Dragon Castle (21 page)

Ucta whines and then lifts up a large paw to the right side of the center of the door. One of his claws catches the simple latch that I'd not noticed. It clicks and the door swings open. The silver light that had accompanied us is replaced by the golden glow that gleams from the great room beyond.

Ucta turns his head to look back over his shoulder at me. He even raises one eyebrow.

I have to chuckle at my own foolishness. Nothing seems to stand in our way. I step through with Ucta and Odvaha on either side. My laughter is cut short by the warning growls of both my four-legged comrades and the sudden whirlwind of dust that rises up before us.

“Password?” intones a slow voice, cold as a dark winter night.

A chill wind whips over us. That black breeze emanates from the breath of the tall skeletal warrior clad in iron armor who has now manifested himself from the swirling cloud. He seems as solid as what he holds in his bony hands—two long, sharp swords.

“Password?” the colossus repeats in a grim voice that echoes through the cavern.

Password? Think, Rashko. Password?

“Alebo smrt,”
the skeletal warrior adds with an eager, toothy grin. “Or death.”

He spins his lethal blades and moves toward us.

The armored skeleton's singing swords are now only a double arm's length away. Ucta and Odvaha are moving farther out to my left and my right. They are ready to attack from either side should I give the signal.

But will their strong jaws and sharp teeth pierce the iron greaves strapped to the skeleton's stout shanks? And even if they did, they'd meet naught but bone. No flesh remains on the dread figure before me.

I have no sword, only a short knife and a wooden club. But even with my favorite blade in hand, could I hope to stand against a being with no mortal parts to wound?

What is the password? I was never told it. What might my mother, with her deceptive lack of cleverness, have chosen?

Wait? Could it be as simple as . . .

“Prejdi!”
I shout. “Pass.”

A friendly grin comes to the gaunt giant's jaws. The spinning of his weapons halts. He tosses both blades aside.

“Prejdi
, Pavol,” he replies, bowing deeply. He gestures past himself with one arm as gracefully as a host inviting a welcomed guest into his home. Then, in a swirl of dust, he disintegrates.

Ruffs on their necks still raised, Ucta and Odvaha cautiously sniff the spot where the specter stood.

We are safe.

For now.

I look around me. It has been two seasons since I've been here within this cavern to gather our usual basket of coins from the great piles of gold left to our care by our ancestor Prince Pavol.

Pavol? Did I hear the skeletal warrior call me by that name before he fell back into dust?

No time to ponder that. I now have to figure out exactly where in this measureless cavern I've emerged. Then I see the direction that I must go. It's the widest tunnel in front of me. I can feel it.

I take the dagger from my belt and leave it on top of a pile of gold coins. A dagger will do little good against the one I might run into here. And it is best to have no weapon on my person now to show that I come not as an enemy, but as . . . an old acquaintance. I just have to find something else first.

I gesture toward the floor with the palm of my left hand. Both Ucta and Odvaha drop to their bellies and rest their heads on their paws.

I half expect them to question me further, but they don't.

I hope.

I walk into the tunnel. I'd feel better with them by my side. But it's better for them to wait here. I must do this alone. Their scent might upset him before . . . Before what? Before I end up as dinner? I stop and take a deep breath. Thus far my intuition has not failed me. Each step I've taken has, it seems, been the right one. Even if I don't know exactly what lies ahead. It might be the path that leads to my family's salvation.

Or it might be the step that takes me over the edge of a high cliff!

I continue down the dragon-wide corridor that glitters to either side with the gleam of precious stones, the moon shimmer of silver, and the sun gleam of gold. It's interesting and pretty to behold, but I feel no lust for this wealth. It's that way with Mother too. Each time we come here, she just matterof-factly leads us to one of the smaller piles where the gold coins are less ostentatious, fills our baskets, and marches us out again.

Paulek too is always unaffected by the dragon's hoard. There's no greed for gold in his honest heart. In fact, whenever we come down here his mind is on more practical things—such as how long it may be before we can return upstairs for a meal and a bit of juggling or weapons practice followed by a nice ride.

As I near the end of this corridor I see the stack of coins from which we last filled our baskets. It is easy enough to identify it. It's not just that the pile looks exactly as it did last time we finished taking our small portion. It's also what is left, or should I say left over, next to it. A much larger pile that is not gold or silver.

It is a pile of bones, surmounted by two large white leg bones that are all that remains of the offering that Mother, as always, had Paulek and me carry down with us. The bones are gleaming white—as if licked clean by a serpentine tongue before being added neatly to the stack of similar bovine remains.

“Fair exchange,” Mother explained the first time we lugged down the two halves of a bull's freshly butchered hindquarters.

I walk past the pile of bones and look into a small niche cut into the wall. There it is. It is humbly placed on an old wooden stool much like the ones in Baba Anya's dom, the ones made for her by Uncle Jozef. Exactly like the ones in their hut, now that I think of it. It's not glowing with a silver light as it does in the tapestry, but this time when I look at it my eyes don't quickly pass it by. I see it for what it is and feel the emanation of power from it.

Pavol's pouch.

But there is something else on that stool as well, something I had not noticed before. It's a scroll like the ones I've been reading Pavol's story from.

First read the ending,
Pavol's silent voice bids me.

I pick up the scroll and unroll it.

THAT NIGHT WAS one that would long be remembered by good and bad alike. It was a night whose power and strangeness would be memorialized in story and song.

As soon as the darkness fell over the mountains, it began. First there was a rumble like that of distant thunder. But soon it began to resemble something more like the beat of a drum. But no ordinary drum, one as big as the distance from one horizon to the next. Then it changed further.

