Dragon Castle (5 page)

The big man, who was built like a bear, placed the boy on his feet.

“There,” the man said. Then he waited, his hands on his knees, bent over in a stance that was almost deferential toward the small figure dwarfed by his massive body.

“They killed them all,” the boy said in a small, clear voice. He wondered why his voice was so calm, why he was not crying.

“
Ano,”
the man agreed. His face looked more sorrowful now.

“Will you help me avenge them?” the boy asked.

“
Ano a nie.
Yes and no,” the man said. “I will help you help yourself.”

The boy nodded, not totally understanding, perhaps. Or perhaps he did, for even at that young age there was something in him that was remarkable.

“It will take time,” the man said. “Years for you to learn the way.”

Another nod.

“Then we will begin.”

The man straightened up and held out a hand. The boy took it. The man started to walk and then paused when the boy tugged at his hand.

“You knew my parents?”

“You may say that. They were good and kind.”

“Who are you?”

“You may call me Uncle Tomas.” The man held a thick finger up to his lips and then pressed it forward twice as if making marks in the air. “Two things you must promise me now.”

“
Ano,”
the boy agreed. There was no hesitation. The man who called himself Uncle Tomas marked that and nodded.

“First, you must always listen.”

“I will always listen.”

His small voice was as solemn as that of a knight taking an oath on his sword.

“Second, you must never again speak the name you were given by your family. There are other ears that might hear it. From now on, you will have another name. From now on you will be Pavol.”

“Pavol,” the boy said.

“By THE HEAD of the dragon!” someone next to me whispers in an awed voice.

I look over to my left. Zelezo, our castle blacksmith has come up to join me in the battlement. In fact, nearly all of the others who reside in Hladka Hvorka have climbed the steep stone stairs up to the forward rampart to peer down at the wellweaponed force glaring up at us. Cook is there as well as Jazda, our groom, and his twelve-year-old son, Hreben, the stable boy. Our four maids, Grace, Grace, Grace, and Charity. Janko and Juraj, our two serving boys. Georgi and myself. Twelve of us in all. The only others not in sight are Brana and Dvihatch, our two elderly gatemen—who have remained at their posts in the barbican—and Black Yanosh.

I'm not surprised that he is missing. Nor do I think for a minute that he is unaware of the threat outside our walls. It is Black Yanosh's way to make himself scarce at times such as this. Watch and wait, see the weakness of any opponent before showing your hand.

Thinking of hands, aside from myself and burly Zelezo, who's holding his hammer, the hands of the rest of us are empty. We are most certainly not an army.

Nothing unusual about that. Like all of the generations of Hladka Hvorka since Pavol the Good, my parents have never seen the need for any sort of army. Their only wish, an innocent one, has been to rule well and be left alone. Our lands are not on any main route to anywhere. The road that leads up here ends at our castle after passing through the one gap in the High Tatra Mountains that circle us like the embrace of stone arms. Thus there's been no history of armies marching back and forth through here on their way to conquering someplace else. No one in any of the twelve surrounding kingdoms and baronies has ever shown any interest in our lands, which are fertile enough to support our people, but produce nothing of any greater worth than wheat, vegetables, a few cattle, and the honey that is our valley's one export and the only thing that seems to draw outsiders up here. Our family has inherited wealth enough to support us and help those in need, but we have never shown ourselves to have the sort of riches that would inspire greed.

There are certain wild rumors that Hladka Hvorka hides some sort of great secret, hidden here since the time of Pavol the Good. But the thought of making such a long journey and then having to confront my mother and father has always discouraged fortune seekers. For some reason, despite my parents' openness, good nature, and generosity, people often appear to be a bit awed by my mother and father.

It is not just that my parents are both direct descendants of a man who defeated a dragon or that my mother is reputed to have magical powers and a touch of Faerie blood. There are also some rather fantastic stories of things they supposedly have done. All of which happened before Paulek and I were born. None of which I quite believe.

