Chapter 4--Prince Hamred

Hamred smiled to himself as he entered the Coldstream Valley. He was nearing the end of this yearly pilgrimage to the Spearmaker’s hut and he was excited with the prospect of his triumphant return. People often tried to guess at the huts’ location but no one had ever found it. The King had only told Hamred how to find the hut this morning and now Hamred understood why no one had found the location yet. Drakinvil had whispered the location into Hamred’s ear while sat comfortably on his throne. It had taken all of Hamred’s courage and training to hide his fear as he bent so close that the King’s lips brushed his ear as he quietly spoke: “The hut is nestle at the foot of Dragon Mount, at the headwaters of Coldstream. Tie your horse off in the trees where the road crosses the stream. Then follow the stream up and you find the hut.” With that Hamred began to pull away from the King, his mind reeling with the terror of placing himself so near the monster he called his King. However, the King was not finished and he placed both hands against his cheeks and pulled him in close so that their foreheads were touching. Hamred began repeating his memorized mantra to calm his mind and let the fear wash over him like water from a rushing river—“a dead man feels no fear, a dead man feels no fear.” As long as he could feel fear he was alive and this mantra helped him to accept the torture that the fear played upon his mind.

It was essential for the King to believe that Hamred was completely at ease in his presence. The King was always keenly aware that no one was comfortable when he was near and it bothered him. It was his greatest weakness and one that Hamred used constantly to win the Kings’ favor. He was an easy man to manipulate, if you just pretended to like him. The difficult part was the pretending. The King reeked of the dragon scent and no regular person could approach him without falling into a fit of terror. Even the Chosen did not get this close to the King. His success or failure would be determined in this moment. If the King saw his eyes roll or body stiffen with fear his chances of winning the crown could be jeopardized. With that thought and strengthened by the calming effect of his mantra he turned the tightness in his face into a smile and said, “At moments like this I feel like you are the father I have never know.” As he stared deep into the King’s eyes with his hot breath swirling around, Hamred’s fear had finally betrayed him—his voice had trembled as he spoke and tears had filled his eyes. He waited in dread for the King to shove him away and demand that he leave, as he did with all the people who offended him by showing their fear. Instead the King had released Hamred to cover his face with his hands and hide his own tears. The Kings voice also trembled as he answered, “And I feel like you are the son I have never known.” With that Hamred had stepped back from the King’s dais and dropped to one knee bowing his head and giving himself a few precious moment to recover. The elation he felt as he realized that the King had mistaken his fear for feelings of love bolstered him and he was able to stand after a moment and once again put on a posture of confidence and ease. It had been a formidable challenge, but like all the others, he had passed it.

Wiping the stinging sweat from his eyes, Hamred could see in the distance a faint trail of smoke rising from a shabby looking hut. Now he only needed to grab a new spear and he could return in triumph and publicly claim the title of Crown Prince. He was close to the end and knew he could not get careless.

The dragon scent was powerful in this valley and for some reason he thought it came from the Spearmaker’s hut. Always planning ahead, Hamred looked around carefully to ensure that no one was following him. Then he crouched down behind a cluster of bushes and unbuckled the belt around his loose fitting leather pants. He reached into his pants with his left hand and kept scanning the bushes around him as he pulled out what looked to be a full wineskin. A tube attached to the top of the skin ran down and connected to his penis. Hamred removed the tube from the end of the full bag, tipped it upside down, and poured out a large quantity of fresh urine. He still could not control his bladder around the King or when the dragon scent was strong. It bothered him that the King’s sniveling son, Ardvan, seemed capable of this when he was too weak to even hold a spear when he faced a dragon. Drako and Madox kept him informed of Ardvan’s progress. Or should he say lack of progress. Both men watched Ardvan closely and reported that he was almost incapable of standing when he inhaled the dragon scent.

Ardvan had hired the men to help teach him the methods of the Chosen. It had been his feeble attempt to block Hamred’s rise to Crown Prince. He had been woefully unsuccessful and his failed attempts had made him the favorite joke at the Dragon’s Draught. Whenever Drako and Madox managed to slip away from Ardvan they always went to their favorite drinking hole and they would tell endless stories of Ardvan’s failed attempts to defeat a dragon. The King’s son was a glutton for punishment because he just kept trying in spite of his weak knees.