Footsteps,
people thought. But not the feet of humans or animals or even giants. It was the sound one might imagine a mountain would make if it grew legs and decided to go for a stride.

No one ventured outside, some out of fear and a few out of respect for what they knew was happening.
Magic,
some whispered.

Dragon magic,
three others quietly said, smiles on their faces. The change they had hoped for had begun.

When the dawn came, and people dared to step outside, they saw marvelous things. The small hill near the edge of Stary Les was no longer so small but twice the size it had been before. Atop it rose a castle that had not been there before. Hladka Hvorka. Strange as it was and obviously the product of magic, those whose hearts were good did not find it fearful. They had long lived in fear but now, this sight, for reasons they could not logically explain, gave them hope. It drew them to climb the hill, to cross the drawbridge.

A noble-looking figure clad all in white stood by the open gate, welcoming each new arrival. Hard as it was for most to believe, that handsome, finely dressed one was none other than Pavol the Foolish.

While most had questions, all were too awed to speak. Some were men and women of minor nobility, some were well-off merchants, others no more than humble peasants. But Pavol's smile and his words to each were the same.

“Come, eat.”

When they entered the great keep they saw that a feast had been prepared, food of all kinds placed on great tables—goulash and meats and good bread, plum dumplings,
buchty,
apples, and pears. So they sat and ate, better than most of them had in years, for in their small kingdom all the best food went to the tables of the Dark Lord's henchmen.

Some remarked at the fact that none of those henchmen were present at the feast. Others mentioned that they had been seen, all of them together, riding fast toward the north as if something had frightened them. And that, still others observed, was not good. Surely they were going to summon their master. The Dark Lord would return bringing doom and destruction.

That realization should have frightened the people. But for some reason fear did not come to any of those gathered in the presence of this new Pavol. Something about him made people feel at ease and reassured. Illogical as it was, it seemed as if nothing bad could happen while he was there with them.

When the meal was done, their eyes turned toward Pavol. He sat at the front of the hall at a table that was no higher, no different than any of those the assembled crowds sat at. Yet it seemed finer—perhaps for his shining presence. Strangely, he was joined there by five figures.

The first, the one everyone noticed immediately after taking in the splendid figure of Pavol, was the slender woman seated to his right side. Her silver garments seemed to mark her as one of the Fair Folk—those who were no realer than myth to most. Yet her hair was as dark as night and she seemed to lack the calm disinterest expected from one of the Fair Folk. Her face was animated, her gestures, the way she sometimes actually poked Pavol in his side and the laughter they shared at their private jokes, showed that she was of another kind.

Perhaps a princess from some other distant land. Might a wedding be in the offing?

The other four were, to say the least, odd and far from anyone's idea of nobility. The first two were not much of a surprise. After all, they were the ones who had raised Pavol—old Uncle Tomas and his wife, Baba Marta.

The third figure at Pavol's table was almost the least likely of all. It was none other than the old bald Gypsy who came from time to time to their land.

However, the most surprising figure at that table was not a human at all. It was a horse. A large, gallant steed, to be sure, an impressive beast. But a horse at the table? And why did Pavol keep leaning over and talking to it?

Still, the food was good and free and the atmosphere in this new castle so warm and welcoming that no one, though they might wonder at the weirdness of it all, cared to question any aspect of it all.

Then Pavol stood up to speak.

“My friends, though you thought me a fool, you see me now as I truly am. I am the child of those who were the true rulers of this land. That day when the Dark Lord came, I escaped. I am sorry for the pain all of you have suffered under his rule. Now that is ended. Karoline, my wife-to-be, and I will do all we can to serve you and this land,” he said. And that was all.

Then Pavol climbed on the back of his white horse and rode from the hall. As people watched him go down the hill, they saw where he was heading—toward the gathering dark clouds to the north that signaled the imminent arrival of the Dark Lord.

“Ah,” some said sadly, “our new Prince Pavol may be riding toward his doom.”

“Can anyone defeat the Dark Lord?” others wondered.

“Surely there will be a great battle.”

On that everyone agreed.

 

 

PAVOL REACHED THE narrow mountain pass just before the great host of men heading for his land arrived there. He watched them approach. Save for their leader, every man in that dire army was heavily armored and armed with many weapons. All Pavol held in his hands was a worn leather pouch, but there was a small smile on his face.

He looked up at the great cloud that rode above the host of grim men who confronted him. He turned his gaze to the arrogant face of the huge caped, blackclad rider who led them and had spurred up to loom over him.

The black rider hauled hard on the reins. His huge ebony war stallion reared up on its hind legs, striking with its front hooves at the white horse and rider. Its blows, however, struck nothing but air. With nonchalant ease, the objects of its attack had simply stepped calmly to the side. As a result the black stallion came down so awkwardly that its rider was nearly unhorsed—to the accompaniment of what sounded much like a horse laughing.

The Dark Lord angrily regained his seat and turned his horse back to face Pavol and his mount. His displeasure increased as the large white horse raised its lip in what looked like a sneer.

“Greetings,” Pavol said, staring straight into the man's jet-black eyes. “You may not pass. You are not welcome here.”

“Fool!” the Dark Lord growled. “Bow down to me or die!”

“I think not,” Pavol replied, that maddening smile still on his lips.

The tall Dark Lord raised his right hand, his index finger pointing at the cloud above them.

“Blyskat!”
he shouted. “Lightning!”

The jagged bolt that came crackling down straight at Pavol's chest would surely have killed him had it not been for what he had taken from his pouch. Instead of striking him, the lightning was extinguished by the bear tooth as easily as a man's breath might blow out a candle. Not only that, the whole of that great black cloud disintegrated at that self-same moment.