CHAPTER 28: "World On Fire"

Lord Malkin owned a small estate by the South end of the Fruitful Vine, a modest but furnished abode with a multitude of handmaidens who waited upon his every need, even a few duties that were reserved for a wife, which they did better than his wife.

He loved his wife, and his handmaidens, and his children, Beck and Adriana. He loved their house on the river, the summer sunsets.

Lord Malkin thought it would be a relaxing, joyous escape when they received an invite from Lord Gerard of Nightingshire to attend its Harvest Festival. How beautiful it would be, when the leaves were changing, the temperature was mild and hundreds, maybe thousands of other great Houses from all across the land would be there for him to converse with. Maybe he would even find a suitor for Adriana, some heir to an even more noble house like the Holsthelms or the Bardobees.

If only.

After witnessing the awkward jousting tournament that ended with some brown boy revealing himself to be a girl (an event which Lord Malkin failed to see as significant), the many patrons gathered around the gaming grounds were unsure of where to go and what to do, as was Lord Malkin. He followed the crowd.

He conversed with a number of noble lords and ladies for a few hours, and even a few lowly, ugly commoners, though that did not last long because of the smell. Many had retreated to the marketplace, perusing the merchants' tents.

Lord Malkin’s head turned with the masses the first time they heard the shriek.

As the night blew in, so had the creature, its wings easily eclipsing all the light when it flew past the moon. It was big, bigger than Lord Malkin could have ever imagined. He, and most likely everyone else at the Harvest Festival, had thought the creature to be a legend, a joke perhaps. That stage show with the dwarf man made the dragon seem comical.

This was no joke; this was no legend. That was the last realization Lord Malkin had before he burst into flames.

BARNACLE

The whole town of Nightingshire was alive in the worst way imaginable when Barnacle made it to the gates. Mobs of mortified people hounded the gates, trying to run for the hills. A few escaped, only to be shot by a quick line of fire.

Barnacle trudged on.

On the ramparts, knights were lining up their bows and arrows. A captain called out, “NOCK! MARK! DRAW! LOOSE!”

With that last command, a barrage of arrows zipped through the air. Many did not make contact with the dragon, and none pierced the beast but for one arrow, a mere sliver to such a giant.

Barnacle trudged on still, but his legs could not keep this up forever. To outrun a dragon, he would need a horse.

Though he was no longer a raider, he remembered how to act like one. He pulled out a knife strapped to his ankle. Is there anything less… deadly? he wondered. Slingshot will have to do. Barnacle grabbed his slingshot out of his satchel and darted his eyes around quickly as the dragon scorched merchants’ tents and drums of ale behind him. He spotted a wealthy-looking man in purple robes, mowing down frightened people with his horse to make an escape route for himself.

That made it easier for Barnacle, less sympathy.

He pulled back the elastic strap of his launcher and aimed a stone at the horseman’s forehead. I always was a damn good shot, Barnacle mused to himself as the horseman grabbed his head in pain. It was enough to knock him off of his balance, and bought time for Barnacle to swoop onto the back of the horse and throw the man off.

“I do apologize, Sir,” Barnacle said as he rode off towards the castle. “For I truly am trying to be a better person!”

ARI

Ari tried to see outside of the cell window, but she was a few centimeters too short. She did not have to see, however, to know what the sounds of chaos outside meant. “The dragon has returned,” she said.

Sir Oliver, clutching his forehead, tried to regain his typical energy but his voice was gravelly like a crone. “… we… we have to break free. Those people will die.”

“How shall we kill it? We never learned what kills the beast.”

“I do not know.”

“Sir Oliver, people are dying! I hear them!”

“I said I do not know! I—“ Oliver coughed on his own words, a phlegmy hack that he struggled with. “I am sorry. But… I am… scared. I am scared too.”

“What shall we do?” Ari asked.

“If we do not die in here, we will fight, and we will die in battle.”

Ari broke away from his gaze and began pacing around the cell, trying to decide if dying so young was something she was prepared to do.

“HAROLD!” called a man from the top of the dungeon stairs.

Harold, the guard tasked with watching over Ari and Oliver, responded. “Aye?!”

“To the ramparts, Harold!”

“The prisonsers—“

“Bollocks to the prisoners! Aid us with the dragon!”

