Dragon's Trail

III: FUGUE-8

It was General Loth, High Warlord of Gavria.

Javal was working out how he would explain to Crius that Jarrod had been killed only a few days into his training until, in a spectacular moment, Jarrod rolled Loth up onto his shoulders and flipped him into the stone floor hard enough to rattle the entire castle.

The world stopped on its axis.

Somewhere outside, a bird sang.

Heads turned from Loth to Jarrod and back amid a growing murmur of profanities as it occurred to everyone in the room that Jarrod might have just killed the most feared warrior in all of Gavria with his bare hands.

Jarrod spat a mouthful of blood and put one hand on his swordhilt as he addressed Loth’s seconds. “Are any of you tougher than him?” He nodded toward Loth, still not drawing.

Even a couple of Falconsrealm knights backed up a step for good measure.

Loth rolled to his feet, groaning, wincing, and nearly doubled. He staggered to a horse stance, then drew his sword and held it before him with both hands as he straightened up. His voice was pained. “Nice trick. Try that with a sword in your hand, boy.”

“Okay,” Jarrod offered, half-drawing.

“Jarrod!” yelled Javal. “Do not draw!”

Loth menaced with his sword, which was big, heavy, unornamented, and, Jarrod knew because he owned one almost identical, specifically built to f**k up the exact armor he was wearing right now. “Earn your spurs,” Loth hissed.

“Rider!” shouted the loud man in yellow. The prince, Jarrod realized. “That man is a guest of the crown!”

“So am I,” Jarrod growled.

Loth’s blade dropped a hair. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“I’m the guy who just knocked you on your ass,” said Jarrod. “Or were you not paying attention?”

Javal stepped between Jarrod and Loth, his hands out in either direction. “Enough.”

Loth was salivating, his eyes intent on Jarrod. “Away, Captain, or I’ll run you through.”

Javal’s eyes were calm. “So be it, sir.”

There was an awkward moment.

“I swear!” Loth warned.

Jarrod spoke quietly, “Captain, I can take this guy.”

“I believe it,” said Javal. “But take your hand off your sword. That’s an order.”

“Captain!” ordered the rat-faced man. “Get that soldier under control!”

“He’s a King’s Rider, not a soldier, and go back to your knitting, Alby,” said Javal, still locking eyes with Loth, “This is man’s work. Go on,” he told Loth. “Run me through, so the rest of us can see you hanged.”

“Hey, just apologize,” suggested Jarrod, to Loth. “You apologize; I let you walk.”

“Rider,” ordered Javal, “Shut up.”

In another moment, every available guard surrounded Javal and Loth, and had formed a wall between Jarrod and the warlord. “Get behind me,” one muttered under his breath. Another clapped Jarrod gently on the shoulder in commendation. “Nicely done, rider.”

Loth sheathed his blade. “Another time,” he assured Javal.

“Assuredly,” said Javal.

“And you,” Loth challenged Jarrod through the crowd, “I need your name.”

“I’m Jarrod of Knightsbridge!” shouted Jarrod, having to stand on tiptoes to be seen over the wall of black-armored Falconsrealm troops separating them. “And you owe me an apology!” he added as Loth and the others departed.

“Sir Javal!” shouted Albar, “Control that soldier!”

“Jarrod, form on me!” Javal pushed his way through the troops and stood face to face with Albar.

Albar beckoned the knights closer to him. “Arrest that soldier,” he ordered, pointing to Jarrod.

Jarrod spat another mouthful of blood and put his hand back on his swordhilt. “Easy, Jarrod,” said Javal. “Belay that order,” Javal growled at the troops. With his helmet off, every knight knew who he was.

Javal’s chin was even with Albar’s nose.

“You get that soldier under control,” Albar repeated, pointing at Jarrod.

“Oh, he’s under control. Frankly, you’re lucky he didn’t decide to kill your—” and here his voice dripped vitriol on the word, “—honored guest.”

“That man,” Albar’s voice quivered, “is an ambassador.”

Javal cleared his throat, and spoke quietly. “This man,” he pointed to Jarrod, “is a King’s Rider.”

Jarrod bowed.

“If you have an issue with his actions,” said Javal, “you can take it up with the king. I doubt you’d want that, though, unless things have changed around here recently.”

Javal turned to push his way through the crowd, Jarrod on his heels.

“Oh, and Alby?” he turned back. Jarrod noticed—boy, did he notice—that Javal failed to address the heir presumptive by his title. “You realize we’ve arrived early. I’m certain you’ll take comfort in our extended presence here.” He wiggled his eyebrows mischievously.