Can you imagine my gentle mother calling down lightning to strike a water demon that had taken up residence in the swamp of Bahno Diera, where it was luring people to the edge of the water to drown them? Or my father wrestling an ogre that had been stealing sheep? My father is strong, I admit. But it is difficult for me to believe that he lifted such a creature over his head, walked to the edge of a cliff, and then asked (in a reasonable voice) if it would prefer to descend into that valley which led to the pass out of our land on its own feet never to return again or take a, one might say, faster route. Purportedly, that ogre indicated in a carefully polite voice that walking was its preference.

However, though such legends of my parents' prowess are probably exaggerated, Father and Mother have shown themselves now and then to be, in an absentminded way, rather formidable.

As are the moat and the thick walls of Hladka Hvorka. It would take a far larger force than the one I see below us and extremely sophisticated siege engines to breech our defenses. Although most of those within our walls are not trained warriors, everyone has been taught what to do if the time might come when we would need to defend ourselves here.

Unlike most castles, there are no structures made only of wood within the smooth, doubly thick walls of Hladka Hvorka. Visitors frequently comment that our castle seems to not have been built but to have grown out of the living stone of the hill itself. It's a comment that I always find amusing. I am sure there is a reasonable explanation for the organic appearance of our home. Perhaps some technique of making a stone-like substance that can be poured and shaped—some process forgotten with the passage of years. In any event, fire arrows can do little damage.

I mentally tally our assets. We have two wells of clear, sweet water inside the castle. There are enough stores of food and firewood to allow us to remain inside here for months and outlast any invaders. The moat is wide and deep. The parapets of the castle have been well made, with embrasures to shelter defenders from the arrows of any attackers. And we have bows and arrows in our armory that could be fired down through the arrow slits in the embrasures. A few of us know how to use them to deadly and discouraging effect. Especially my brother and I. But thinking of Paulek, where is he now? He's not on the battlements with the rest of us.

No matter. We'll be fine for now as long as we do not...

“Lower the drawbridge,” a clear, friendly voice calls from the main courtyard below.

I spin around to look. It's Paulek, of course. While I was lost in thought, he went down to the gatehouse.

I descend the stairs as fast as I can.

“Zastav!”
I shout. “Stop!”

My voice goes unheard over the rattle of the great chains, the screeching of metal as the portcullis is raised, followed by the earth-shaking
ka-whomp
of the great iron-bound planks of the bridge as they thud down onto the other side.

Too late. But even if I'd called out louder, would I have been obeyed? I'm the younger brother. With our parents gone—and what a time for them to be missing!—he's in charge. And if Paulek makes his mind up to do something, I cannot just tell him no. With a little time, I can manage to convince him to do what is best. But there is no time for that now. The entire mounted host, led by their two bulky flag bearers, comes clomping over the bridge and into the main courtyard in the heart of Hladka Hvorka. All I can do now is step aside. As he passes me, the helmeted flag bearer on the right turns his head to leer down at me. Part of what looks like a long scar on his cheek is just visible through the helmet.

“Dobry' den, pan,”
he growls. “Good day, sir.” His guttural voice is as thick with sarcasm as it is with some sort of accent. Austrian, perhaps. Many of that nation are mercenaries.

Then he spits at my feet. I let it spatter on my right boot, not giving him the satisfaction of stepping back. I hold his gaze until he is so far past me that he needs to turn his head or lose his balance.

This is not good.

I look around for Paulek. I'm not quite certain what I am going to say to him. I'm angry and worried at the same time. Now that these armed men are inside, our defenses down, they may attack us at any time. I feel the weight of the sword at my side. Perhaps we might still stand a chance if we take action quickly enough. I can sense Black Yanosh somewhere nearby. I picture him thoughtfully stroking his mustache as he watches.

The voices of Ucta and Odvaha are close, no longer in the woods below the castle. Unseen and cautious, they've followed the soldiers and are just outside the gate, waiting for my call. But I can do nothing until I find my brother.

