Dragon Castle Read online

  Smart, I think. And stupid at the same time. Does she believe I’m dull as Paulek? She’s not even trying to hide her disappointment at failing to bring about the demise of Ucta and Odvaha.

  She is not the most disappointed one, though. Her cat is positively moping. And Ucta and Odvaha furrow their brows at me.

  Why stop us? Just getting interesting.

  Too dangerous.

  We could have taken them.

  I know.

  I keep from smiling at the mental picture of what my two friends would have done if I’d not held them back. A smile right now might give me away. I have to be a better actor than the princess.

  And I do have to protect Ucta and Odvaha from their own reckless bravery. I have no doubt those four men would have regretted aiming their weapons at my two friends. But there are three dozen more men behind them. Though they’re still busy drinking my father’s wine, they would have risen to their feet and joined in the fight. Even if Ucta and Odvaha would certainly have taken a good many enemies with them, I have no desire to see them give their lives uselessly just to preserve their dignity. And it’s not yet the time to confront Temny and his daughter.

  Be patient.

  For the benefit of those watching, I speak out loud.

  “Nie, bad dogs!”

  Ucta makes a huffing sound, but settles back on his haunches and scratches his ear. Odvaha slumps to his belly and begins to lick his paw—which is bleeding slightly from one of those sharp shards of stone. They look, for all the world to see, like nothing more than two unusually large wolfish dogs.

  Let them be viewed that way. Especially now that Baron Temny has come on the scene. He’s finally emerged from the guesthouse and is standing in front of his daughter. Like her, he seems subtly changed. Stronger. Slightly taller, perhaps. A bit broader of shoulder.

  His right hand strokes his mustache, his left caresses the hilt of the curved dagger that hangs from his belt.

  “All is well?”

  The friendly tone in his voice is so false that it grates like a file.

  “Ano,” I reply, avoiding his eyes. “All is well.”

  “Otec!” the princess says to the baron, putting special emphasis on that word as she caresses his shoulder. “Father! Those bad dogs wanted to hurt my little pet.”

  “Ah?” Baron Temny raises his eyebrows. “They must be chained?”

  His words are directed at me. Not really a question but a command.

  “Of course,” I say, still looking down. “I will see to it right away.”

  My quick answer surprises him. He hasn’t expected me to be agreeable. He stops stroking his mustache and slides his right hand down to his chin, narrowing his eyes to consider me.

  I grab Ucta and Odvaha by the loose skin at the scruff of their necks.

  Pretend to resist, but not too much.

  Ucta growls and Odvaha whimpers as I pull at them. But they also trust that I have a plan. Which I do, more or less. Their feet scrabble on the stones of the courtyard as I drag them through the gate, across the drawbridge, and down the hill.

  As soon as we are well out of sight, I let go of the scruffs of their necks. They both shake themselves noisily. I understand why. Like me, they want to rid themselves of the taint of the atmosphere that hangs about the baron and his cohorts like greasy smoke.

  You chain us?

  Nie.

  I kneel down and put my arms around their necks. They lick my face.

  “Make yourselves very scarce. I will call you if I need you.”

  As you say.

  They trot down the slope. I watch until they disappear into the deep green of the thick brush in the rocky folds of land above the Old Forest.

  Then, though I feel like one about to remove his sword and step into a room full of ruffians ready to rob him, I turn and go back up the hill to Hladka Hvorka.

  PAVOL’S LEGEND

  Devat

  PAVOL STOOD STARING at the swift-running Hron. Its waters were icy cold, coming as they did from the snows that never left the highest peaks of the Tatras.

  He was not alone. Considering what he had just seen, that was unfortunate. He was with the group of young men of his age that he’d known and grown with since taking on his identity as Pavol the woodcutter’s boy.

