grandfather walking back and forth, loading the wagon. He must have dozed at some stage though because he found himself with his chin on his chest and looked up to find the cover already on the wagon and the rope tying it down firmly knotted. Grandfather had the collar on Rundle and was backing him between the shafts. Rundle wasn’t helping much and started to frisk a little until Septican muttered under his breath and waggled his fingers a little in the mule’s face. The mule immediately became placid and helpful. Trag knew it was time he had to learn more magic. It would make his young life far simpler.
His Grandfather picked Trag up and sat him on the bench seat at the front of the load before going inside the cottage for the final time to lock everything up. No one in Bardton could be told they were leaving or where they were going, as there may very well be a chance of pursuit in the days to come. Finally, his Grandfather opened the big door at the front of the barn, which was built onto the back of the cottage and clucking at Rundle, drove the wagon out into the night and onto the laneway. He stopped, applied the brake and jumped down to close and lock the barn door, muttering a spell over it for extra security before getting back up onto the wagon and flicking the reins. Rundle leaned into his collar once more, taking the weight of the wagon and set off. They soon turned north onto the road which led out of town.
“Where are we going Grandfather? What’s it like there?” Trag asked once they were out of earshot of the last building they’d passed leaving town. His Grandfather ruminated on the question for a while, leaving Rundle to make his own way along the road before he turned to face Trag.
“In the northern part of Melintana are the mountains which form its border. Beyond them is another country altogether, Boronia, with a King who is just and fair. To the east in southern Boronia lies
some rough and hilly land, with the sea as its eastern border. It’s considered a dangerous stretch of country by some but I have friends living there, people who don’t want to be watched all the time. They’re somewhat alternative, knowledgeable and private. That’s where we’re heading and it will take a tenday or so to get there. Here, we’ll wrap this around you and try to get some sleep.”
His Grandfather helped tuck the offered blanket around Trag before taking up the reins again.
Sleep, how could he sleep? Yes it was dark and the middle of the night but this was the most excitement he’d ever had in his short life. There was no way he could sleep right now thought Trag, listening to the clip clop of Rundle’s feet and the rumble of the wagon wheels as they rolled along. The smell of damp earth and the faint fragrance of greenery permeated the air, a backdrop to the odd owl call and the occasional flutter of bat wings as they came to pick off insects disturbed by the wagon’s passage.
He woke in the first light of dawn with the lurch of the wagon as Grandfather drove into a copse of trees well off the road. The wheels were quiet on the grass, cushioned by the damp earth. Trag didn’t know where he was but Grandfather’s smile was reassuring. Before long there was a little fire going and a breakfast of biscuits and bacon was sizzling in the pan. It smelled different being outside. Rundle was led to a healthy patch of grass and staked out to graze, cropping the fresh green foliage with relish. When Grandfather came back it was Trag’s turn to eat, tucking into his breakfast treat. It would probably be porridge from now on. After eating, he acceded to his Grandfather’s wishes, rolling himself up in a blanket and surprisingly, dropping off to sleep once again.
It was quite cool when he awoke. The fire was out and he could see the bulk of his Grandfather lying wrapped in a blanket. He heard Rundle’s stomach gurgling and realised he felt the need to go. So, not having a trolley, he dragged his crippled body toward the nearest tree through the carpet of multicoloured leaves. It was a wonder to him, the top layer crisp and noisy, underneath damp and soft and smelling of mould. There were tiny toadstools among the leaves and barely seen insects skittering about. Behind the tree he dug a shallow hole down through the previous season’s dead leaves. It would have to do. Finished, he covered it over, thinking the worms would probably enjoy his offering. By the time he’d pulled himself back over to his blankets, Grandfather was up and had the fire going and the kettle on. Magic was certainly useful.
They didn’t hear or see anyone for the remainder of the day, even though Septican was pretty sure they should have seen or heard at least one Trader pass near the spot they were camped. Luck probably. It was just on dark when they set off again, Rundle leaning eagerly into the traces, wanting to put miles behind him. The mule was excited; it was ages since he’d been anywhere new, his whole life being mostly spent in Widow Mankin’s fields. Septican didn’t mind Rundle’s enthusiasm, the sooner they left Melintana the safer they would be. Rundle kept up a regular pace all night apart from the short break Septican gave him in the early hours of the morning beside a narrow stream where he fed the mule a little grain and allowed the thirsty animal a drink.
In the morning, just on daybreak, Septican turned into a barely discernable side road and drove along it under the overarching foliage for a hundred yards or so before swinging off the road into a handy small clearing and setting up camp. He returned on foot to the junction of the main road and the side road they had turned into and using a branch, swept all traces of their wagon’s passage from the road. It was fortuitous he was so careful, as later in the morning the sound of drumming hooves could be heard from the direction of the main road. A swift patrol had just ridden by, heading north. No doubt searching for them. Septican and Trag stayed quietly where they were, resting and sleeping until much later that afternoon when Septican was relieved to hear the patrol cantering back south again.
It was time to move on again.