Now that Hamred had reached the hut he calmed himself with thoughts of Ardvan’s disgrace. The dragon scent was getting more and more powerful and he was glad he had emptied his false bladder. Even with nothing left to pee, he took comfort in knowing his secret would remain safe. He stopped with his had on the Spearmakers door and gathered all the mental strength he had within himself. He reflected on his training and his reason for standing here. After a deep calming breath, he forced his body forward. There was no way to do this without pressing on. He knocked three times quickly then opened the door.

The smell that wafted over him as he crouched in the groin of the doorway, consumed him like a blazing fire. He felt a fear so powerful he surprised himself when he finally regained his senses enough to notice that he had not simply fled in terror but still crouched like frightened deer before a hungry lion. The man who stood before him had cold dark eyes and he was speaking. Hamred could not make out the words because his mind was still scrambling to regain control of his body. He had experienced this level of fear only one time before when he had tried to kill the King’s whore—the girl he had slept with on the eve of the Dragon’s fire festival. She was no human, she had proved that when she had so calmly enchanted the King with her warm smiles and accepted his caresses without a single tear or grimace of fear. There was not a human alive that could bare the physical touch of the King without suffering the most extreme feelings of fear and anxiety. It was rumored that the King’s first and only wife had finally killed herself rather than have to go to the King’s bed one more time. He had just managed to slice open her pretty cheek when she had turned the dragon scent on him in full force. It had literally knocked him to his knees. He had been completely unprepared for her because she had given off no dragon scent before that moment. The fact that she was able to hide what she was and choose to show it only when she wanted to was a thing no one had known before. But perhaps that experience was helping him now.

“Where is the King?” the Spearmaker repeated. Hamred had caught it this time and he tried to put on his most gracious smile. He managed a look of horror and revulsion, a look you would expect to see on the face of a mother forced to watch the execution of her only child. Hamred tried to speak and failed, gathered himself and tried again. He announced with all the strength he had, “I am the new Crown Prince and I have come to select the ceremonial spear for the Dragon’s fire festival.” It was a long sentence for someone so breathless from fear and his voice cracked and whined as he spoke. The Spearmaker shook his head and laughed. “I’m not giving the King’s spear to a boy who soils his drawers at the sight of me. This must be a joke.” Only then did Hamred realize he had lost control of his bowels. He had never prepared for that.

Hamred felt a flash of anger amidst his overwhelming sense of fear. The shame and embarrassment were triggered memories of his childhood and early training that he did not want to face. Who was the Spearmaker to challenge him, the Crown Price? Mentally he grabbed hold of his anger and he felt the strength of it give him new resolve in the face of his fear. “I am here at the King’s request and expect you to follow his orders. I will not be the one to bring the full wrath of King Drakinvil upon my shoulders by returning to the Dragon’s fire festival empty handed.”

Hamred reach slowly into his vest pocket, focusing on his movements in an attempt to stop his limbs from shaking. He pulled out an official form with the Kings seal and handed it to the Spearmaker. “Read this. If you doubt who I am, this will set you straight.” He held the form out for the Spearmaker to take and waited while he looked it over.

After reading the letter the Spearmaker looked up at him. “Very well, come with me into the white room and you can select your spear.

The dragon scent was still triggering his fear impulses but Hamred managed to move forward to the white door that the Spearmaker beckoned at. He kept his eyes focused on the door and moved quickly ahead. He knew he would feel better once he got his hands on a spear. He had travelled unarmed to this hut at the request of the King and he vowed in that moment that he would never go unarmed again. As he entered the white room he felt he should make a show of inspecting the weapons and selecting the best for his ceremonial return to town, however, his continued fear won out and he grabbed the spear closest to him and felt an immediate calming effect. He had killed many dragons while holding these spears and he knew their power. He felt a great sense of control knowing he had a spear to protect himself. Feeling more assured he paused to take in his surroundings. He felt a need to redeem himself and turned to face the Spearmaker once again. He was about to speak when he heard what sounded like a baby’s cry. The Spearmaker’s eyes narrowed and he said, “It is nothing, just a local wench and her child. Take your spear and go.”

