Dragon Castle Read online

  “Let your old nurse wipe your bum, Peklo!”

  “Oh, good sir,” Georgi babbles in his most servile voice, rubbing boiled turnips into Peklo’s ears. “So sorry, sir, so sorry.”

  “Volne mi!” Peklo screams. “Free me!” He staggers back and forth, trying to extricate himself from the cocoon of cloth.

  “Ano, good sir,” Georgi steps back and pulls hard at the cloth wrapped about Peklo. Peklo spins like an oversize top, ending up on his knees. By the time he rises to his feet, Georgi is gone.

  His face red, not wanting to embarrass himself further by trying to pursue a clumsy servitor, Peklo rises and stalks back to his men. They’re silent now.

  “Something funny?” Peklo says in a deadly calm voice.

  He clubs his fist into the face of the one who shouted out that remark about Peklo looking like a baby.

  “Any other jokers?” Peklo growls.

  Nearly all of them, including the man he struck, now spitting blood and a tooth onto the stones of the courtyard, turn away to avoid his angry glare.

  The only one still smiling is the blond hulk, who fingers his beard as he looks up at his companion. He clearly views himself as Peklo’s equal. Now that I think of it, when the baron arrived, Spadebeard was the one who stayed closest to Temny’s side.

  “Where’s your lass?” Spadebeard asks with an insolent chuckle.

  “Shut up, Smotana,” Peklo snarls. “We deal with them all. Later.”

  Perhaps they don’t know I can hear them from where I lean against the castle wall, a spear’s throw away. My hearing is much sharper than most.

  “True enough,” spade-bearded Smotana agrees. “The baron has promised us the lot of them, and our master always keeps his word. But if you like, we could seek out that old bald fool and break his neck now.”

  Peklo nods his head. “Jah. But I settle the score, not you. I break his bones good.”

  I doubt it. Though Peklo may keep his eye out for any glimpse of the fool who dowsed him, there’ll be no score settling today. No one is better than Georgi at remaining unseen.

  “That lass looked tasty,” Smotana says. “And there’s at least one or two more in there, or I miss my guess. How long will it be until we get the go-ahead?”

  “When the master and our, ah, young mistress grow strong enough,” Peklo says. His voice is unsettlingly calm now.

  “Ah,” Smotana says. He shows his teeth in an even wider grin and nods his head as he continues to stroke his beard. “Of course.”

  What little amusement I was feeling at the way Georgi handled Peklo had now left me. I slip back around the corner with a sick feeling in my gut.

  Are we all doomed?

  PAVOL’S LEGEND

  Sest

  ON THE SEASONS flowed. The snows of Zma melted into the sweet promise of Jar, then the long hot days of Leto, until finally again it was Jesen, the time when the leaves turn and fall from the trees, the very season in which the boy now known by all as Pavol had been born.

  And like the small trees in the forest, he had drawn strength from the passing of seasons and years. Though he was still slender, there was no mistaking the strength in his arms grown hard-sinewed from the woods work that was his daily labor. His years upon the earth now numbered sixteen and he was taller than most men.

  As he had grown and changed, something else in the land had done the same. First as a flicker like foxfire in the night, then as a glow like a flame near burned out, the light of the Silver Lands had begun to show itself again, that fifth direction that had vanished on the death of his parents was returning. Not everyone could see it, but it was there once more.

  Baba Marta was the first to point it out to him. Then she told a story of the Silver Lands, how those who lived their long lives there were pleased when humans lived in peace, how they watched the lands of mortal folk but did not interfere—though now and then a lord or lady of Faerie might fall in love, true love with a mortal. Then, if that love was returned, the couple had a hard choice to make. If they would live together, one must pledge to give up all that had been known and familiar before and go to that true love’s land to share long life or swift mortality by his or her side.

  “What if they have children?” Pavol asked.