The days melded into one another, the first moon on the wane now as the second moon waxed full; eight days since they’d left their home. Septican was now travelling during the day, careful and unhurried, allowing old Rundle to take his time. They met a few larger wagons, laden with Trade goods, heading south but Trag had taken to spreading a travel rug over his lap and wearing a large jacket to keep out the chill from sitting still. They hid his imperfections and he wasn’t easily recognisable as a cripple. Travelling during the day was far preferable to Trag, as he could now see everything about him as they passed through the countryside in the north of Melintana. Each new day was very different from the previous one. It was like a holiday for the curious boy, as he’d never travelled out of Bardton before. The countryside changed as they travelled north, gradually becoming more wooded and hilly. The road wound around the hills and seemed to often follow streams. It made Trag realise just how big the world really was. They eventually came to the mountains and the foothills gave way to cuttings and roadways carved into the sides of steeper slopes. Rundle now had to work hard to pull the weight of the wagon and Septican often got down, walking beside the mule and talking to him as he leaned into his load. Trag thought of trying to pump his little cart up these inclines and realised he’d really had no idea when he thought of going off on his own. His Grandfather had thought it all through however and had brought along a decent size bag of grain to feed Rundle on. It gave the old mule extra energy which he just couldn’t obtain from grazing the grass available at the places they stayed overnight.
Besides, grass was becoming scarcer now the higher they climbed.
Trag was astounded by how far he could see from up here and often took to looking behind him as they drove up higher and higher. When the road eventually wound back into the higher reaches of the main valley, way off in the distance behind them, Trag could see cleared areas where there was cultivation and tiny specks of ploughed fields. Once Trag thought he saw a drakon gliding far above but it was such a tiny speck it could have been an eagle. Another time a bronze drakon swept low overhead to inspect them. Rundle didn’t like that and became fidgety when it happened. Grandfather, who was surprised to see the drakon this far north, reminded Trag about the pact in force between drakons and the country of Melintana, tithing sheep and cattle for drakons to eat and in return, the population was left alone by them and protected from raids by the dreaded Draakon Reavers.
The sight of the drakon mesmerised Trag. He never believed in his wildest dreams he would ever be this close to one and as he looked up to see yet another great, bronze coloured beast gliding by silently high overhead, he took great pains to memorise what he saw. The drakon’s head was stretched forward on its long neck like a spearhead, with the horny projections laid back on its neck. Occasionally the head swivelled back and forth, searching the countryside below and for a second Trag felt himself the subject of its observation. The animal’s body was lean and its four legs were tucked up against it for aerodynamics while the long tail stuck straight out behind. The great leathery wings were amazing, as wide as the drakon’s body was long, with slender bones supporting a membranous leathery skin which was so thin he saw light through it. Rarely did Trag see those wings flap. The few drakons he’d observed mostly rode thermals, gliding from one to the next as they patrolled. The drakons were quite a ways from the sea and seemed to be looking for something. Trag wondered what could be important enough for them to search for.
Eventually, on the tenth day of travel, Trag and his Grandfather came to a pass at the top of the mountain range and once through it, a totally different country showed itself ahead. Trag thought it looked interesting and was looking forward to descending down into the serried terraces when his Grandfather suddenly turned the wagon to the right, heading down a little used trail. Ahead were jumbled hills which seemed to go on forever. As Trag overcame his surprise at turning off the main road, his Grandfather spoke.
“There you are Trag. Your new home. The Duke won’t find you down there.”
Trag nodded, not sure if ‘down there’ w
as a good place or not but he had to trust his Grandfather in this.
Septican knew best.
Rundle seemed happier going downhill but Trag suspected the mule, if it could think past its stomach, was probably glad there was a brake on the little wagon as the road, more like a track now, was quite steep in places. Grandfather at times had to tie off the reins and leave Rundle to pick his own way as he hauled back on the brake handle with two hands, the squeal of the brake pad on the wheel quite loud as it echoed back from the surrounding hills.
As night time approached, Septican found a slightly flatter spot and they made camp.
“If I remember correctly, we should be there tomorrow.”
Trag nodded as he ate. Still not sure if ‘there’ was where he wanted to be.
“Will there be other children there Grandfather?”
“I suspect so Trag. We’re heading to a castle.” He laughed at the surprised look on Trag’s face. “Yes, a real castle. Out here. Only a small one though. It was built for protection from Reaver raiding over a hundred years ago. Well before the time that tithing and sacrifices to the drakons began.”
Trag hadn’t heard much about the Reaver raiding, apart from it being mentioned when Septican talked about drakons. Maestra Winholme didn’t want to appear to be a ‘know-it-all’ so never taught much real history.
“What was the Reaver raiding about, Grandfather?” he asked.
Septican sat considering the question for a while and Trag knew his Grandfather was merely drawing his thoughts together and waited patiently. He didn’t have long to wait and his patience was soon rewarded.
“We’re headed toward the shores of a sea which stretches to the south as far as Conurbal and to the north as far as the Wardang Straits, which is where Draakonia is. The seas are the hunting grounds of the Draakon Reavers, pirates who come ashore to loot and pillage and take slaves. The constant Reaver raiding on Melintana eventually led to the agreement between the King in Conurbal and the drakons, who now protect the capital and most of Melintana from the marauders. Long before that agreement was ever made, the people around here became tired of the depredations of the Reavers and banded together to form a mobile fighting force. Watch was kept and a series of squat towers, for signal fires, were placed on hilltops to warn where an attack was coming next. Small, defendable castles known as Keeps were built at various locations up and down the coast and over time, after losing many skirmishes, the Reavers eventually stopped visiting these shores, preferring easier targets like the capital, Conurbal until the deal with the drakons. The castles still remain here and there along the coast. Those that haven’t fallen into ruin. My friend lives in one.”