“Aye, right away, Captain!” Harold said as he grabbed his helmet from his lap and tightened it on his head. He clumsily rushed up the stairs, armor clanking.

“Free us!” Ari yelled, shaking the bars. “Free us!”

But Harold was long gone.

“Damn!” Ari yelled, slamming the bars. In anger, she ran to the chamber pot and kicked it over. “Damn! Damn! Damn!”

“Ari!” Sir Oliver yelled, pointing to the hall.

Ari turned to see a short, hooded figure descending the stair. He revealed himself to be Bard.

“You…” Ari said to him.

“My lady,” Bard replied. “I witnessed that abhorrent joust and followed the two of you to this hole. I needed to wait until the guards left.”

“You knew that Sir Galen was watching us?” Ari asked. “How?”

“Because I was his eyes,” Bard sighed. “I told him everything he asked about you, even what was spoken in confidence. Your secrets, your feelings. I am sorry.”

“How dare you,” Ari said, shaking her head. “Why are you here before us now?”

Bard dangled the rusty iron keys in front of his face with a smile. “For atonement, my lady.”

Bard went through the keys in the cell door until he found the one that corresponded with a clack. The cell door whined as he opened it.

Sir Oliver was slow to rise, but he did. “Ari… We need horses. And swords.”

“Aye,” Ari said. As she collected herself, she looked to Bard. “We will have more to discuss.”

“Hopefully you will forgive me. But first—We have a dragon to slay.”

SIR GALEN

The Lord had used the Horn of the Stars to call attention to all the knights within earshot. Sir Galen had prepared for this. There were drills. There was training. These soldiers knew if they were wall guards, village guards, or if their place was here, guarding House Youngblood.

However, the party (of maybe twelve or thirteen men by Sir Galen’s count) were startled by a knight, Christopher of House Mason, who pounded on the door to the escape tunnel. “MY LORD!” he shouted from the other side of the door, “My Lord! They’re dead!”

Sir Galen lifted the bolt on the door and let the knight in. The boy was blackened and bloody.

“Who is dead?” Sir Galen asked.

“Our men on the walls,” Christopher whimpered. “All of them. Or most of them. I know not for certain. Many people dead too. The dragon cannot be killed, Sir Galen.”

“If it lives, it can die,” Sir Galen assured. This was the perfect moment. “But perhaps we must enlist more men.”

Sir Galen looked around the knights in the room, a motley sum of men. He looked at Prince Richard, apprehensive and vulnerable. Tonight is the night you die, Prince, Sir Galen realized.

“You, knights, My Prince,” Sir Galen announced. “We must fight. We do no good cowering here in fear while our comrades perish.”

Prince Richard, naturally, protested, “I? Sir Galen, I would be of no aid to you in battle. My training is not yet complete.”

“It matters not, My Prince,” Sir Galen answered. “These are times of despair, desperation. The people need you.”

Prince Richard turned to Lord Gerard. “Father?” he pled. “This is folly.”

Lord Gerard said nothing.

“Father! I am no knight.”

“Not yet,” Lord Gerard said. “You must fight. Your kingdom needs you to fight.”

“And you, Father?! How shall you fight for your kingdom?”

The Lord looked to his new favorite view, his feet. “My place is here, leading and commanding. I cannot command from the grave.”

“And what of my grave, father?!” the Prince screamed.

“We will not have to know for a long while,” Sir Galen cut in. “You will not perish as long as I am by your side. We will fight. We will slay the dragon.”

“How?” the Prince growled at him. “How shall we kill it?”

“We will have to find a way,” Sir Galen assured him. “Come now.”

Sir Galen led the Prince out with a soft hand on his shoulder. The Prince resisted and it became a firm hand, then a strong hand. “I said, ‘come now,’ My Prince. We must find you a sword.”

The Prince loosened his resistance, but looked back to Lord Gerard for aid, receiving none. “Father!” he cried. “FATHER!”

Lord Gerard wanted to speak up.

Not now, you coward, Sir Galen thought. No bravery now. It is too late. Let me kill the boy. Let me…

“Prove your honor, son,” Lord Gerard said sheepishly. “Stand for House Youngblood on the battlefield.”

As Sir Galen dragged the Prince out of the door and into the tunnel, the boy gulped, “Father?”

Sir Galen slammed the door shut behind them.