  Both Uncle Tomas and Baba Marta had encouraged him to spend time with others of his own age when he was not busy doing the tasks they set him to. In fact, making friends was one of those needful tasks. Just why, he was not sure, but his guardians told him that a man with no friends is not man at all. Moreover, they added, to know how to work, one must also learn how to play

  Although his young comrades had soon bestowed the name Pavol the Foolish upon him, all of them viewed him with affection. Though he was foolhardy and tended to have more accidents than most, his good nature, his kindness, and his readiness to always help a friend had made him ever welcome in their company. And as far as that nickname went, it was one that Pavol embraced with gratitude and continued to live up—or down—to. For who would ever expect thoughts or acts of treason from a simple, good-natured fool.

  None of them knew him by the name that he’d left behind—so long ago that aside from dreams he’d almost forgotten it himself. Like Pavol, some of them had lost their families with the coming of the Dark Lord. When he turned up one day, he was accepted as just another like themselves, an orphaned lad taken in by the woodcutter and his wife.

  “Do you think I can leap across?” he said to Janko, the boy standing behind him at a much safer distance from the chilly waters.

  Janko’s answer was predictable. The most careful of their small band, his approach to living was that described by his carpenter grandfather’s favorite saying. Measure twice to cut once.

  “Nikdy! Never.”

  “Ano,” Pavol replied, continuing to eye the water. If what he saw glinting below its surface was what he thought it was, he knew what he had to do.

  “When you see the glitter of iron, you must bring it to your grasp!” So Baba Marta had said in her story of the hero who dared the depth of the Devil’s Well to vanquish the monster and bring back a treasure.

  Pavol smiled at his friends. “But how do you know for sure if you don’t try?”

  And with that he made a great leap. It was quite impressive. His lean legs were strong. He sailed much farther than his awed companions expected, a full two-thirds of the way across. So when he landed, it was in the deepest and swiftest section of the headwaters of the Hron River.

  “Not even close!” he shouted back as he bobbed up briefly before rapidly disappearing around a bend.

  His half-worried, half-amused comrades finally found him, half a league downstream. He’d managed to grasp a branch and drag himself out of the water. Although sodden and shivering, he was sitting on a log staring at something held in his fingers that looked like an iron ring.

  “Ako sa mate?” Janko called down to him from the high bank.

  “Ako ti je? How are you?” Peter the baker’s nephew shouted.

  “Zhijesh? Are you alive?” Rudolf the tanner’s boy asked.

  Pavol quickly slid the object he’d been holding into the pouch that hung from his belt. Then he turned a smiling face up to them.

  “Ano! Dobre,” he called back. “Now I know for sure.”

  As, they thought, so did they.

  Their friend was surely well named as Pavol the Foolish.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A Match

  THE FIRST PERSON who greets me as I cross back over the drawbridge is Paulek. His face is aglow with pleasure. He’s carrying his favorite practice sword.

  Nie!

  The last thing I need right now is another bonebruising match with my brother.

  But that isn’t what he’s thinking about.

  “Guess what, Bratcek,” he asks. “They’ve asked me to have a match with one of their men.”

  He sweeps his hand behind him. A circle of men has formed in the courtyard. At t
he head of the circle are the baron and the princess. The two heaviest and most ornate chairs have been dragged out of the guesthouse. Those over-decorated, gilded, ugly, and impractically elevated seats were a gift to my parents from the Duke of the Lichotit, the farthest of the twelve realms from ours. After the duke left, my father had suggested using them as firewood. But my practical mother had decided it would be better to set them aside for guests who might wish to compensate for any feelings of inadequacy by perching in them and pretending to be regal.

  Temny and Poteshenie sit atop their makeshift, velvet-draped gaudy thrones with looks of eager expectation on their treacherous faces. The princess sips from one of our silver goblets as Temny holds an apple in his hand.

  In the center of that circle, Smotana stands. He is stroking his long spade of a yellow beard with his left hand. His right hand is lazily and expertly twirling a long, slightly curved sword. Smotana’s sword is not blunt, but pointed. There’s a heavy guard between hilt and shaft meant to protect the hand from an opponent’s disarming cut. It’s the weapon of a practiced killer. From the way light glints from the edge, it’s Damascene steel, razor-honed.

  By the head of the dragon!