Something in the way the Spearmaker spoke or acted made Hamred even more curious. Besides, what human baby could possible stand the heavy dragon scent within this hut without wailing in terror. Clearly there was more to this Spearmaker than the meager appearance of his shabby hut revealed.

“Let me see this child.” He said it softly but there was steel in the request.

“The child is newly born and we should leave him to rest with his mother. You have a feast to return to and you will need to clean yourself.” The Spearmaker glanced meaningfully down at Hamred’s soiled pants.

Hamred turned his back on the white room and looked into the dark corners of the small hut. There he saw the King’s wench from a year ago sitting snuggly on the Spearmaker’s cot. She did not avert her eyes, but met his gaze with a cold angry stare.

Her hair was messed and she looked exhausted but she was still beautiful. He wanted her and knew that she had been manipulating his feelings from the moment he entered the hut. Hamred smiled his first real smile in a long time. It would be such a relief for him to kill her. He was Crown Prince and he would not be manipulated by any woman. With that thought his smile changed to a look of fierce determination. In one fluid movement, Hamred threw his spear. In the fraction of a second that it took for the spear to fly across the room the girl pushed her baby aside and the spear pierced her through the left breast. Hamred chased his spear across the room even as he threw it. He was ready for anything but as he looked into the girls eyes, he saw the life fading from her. He had done it. She was dead. As he pulled his spear free he said, “The scar on your face healed nicely. This one in your chest won’t.”

The baby was wailing now. The brat could smell the blood and even now Hamred could feel the force of baby's dragon scent surrounding him. He shook with fear and raised his spear a second time to finish off the spawn of the woman he had just killed.

********

Hamred woke to the roar of the rushing river. He felt a huge sense of relief as his mind finally made sense of the sounds around him. He had been dreaming of being King. At first it was glorious but soon it turned into a nightmare. The many people who stood around him cheering, suddenly changed from humans to dragons as their cheers of love turned to cries of hatred. He watched as all the babies in the crowed crawled towards him calling his name. In the end he had cowered before them as they screamed for his head, beating him with their small pudgy fists. When he finally realize that the roar of noise was not a call for his head but the sound of rushing water, was a relieved beyond words. The dream had seemed much too real.

His head hurt, badly, but he did not think anything was broken. He could still smell the dragon scent and he felt greatly weakened by his ordeal in the Spearmaker’s hut. Slowly he gathered himself and lifted his body from the edge of the river. He had no memory of how he had got here and for a moment he panicked, thinking he had lost the ceremonial spear. But he still held it, tightly clasped in his right hand. Everything would be fine now. He would return to the town of Haven in time for the celebration. He would be the new Crown Prince.

His body was half in the frigid waters of Coldstream and he was very, very cold. He wondered how long he had been lying at the waters edge. He had many questions, but he did not have time to deal with them now. He had to get back to the town and show them the spear. King Drakinvil would be waiting for him and he did not want to keep him waiting. As he slowly climbed the rocky embankment at the edge of the river he could see the Spearmaker’s hut just a short distance away. He was filled with such intense feelings of fear that and panic that he retched and fell back to his knees. He had never encountered such overwhelming fear. All his training had been useless when faced with the full force of that woman and her new baby. Had he killed the child? He could not remember.

Hamred steeled his nerves as best he could and mustered ever last ounce of strength he had as he slowly stood once again. He put his back to the door and muttered, “fear is proof you are living.” It was cold comfort for him but there was nothing else. He would either live or die but he would not die lying down. He used his spear to support his weight as he walked. He was hampered with a feeling of mortal terror and extreme cold. He was still shivering violently and had trouble with every movement. Fixing his eye on the distant horizon he made his way slowly back to the road. It took him several hours and by the time he got back to his horse he was completely exhausted. The overpowering stench of dragon had finally left him and his mind was once again able to think beyond the next step. He needed to clean himself and then he would be on his way. First he had to rest—just a few minutes.