“Vitajte kamarati,”
a welcoming voice shouts. Paulek's voice.

He's standing halfway up the steps where he can be seen. His arms are held open. There's a big smile on his face, probably because he is always looking for sparring partners. Lots of these men look to be formidable fighters. Plenty of new opponents for him to cross swords with in what he thinks would be comradely combat! Ha!

“Welcome, friends,” he repeats in his deep, resonant voice. “Welcome to Hladka Hvorka. I am Prince Paulek. I greet you in the name of my father and my mother, who are both, er, away at the moment.”

It's a properly princely greeting. Paulek both sounds and looks regal as he poses there. With his best gold-embroidered cloak over his broad shoulders, he is impressive indeed. His height, his muscular arms and legs and broad chest make him even more impressive. His handsome features are not at all diminished by the hook nose that has characterized every male in our family since Duke Pavol the First.

Now, if only he could think as well as he looks.

The lanky herald dismounts, struts forward to stand below Paulek, then does an extravagant bow, sweeping off his feathered cap as he does so.

“Young man,” the herald says, “we thank you for your welcome. And now it is my pleasure, my honor . . .” He pauses, then shouts his next words as if they were meant not just for our ears but for all the land around: “TO INTRODUCE HE WHO IS BELOVED BY ALL, A LION AMONG MEN, THE GREAT BARON TEMNY!”

His declamation is followed by the loud thuds of the mounted men pounding their fists against shields and striking the butts of lances against the stone of the courtyard. As one they chant their leader's name.

“TEMNY! TEMNY! TEMNY! TEMNY!”

It's impressive. I've now moved across the courtyard and mounted the steps to stand near my brother and get a better view of the ominous spectacle being acted out before us. A figure in lacquered armor on a prancing chestnut steed is crossing the drawbridge and passing through our gate. Mist—and where did that come from?—swirls around him. He's all in red—save for his left hand, which is encased in a silver gauntlet. Because his helm is cradled under his left arm, I can see his face. It's as disquieting as the raised sword held high aloft in his right hand. His vulpine features are narrow and the small teeth shown in his wide smile appear as sharp and pointed as those of a weasel. His close-set eyes are shaded by eyebrows that join together in the middle of his forehead and are as thick and red as the long hair that falls down to his shoulders. The look in his blue eyes, which dart constantly back and forth, is far from magnanimous and honorable. Vicious and hungry, I'd say.

From the length of his legs and the size of the horse he's riding, he's at least as tall as Paulek and I. Though his raised right arm seems almost skeletally thin, there's enough strength in it for him to hold high that heavy blade without wavering.

He sweeps the sword down so that it is level before him. The shouting and thudding of fists and lances suddenly stops. The sword points, interestingly enough, at my chest. But only for a heartbeat. The baron twirls and sheathes it in a motion that is as elegant and threatening as was its previous position.

“Young princes,” he trills. His voice is higher than I'd expected, but as smooth as oil. “
Dakujem.
Thank you.”

He then makes a wide gesture with his right arm, as theatrical as his herald. The two of them must spend a bit of time practicing in front of mirrors. His hand ends up thrust toward the gateway, palm up, fingers extended.

“And now I introduce to you my dear and lovely daughter, unmatched in grace and beauty, the fairest of innocent flowers, the delightful Princess Poteshenie.”

I look out of the corner of my eye at Paulek. His mouth is open in eager anticipation. All his defenses are lowered.

Not good. Not good at all.

Another mounted figure appears on the other side of the moat, as if conjured up out of the curtain of mist that rose there after the baron's entrance. The mist swirls as the white horse moves, picking its way delicately forward. Then the white cloud parts to reveal a slender figure dressed all in virginal white sitting side-saddle, a veil modestly covering her face. It's a graceful, carefully demure entrance. But her arrival seems as foreboding to me as the baron's. I also wonder what is moving inside the large wicker cage fastened to the back of her saddle.