  Baba Marta smiled at that. Was her smile because his question proved to her how truly her boy was now becoming a man? Or was there a bit of sorrow in the expression that crossed her face?

  “Ah,” she replied. “For them it is different.”

  And that was all she would say.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Why Climb the Tree?

  WHY CLIMB THE tree when the apple is about to fall into your hand?

  That proverb of Father’s comes to mind as I consider how things have gone since the arrival of our aggressive guests. Three days have now passed since they marched through our gate.

  Why, you might ask, haven’t those well-armed interlopers who vastly outnumber us just thrown us into the castle dungeon? Well, we’ve never had a dungeon in our castle. Who needs a dungeon when you have no enemies to place in one?

  We do have the castle cellars. But no one—aside from our family—ever goes there. And that space is well filled . . . with other things. True, we might have built some sort of jail aboveground inside the castle walls, but Father thought it much more practical to use the space for a larger stable.

  The lack of a dungeon aside, why haven’t they just taken over?

  After all, force has long been a means of establishing legitimacy in the twelve kingdoms around our tiny and peaceful domain.

  Now that I’ve had a little time to ponder things, I think I partly understand why Baron Temny held his men back from attacking us after entering our castle. Though I cannot quite put my finger on it, I sense that the man does not completely trust his own strength. I cannot say why, but something seems missing in him. There is none of the calm certainty in him, for example, that is so much of my brother Paulek’s character. I cannot imagine a battle that Paulek would ever run from—even one where defeat seemed certain.

  The baron, though, seems reticent to fight. More weasel than lion. Direct conflict is the approach of one whose bravery is greater than his guile and who does not yet trust his own strength. The baron is not a warrior looking forward to combat. Despite the sharp sword he brandished that first day, a straightforward thrust is not the baron’s way.

  Sit back, set events into motion that will confuse or discomfit us—such as stationing his unruly troops in our courtyard and bewitching my brother. Observe our weaknesses. Then, like a clever predator creeping close and closer, strike when success is certain?

  Yes, that may be it.

  I still do not understand, however, those words spoken by the princess as she studied whatever she held in her hand. Some sort of amulet, perhaps? What exactly were they close enough to?

  And what about Peklo’s remark regarding Temny and Poteshenie growing strong enough? Strong in what way? Physically? Magically? And what would make them stronger? Perhaps merely by being in our castle, by being close enough to something here, they are gaining power the way a tree draws strength from being rooted into fertile earth?

  In terms of strength, there’s no doubt that they’ve found our weak point. It is the easily influenced mind of my besotted brother!

  Aside from that first kiss on her extended hand, Paulek has been kept at arm’s length by the princess. She and the baron are playing a game with him, giving my brother only brief glimpses of his bride-to-be, a few words to tantalize him.

  “When we are married, we will always be together, yes?”

  A smile, the flutter of her eyelashes, her hand reached out so that her fingertips brush his flushed cheek before she pulls back with what is intended to sound like a modest giggle. Then the ever-present baron whisks her away. It’s so obvious to me. Can’t Paulek see the way Temny is dangling her in front of him as if she were a sweet and Paulek a child being coaxed into doing the bidding of a manipulative ad
ult?

  I tried talking to him earlier today.

  “Brother, are you sure this betrothal is the right thing?” I began.

  In reply he plucked a white, heavily scented handkerchief from his pocket.

  “Look, Rashko, the princess gave me this. Doesn’t it smell wonderful?”

  I managed to control myself and not say that its scent reminded me of the spices used by awful cooks to cover the fact that their food has gone bad.

  “Paulek, don’t you think you’re rushing things?”

  I might as well have been talking to a tree, for at that exact moment the princess appeared at her window and gestured to him.

  “Look, Rashko, there she is.”

  And with that, deaf to any further words I might utter, he left my side to go stand beneath the window and stare up at her.

  With Princess Poteshenie as my brother’s intended, the baron is not an interloper, but a relative-to-be. As Paulek’s wife, the princess would become a legal heir—should our parents not return—to our kingdom.

