Dragon Castle (11 page)

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.

Paulek steps forward and puts the point of his blade against Smotana's throat.

“Yield,” he says, his word hard as iron.

Smotana takes a gasping breath and nods.

I've never seen my older brother look more like my father. Perhaps there's a chance now that he will see reason. He'll understand these people mean us no good. I'm not sure what we'll do, but at least he'll no longer be enthralled by . . .

The sound of two small hands clapping breaks the moment.

“Vyborne! Vyborne!”
a seductive voice is crying out. “Wonderful, wonderful.”

It's the princess. She is standing up, smiling in such an insincere and theatrical way that I can't imagine anyone being taken in by it. But Paulek is. Though he could stand against their best swordsman, he's no match for this attack.

The angry look vanishes from his face to be replaced by one of moonstruck pleasure. He turns away from his defeated opponent, thrusts his sword back into the sheath that Zelezo holds out to him. I try to say something to him. He walks by me as if I am not there. He only pauses to look down at the handful of beard he is still holding. How did this get here? Then he tosses it back over his shoulder, bows, and takes a final step forward to drop on one knee before the enchantress, his arms held out to his sides.

“I . . . I,” my brother stammers, “I am glad I pleased you.”

And I think I am going to be sick.

I need advice. There's only one place I can think now to go.

No one pays me any notice as I leave except for Georgi. He catches my eye when I'm halfway to the gate, nods his head.

As soon as I've crossed the drawbridge, I turn left to take the narrow twisting trail that leads to my destination. When Hladka Hvorka is no longer in sight, Ucta and Odvaha come trotting out of the brush to join me.

“We need,” I say to them, “to visit Uncle Jozef.”

THE SECOND THING that Pavol found came to his hands when he was alone. A dream spoke to him in the night. A high thin voice called him to wake.

A gift,
it cried, as if from high in the sky.
A gift for a gift, a gift for you
.

He sat up and looked around. No sound came from Baba Marta and Uncle Tomas's room. Pavol dressed and walked outside.

The full moon shone down so brightly that his own shadow was visible, though blurred. When he spread his arms, the dark shape that seemed to grow from his feet appeared to have wings.

Wings. He nodded to himself. He knew now where he had to go.

He took the path that led back to the highest hill in the forest, the very place where he had first met Uncle Tomas. The moon had moved the width of two hands across the sky by the time he got there.

The great pine was still where it had been. It was thicker at the base, but the stubs of broken branches that stuck out all along its trunk made it as easy to climb as a ladder. As he neared the top Pavol saw what he had thought he would see. There, wedged among the top limbs, was a great nest.

Cheeping sounds were coming from within. He knew what it meant. He well understood that even in the night, what he was attempting was perilous. Should the mother eagle seek to defend her new hatchlings from this human invader, his face could be torn by her talons, her wide wings could knock him out of the tree to fall to his death.

He did not hesitate. But he did move slowly as he raised himself up to look into the nest. There, not more than a hand's width from his face, was the mother eagle's beak. Her eyes reflected back the moonlight as she stared at him.

Pavol reached back into the bag hung over his shoulder and then held out his hand. It was not empty. It held the warm body of the rabbit he had taken from one of Uncle Tomas's snares. The mother eagle opened her beak and jerked the rabbit from his grasp. Her wings spread to shelter her young, she shifted to turn away from him. Her tail, its brown feathers fanned out, was now just in front of him, touching the hand that had held the rabbit.