Javal muttered under his breath as they rounded the first turn in the grand stairway. “You just made your life exceptionally difficult.”

“Are you suicidal?” Javal asked as he shucked his mail.

“That’s an odd question,” Jarrod admitted.

“It’s a serious question. He would have killed you. Or worse: if you’d killed him, you’d be hanged tonight. I told you not to draw your sword.”

“I didn’t draw my sword.”

“You were about to!” Javal reprimanded. “And you would have put yourself in a position that would have ended in your death, one way or another.”

“You need to teach me the rules around here, Goddammit.” Jarrod grumbled.

“I will. And until I do, you do exactly what I say. Let me see that,” Javal put a thumb on Jarrod’s swollen jaw. Jarrod lurched upright and snorted in a deep breath at the comets that tore through his head as the knight prodded.

“Whew,” Javal estimated, “Is that where he kicked you?”

“Ow! Yeah.”

“That must hurt like hell. Are you missing any teeth?”

“No, I’m good,” Jarrod said. “Who was that motherfucker?”

“Wow. Good word,” Javal said after a moment’s thought. He unbuckled a legging and tossed it aside before continuing, in lower tones, “That motherfucker was Lord Loth of Hwarthar.”

Jarrod bent at the waist and shed his mail with a grunt, a thunk, and a jingle. “Means nothing to me,” he admitted quietly, standing upright again.

“He killed my father.”

Jarrod was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. He hated hearing that people had died, for he never knew what to say. He didn’t wholly believe that anyone ever knew quite what to say.

“Don’t be.” Javal blew his cheeks out at the memory. “He slew my father on the field, quite honorably. I can draw no animosity there.

“Loth’s one of the finest warriors in all of Gavria, maybe in the world. I myself have met him on the field half a dozen times. Last I heard, they’d made him a general.”

“A warlord? Wait a minute. He’s a general from Gavria?” Jarrod’s words were hasty and slurred with confusion. “Why didn’t you take him? Why didn’t you let me take him?”

Javal shrugged. “He’s here as a guest of the crown. That makes him as good as a citizen.

“For one Gateskeeper to slay another is murder. We could have dueled, but I had no reason to—and truth be told, I doubt if I could take him in a duel.” Javal sighed and shook his head, laughing quietly. “I can’t believe you threw him on his ass.”

Jarrod swelled with pride.

Javal continued, “If we were at war, things would be different. But we’re not at war with Gavria. Well, not yet,” he added with a knowing grimace.

“So, what’s he doing here?”

Javal was silent.

“That’s treason, isn’t it?”

“Breathe a word to that end and you’ll be much worse than dead.”

Jarrod put a hand to his head. “What’s our move?”

Javal had an answer for that. “We watch. And listen. The king’s eyes and ears, remember?”

“And, on that,” Jarrod brought up another point, “Why is it, you don’t have to call Prince Albar by his title?”

Javal underhanded his other legging ungracefully onto the first, and, bared from the waist up, ran his fingers through his hair time and again to dry the sweat. There was not a wasted ounce on him anywhere; his muscles rippled like leaves in a slow breeze. “Well, as many people tend to forget—Albar included—he’s not a prince yet.

“I’ve known Alby since we were boys. He’s not of royal blood, much as he thinks he is. He’s a Hillwhite.”

“I’m going to guess that’s a patrician family,” Jarrod said.

“Yes. The Hillwhites could buy Gateskeep Palace outright if they wanted,” Javal grumbled. “But I’ll not address him as royalty until he marries. Frankly, I think he’s a complete ass, and I’d not have a qualm about beating the feathers out of him. Of course, once he’s prince, I’ll have to kiss his bedslipper,” Javal sat down on his armor chest. “That’s the way of things.”

Jarrod nodded in forlorn agreement. “So, what’s next?”

“We’ll get you to a healer. Clean up your face, and I’ll show you where.”

Two floors above their rooms, Javal asked Jarrod, “Have you ever been kicked by a horse?”

“Not yet. The day is still young, though,” he admitted. “Why do you ask?”

“Anything similar?”

“I once hit my head bungee-jumping.”

“Bungee-jumping?”

“Bungee-jumping. Yes.”

“Bungee-jumping.” Javal fed the word to his mouth a few times. “We’ll think of something.” He pushed open a heavy door. “Durvin?”