  “Paulek,” I say, grabbing his arm, “look at the size of that man!”

  He follows my gaze to the blond cutthroat in the middle of the circle. The muscles of Smotana’s huge arms ripple as he twirls his blade. Large as he is, he’s no taller than my brother, but his shoulders are half again as broad.

  Paulek nods seriously. “Good point, little brother. Just as Black Yanosh says, the bigger the target, the easier to hit it. Not so?”

  I take a deep breath, grasp the wrist of Paulek’s right hand, the hand that is holding his practice sword. “With this?” I ask him. “Look what that man is carrying. He’s not using a blunt weapon.”

  Paulek turns his face so that his eyes are on mine. “Rashko,” he says, speaking as slowly as one would to a lack-wit, “the man is a professional soldier. He knows how to use his blade. I am sure that he would not make a mistake in a friendly contest.”

  “I’m sure of that too. That’s what is bothering me.”

  “Tu!” Baron Temny barks. “Here!” He hurls the apple at his man in the center of the circle. Smotana doesn’t even turn his head. His sword flashes up, catches the apple in midflight to cleave it in half.

  “Ha!” Paulek says. “You see, little brother. Just as I said. The man knows how to use his blade. Nothing to worry about.”

  Nothing, I think, except your imminent demise.

  However, as I think further about it, would the death of my brother fit their plan? Probably not yet. After all, they need a marriage to secure their claim. It’s more likely that Smotana’s task is to injure Paulek. Perhaps cripple him so Poteshenie can play the part of a nurse and gain further control of him.

  Paulek is looking at his sword. “On the other hand,” he says slowly, “you are right.”

  I am? He’s not going to do this foolhardy thing?

  “It would be an insult to the man to engage in a match with him using something like this.”

  Paulek hands his practice sword to Georgi, who has just appeared, as if out of nowhere. Behind Georgi is Zelezo, our blacksmith. Zelezo offers what he’s been carrying to my brother. It’s Paulek’s own sword, the one our father gave him when he turned thirteen.

  Paulek slides it from the sheath, the sweet steel singing as he does so. Despite the dire circumstance that I, at least, know we are in, the sound of that sword stirs something in my chest like a bird beating its wings.

  Paulek’s noble blade, twin to the one hanging from my own belt, shines like polished silver. It is long and deceptively thin, not like the palm-wide weapon brandished by Smotana. But I know how supple and strong that sword is, how many hundreds of times the metal was folded and pounded, heated and folded and pounded again at Zelezo’s forge. It can bend like a bow without breaking, cut through stone without being dulled.

  Paulek swings it once in a wide arc over his head, then brings it down in a whistling cut.

  “Ay-yah!” he shouts, stopping his sword so that it points straight at the chest of the blond assassin waiting for him in that circle.

  His gesture does not go unnoticed. The rabble of men who’d been talking and joking and swearing is momentarily silenced. Temny lifts an eyebrow. Poteshenie purses her lips in what looks like displeasure. Even Smotana raises his hand to pull at his beard.

  Paulek reaches back to punch me in the chest with his free hand.

  “Lepshi, nie?” he asks, keeping his gaze on his soon-to-be opponent. “Better, no?”

  “Ano,” I say with what little wind is left in me. It’s a bit better.

  Temny waves a hand. The circle of men parts to allow Paulek to enter. Every eye in the castle is on him as he strides forward, tall, straight, and confident. But he’s not strutting or posturing like Smotana. He’s just sure of himself. Even though I feel as if I just swallowed a lead weight, I’m proud of my brother at this moment. Despite his foolish innocence.

  “Your Grace,” Temny says to my brother. “We thank you for consenting to this little entertainment. We are honored.”

  Paulek raises his sword in a salute to Temny. “The honor,” he says, “is mine.” Then he bows, ever so slightly, to the princess. To her surprise, he doesn’t allow himself to be transfixed by the smoldering look she directs at him. If she thinks that her enchantment is going to slow his reflexes or that she may draw his attention away from this martial moment, she is wrong. My brother has never been able to think of more than one thing at a time. His one thought now is this. Combat.