  The thought of that makes my skin crawl.

  I do not know much about marriages. Why should I? I’m only fifteen. It is always the older brother who marries first. But I do know that everything about this potential marriage is wrong. If my parents had a say in this, it would be short and direct. In a word, Nie! No!

  Despite their obtuseness, my parents always recognize honesty and integrity. They would have seen through this crew of—whatever they are—in a heartbeat. They would never have allowed those heavily armed men to cross the drawbridge. They might have invited the baron and his princess—but not their retinue—in to dine, bringing them through the sally gate when a single wide plank can allow one person at a time to enter. No forged invitation from Father would have been produced. One word from Mother would have broken or prevented whatever spell it is that was cast over my gullible brother.

  I imagine what it would have been like at the end of that dinner.

  “Such a pleasure to have met you.”

  “We do hope your charming daughter finds a suitable young man for herself.”

  Then Temny and Poteshenie would have been escorted from Hladka Hvorka and lodged not in our guest quarters but in the small drafty cottage outside the castle while my parents went to bed early.

  At cock’s crow the next morning, Georgi would have brought them a cold breakfast and firm good wishes for them to have a pleasant journey as they departed our valley.

  My father, though his sense of humor is a bit limited, would likely have chuckled about it all later.

  A SWORD TAPS my arm. It wakes me from my musing.

  “Bratcek,” Paulek says, “are we not going to spar?”

  Spar? How can he even think of that at a time like this?

  But it is not a bad thing. I’ve noted over the last three days that this practice yard seems to be the one place where my brother is able to think about anything other than the princess. I follow him down the stairs and through the archway onto the yard.

  Two days ago, the only way I was able to pry him away from staring out his window at Princess Poteshenie sitting in the garden below was to suggest a match. Even as far gone as he is in infatuation, the thought of blow and counterblow, steel ringing against steel is still able to get his attention.

  My hope is that while we fight I may talk some sense into him.

  Perhaps even now before we start?

  “Brother, don’t you think you are too young for marriage?”

  Paulek knits his brow.

  “Shouldn’t you get to know her before you take such a big step?”

  He scratches his forehead.

  “Remember what Father always says, that one must take slow steps on unfamiliar ground because it might prove to be a bog?”

  Paulek stares down at the blunt sword in his hand.

  Unfortunately, I have just asked him three questions in a row and topped them off with a proverb. It’s a burden too heavy for his thoughts to lift.

  “Bog? But the nearest bog is on the other side of the forest.”

  “Paulek, do we know these people well enough for you to agree to a marriage?”

  Paulek lifts his eyes to mine. He looks worried. “Bratcek, are you jealous?”

  “No, far from it. Not at all.”

  A happy grin as broad as a sunrise over the High Tatra Mountains spread over his face. His big left hand thuds into my chest. “Vyborne! Wonderful. Then all is well. On guard!”

  And before I can say another word—or fully regain my breath—his sword is swinging at me and I am barely deflecting it with my own blade.

  “Utok!”

  No time for persuasion or argument now. I raise my weapon just in time to catch the gleaming blade that descends as swift as a falling star toward my head.

  Clang!

  “Udriet!”

  And again!

  Clang!

  “Velmi dobre!” Paulek shouts as his feet shuffle forward on the floor of the high-fenced practice field. “Good! Good defense, small brother.”

  Defense? Standing within sword’s length of a grinning madman who thinks that attempting to bash his innocent brother is an enjoyable pastime? To be fair, though, Paulek would feel terrible if he really did injure me. The strength of his attacks have only increased over the years as my ability to defend and fight back has grown. He prides himself on having been the one—even more than Black Yanosh—who has done the most to turn me into a skilled swordsman. As our wise old teacher has often said, to know how to attack, first learn to defend.