Inside was a wooden cot with a feather mattress, a desk with a human skull and various sorcerer’s doohickeys—mortar and pestle, vials, candles, the usual stuff Jarrod pretty much expected to see in a healer’s chambers; one wall was composed almost entirely of books, and a bleached human skeleton hung near the arrowslit. In a moment, a tangle-headed youth in a wrinkled tunic entered from the next room, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“My lord? Ah, Sir Javal. Good to see you, again. Another arrow wound from an outraged father?” He looked the knight over. “You don’t seem to be—Ah.”

Javal winced off the assumption as Jarrod quipped, “Discreet, all right.”

The knight’s voice was an arrogant hiss. “Tend to your own wounds, boy.”

The healer, Durvin, took Jarrod’s swollen jaw in his hand. “Hold still, sir. Hmm. Punched? Clubbed?”

“Alertness training,” Javal stated, his tone authoritative. He turned his voice to Jarrod, “Right?”

Jarrod shrugged. “Sure.”

“Also, he has the season’s fever, and an infection of the bowel that makes him weak.”

“Hmm. All right. Sit you down, on the cot, sire.”

Jarrod sat. The boy handed him a vial of something gray, thick, and nasty-looking to hold, then went to rummaging through his desk. “So, what was all that bustle about out there? It sounded like a fight.”

“A bully getting his comeuppance,” Jarrod grouched.

“Good to hear. When it turns black, drink it all,” he instructed, then turned around to face his patient, “And trust me.”

In one hand he held a small stick resembling a conductor’s baton, and in the other, the skull. He chanted something incomprehensible, again and again and again, and Jarrod saw the contents of the vial in his hand begin to swirl and darken, though it was only slightly warm to the touch.

“Drink it, sir.” The healer touched Jarrod’s jaw with the wand-thing and Jarrod tipped the vial up and downed it.

He found the vial’s contents lukewarm, and tasting of smoke and licorice.

“That’s pretty good,” he admitted.

He immediately felt his sinus troubles disappear, and the throbbing in his face, and his gut-ache, simultaneously and with such urgency, they left him with a void of sensation that made his head reel.

“Better, sir?”

Oh, yes. “My God.”

“And mine. Come back at dawn, every day for ten days. Don’t be late.”

Javal promptly thanked the young healer, and steered Jarrod down the hall.

“What’d he do to me?”

“Just magic.”

“No,” Jarrod was adamant. “I mean, did he just numb me? Or did he actually heal me?”

“What’s the difference?”

Jarrod waved his hands in frustration. “Big difference. Am I still sick, and I just don’t notice?”

“Do you want to be?”

“No. I want to be healed.”

“Then you are.”

The concept peeked around a corner at Jarrod and thumbed its nose at him.

Jarrod spoke slowly. “I can’t be better, and not better. Am I asymptomatic but still sick?”

“That is what I’m saying. Right now, your body doesn’t know the difference. Under Durvin, you’ll feel healed almost immediately, and you’ll heal quickly because of it. Healers like Durvin are a tremendous asset. They’ll stop the bleeding and send you right back onto the field and under the stress of battle—trust me—you won’t know the difference.”

“I don’t know if I like that thought.”

Javal shrugged. “There’s nothing to like or dislike about it. It simply is the way it is.”

After another pensive silence, Jarrod bit his lip and nodded. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. If we did, we’d be sorcerers.”

“Well, I feel better, that much is certain.”

Javal clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. What is ‘bungee-jumping,’ anyway?”

“This is ridiculous!” Jarrod cried, slipping and falling to his knees for the umpteenth time. The calf on his shoulders bleated loudly and urinated, dousing him. “Ugh! C’mon!”

Javal was fifty feet ahead of him, jogging effortlessly down the trail. “Come, Jarrod! Only another league or two!” he laughed.

Jarrod knew the drill. Come autumn, that calf would be a hundred pounds heavier, and he’d be able to run the entire hunting course with its weight on his shoulders.

Swearing a loud string of rugged English monosyllables, Jarrod arose and ran. The calf voiced its concerns about this entire operation. “Oh, and you shut up!” he warned it. “I don’t like this any more than you do.”

Javal, of course, was now fifty yards up the path, and about to vanish from sight. As he did, Jarrod shouted, “If there’s a camera crew up there, I’m gonna kick your ass!”

“Set the calf down.” Javal was waiting in the middle of the hunting grounds. Four huge marble pillars sat in the midst of a grassy clearing, in no particular pattern. Jarrod noted that a fifth pillar had long ago toppled and broken. The large moon with its slender dust ring was high in the sky opposite the sun, adding an odd pink hue that, to Jarrod, sharpened all the corners of the world. Wherever he was, it was a gorgeous planet.