  Paulek turns slightly to face Smotana and holds out his sword. Smotana, taking a wide swordsman’s stance, his left hand held out behind him, does the same. The two blades ring as they touch.

  I scan the upper windows that look down on the courtyard, seeking a familiar profile. Even though he’s been no more of a presence than a ghost, Black Yanosh is up there somewhere. The barest flicker of movement from a window four stories above. The gesture of a hand held up with its palm facing down was meant for me. Its meaning is clear enough.

  Hold back.

  Knowing that our canny weapons master is watching gives me a feeling of relief. That he does not feel it is time yet for him to make his presence known is a reassurance to me. Perilous as this moment may be for my brother, our old teacher is certain of his ability to prevail.

  I wish I had that much confidence myself.

  “Hotovo!” Paulek says. “Ready!”

  Smotana does not reply with words but with a sudden half circle push of his blade against my brother’s and a lightning-quick forward thrust. A move so sudden it takes my breath away. Big and bulky as Smotana is, his speed is that of a charging bull.

  All he hits is empty air. Paulek has simply sidestepped the attack.

  “Dobre!” Paulek shouts. “Good try!” He taps his sword against the back edge of Smotana’s and smiles. “My turn now. Utok!”

  Smotana is good. He blocks each of Paulek’s strikes and lunges. There’s no look of concern on the big man’s face. He counterattacks. The heavy sword whistles as he spins it, weaves a back-and-forth pattern, thrusts up and down. Their blades clang as Paulek counters each move. There’s a big grin on my brother’s face. He’s pleased that his opponent is using moves that I never attempt against him. Like that backhanded swipe of the blade or the way the blond behemoth starts his swing from far behind him, like a man splitting wood with an ax.

  “Good counter.”

  Clang!

  “Fine move.”

  Ching!

  “Never saw that one before.”

  Paulek keeps up his usual running commentary—almost as if he were the one watching this contest and not me.

  As for me, I’m no longer biting my lip with anxiety. Smotana is starting to sweat. He looks as if he’s growing winded. The baron appears displeased. The expression on Poteshenie’s face is growing sulky
. This is not working out as they’d planned.

  What none of them know is that, as good as his show of swordsmanship has been thus far, Paulek is only half trying. He’s had half a dozen chances to end this fight, either by disarming his opponent—catch the blade, slide up to the crossguard, twist to turn the hilt back against the attacker’s wrist—or by taking advantage of one of those foolish fancy spins that leave an excellent opening for a faster bladesman.

  Paulek catches Smotana’s blade with his. As the two are momentarily locked, I realize that the big man’s game is more devious than I thought. He’s reaching behind his back with his free hand, pulling out a dagger.

  “Dyka!” I shout. “Knife.”

  Perhaps that shout of mine was not necessary. Paulek’s left hand intercepts Smotana’s wrist. It is hard to say if it is his incredible reflexes or my warning that prevented his being stabbed in the belly. But the smile is gone from Paulek’s face. Smotana has just made my easygoing older brother angry.

  “Zle,” he growls, his lips almost touching Smotana’s left ear. “Bad move.”

  What Paulek does next is such a flurry of movement that I doubt anyone other than me catches it. It includes the quick placement of his front foot behind Smotana’s leg, a twist of his blade, and a thudding strike of his elbow to the big man’s chest. On second thought, since he taught that series of moves to us, I am sure that Black Yanosh watching from behind the drapes of that high window also saw. And nodded his head.

  The result, however, is visible to everyone. Smotana is sprawled on his back gasping to regain the wind that’s been knocked out of him. His sword is spinning across the stones of the courtyard twenty feet away from him. His razor-edged dagger has flipped through the air and buried its point in the right leg of the heavy chair where Baron Temny sits. That, perhaps, was an accident. It’s one that I wish had involved the baron’s actual leg—or some higher part of his anatomy.

  What’s not an accident is that Paulek now holds most of Smotana’s yellow beard in his left hand. He’d sliced it off with one sweep of his sword.