  And defense is what I need to put my mind to right now. Blunt blade or not, Paulek is strong as a bull. Any one of his blows may break bone if I fail to either deflect or dodge it and it connects with something other than my much-dented shield and helm. I have to put my mind to this. No time now to worry about my missing parents or the hungry grin on the face of Baron Temny. At least Paulek is his old self while we’re here, and he’s trying his best to help his beloved brother grow as a fighter by endangering his life! A smile starts to come to my own face as the two of us engage in our dangerous dance.

  “Utok!”

  Thwang!

  “Nicely taken, brother!”

  Luckily, Paulek has never been one to think silently as his mind runs through the various techniques we have both been taught by Black Yanosh. Our persistent (and still hidden) weapons master has spent eight weeks of every year with us since Paulek was seven and I was six.

  “Utok! Udriet!”

  Attack! Strike!

  No matter what Yanosh has tried, including stuffing a gag in his mouth, Paulek has never been broken of the habit, in the excitement of battle, of stating what he is about to do a split second before doing it.

  “Utok!”

  Swoosh!

  The wind stirred by the deftly executed crossing downstroke of my brother’s blade swishes past my nose as I jerk my head back.

  “Udriet!”

  Thwang!

  My right arm is jarred by the powerful, perfectly placed backhand blow that could have broken my shoulder had I not taken it on my shield.

  “Udriet!”

  Thud! The sound of the hilt of a quickly reversed sword as it strikes the center of an unguarded stomach.

  “Ooof!”

  A body hits the ground hard. A suddenly regretful brother drops his shield and sword to kneel and apologize.

  “Prepac! I’m sorry, Paulek.”

  My older brother sits up slowly. As always, there is no anger in the look on his face. In fact, he looks pleased that I’ve bested him.

  Lately, unless I try really hard to control myself, things just happen. I don’t know how or why. One moment Paulek is pressing the advantage and I’m doing my best just not to get maimed. Then, the very next second Paulek is flat on his back and I’m standing over him.

  If Black Yanosh were here and not still lying low, he would be looking at me with one snowy eyebrow raised, his leathery right hand stroking his
small, elegant mustache.

  “Znova,” he would say. Again.

  That is all Black Yanosh ever says whenever one of my lucky moves manages to knock down my brother. I never have met anyone who speaks fewer words than our old weapons master.

  I help Paulek to his feet.

  “I’m really tired,” I say. “You’ve completely worn me out.”

  Paulek smiles. The fact that I put him on his back yet again has not bothered him at all. He delivers a loving punch to my chest. More bruises.

  “Ano! Yes, I take pity on you now, eh?”

  Paulek goes back into the main castle. I have no doubt where he’s going. Our sparring over, the entrancement has returned. He’s heading back to his perch, where he can stare out the window onto the garden. Perhaps if he is lucky—or so he thinks—he’ll catch a glimpse of the princess strolling about with that vile pet of hers in her arms.

  Making my way around the main courtyard, I hug the walls, staying behind whatever obstacles I can find to prevent Temny or his men from noticing me.

  I needn’t have worried. As usual, the baron and the princess have hidden themselves in the guesthouse. I hear some sort of chanting from within. The cloud of smoke that’s been constantly rising from one of the chimneys since their first night here now has a green tinge to it.

  The baron’s men seem unaware of me as I slip quietly past them. They’re all engaged in their usual pastimes of dicing, betting on knife throws, and arguing over who is most obviously cheating. They’re cooking the last of our depleted flock of hens. When we have dinner tonight with the baron and the princess, chicken will not be on the menu. They’re also still drinking from the casks of wine that Georgi brought them. The arrival of strong drink was greeted by the rabble with considerable delight.

  Even Peklo forgot his original plan to break Georgi’s bones when he saw our clever head retainer roll out that first cask. Not our best wine, of course. Far from it. But good enough to turn their attention away from other things. I wonder if Georgi might not have put a little something extra into those casks. Not poison. But something that might, in some ways, calm their urges.