He started a warm fire then stripped off his soiled clothing. Fortunately he had brought a change of clothing for his triumphant return. It was fine wools and garb he was not accustomed to wearing but as Crown Prince he felt he needed to look the part. He dug a hole and buried his filthy clothing. The site of brown streaked legs made his gorge rise, not from the stench, but from the thought of how completely out of control he had been in the Spearmaker’s hut. He would have to visit his Mentor and get some help. There were special medicines that one could use to cope with dragon scent, but he had never stooped to such levels before. This ordeal today had changed everything. His pride was gone and he would rely on every tool at his disposal to conquer the creatures that had turned him into such a pathetic coward. He could never let this happen again.

Chapter 3--Ardvan

Ardvan

Ardvan stayed down on his knees and breathed deeply to calm himself. The early morning sun had clouded over and now he knelt shivering in the cold dirt of the King’s empty courtyard. He punched at the dirt in frustration. Once again he had failed to stand before his father and this time it had really mattered. He felt angry at his father but mostly he was angry with himself. He looked back across the muddy courtyard at the closed door of his father’s Great Lodge. It was an impressive building, not because of its size or architecture but because it was made of wood. It had a simple thatched roof and sat low to the ground nestled back against a tall cliff. His father constantly rejected the normal trappings of a king. Drakanvil had married Karis to unite himself to a family of noble heritage. However, his way of living was a continual reminder of his common birth. His actions constantly flouted tradition and left his wife, Karis, and four sons embarrassed at their fathers poor breeding. Everyone had stopped trying to change Drakinvil because it only made him angry and he was terrible enough without raising his ire. His simple wooden lodge stood now as a symbol of the safety he had brought this country. Before him no one could safely live in any structure that could easily burn. His father had beaten the dragons back and to assert this point he lived in a wooden lodge.

Ardvan looked up and saw his two men in dark leather suits waiting for him, Drako and Maddox. They leaned casually on their spears, staring down at him with mockery in their eyes. Ardvan could easily best both of them in a battle. He had trained with the best and he had a knack for fighting. But when it came to fighting dragons, they were his better. Both had gone through the trial of the Chosen and people consider them two of the best dragon slayers in the land. He glared hard at their barely hidden smirks as they watched him try to regain his composure. The dragon scent expressed by the king was so powerful that it had drifted across the courtyard and it was still affecting him. He hated to have them see him like this, weak and out of control.

Drako and Maddox both started to urinate as Ardvan clambered to his feet. They did it fully clothed without a single glance at the puddles forming at their feet. The Chosen were trained to act naturally even when faced with overwhelming fear. They could control the shaking of their bodies and over-ride the urge to flee, but they always pissed their pants the moment they caught a whiff of the dragon scent. It was disgusting but Ardvan wasn’t sure what was worse, pissing your pants or running like a frightened child. He had controlled his bladder this time but he could barely stand because his body was still shaking so hard. He kept looking wildly over his shoulder to see if he was being pursued. Logically he knew he was safe but his mind was so overcome with fear it kept playing out frightening scenarios and he felt compelled to look and make sure they were not coming true. Such was the power of the dragon scent. It was like a waking nightmare. He constantly had to reconcile his true reality with the reality his mind kept imposing upon him. It was confusing and terrifying and left him feeling shaken and weak for hours.

“Shall we get a drink? My bladder is empty and could use a refill.” Drako had put on his best smile but it looked more like a mocking leer. He stood completely at ease in his own puddle of urine. Other than the urine and one quick glance toward the door of the King’s lodge, he gave no sign of fear. His control was impressive.

I don’t want to be seen with a man who has just pissed his pants, thought Ardvan. “A drink would be great, something strong to kill my memory of this morning.”

“Do you need help mounting your horse?”

His horse was tied firmly and was now pulling frantically at its reigns trying to break free. The dragon scent was strong and the animal was working into a frenzy. It would take all the skill Ardvan could muster to control his frightened steed. “I can manage myself. You two go ahead. I’ll meet you at the Dragon’s Draught.”

Ardvan braced himself mentally and began walking towards his horse, hands raised in a calming gesture. He could barely keep his knees from buckling, but he had resolved to do this alone. He looked over his shoulder to ensure that no one was watching and saw Drako and Maddox sitting on their mounts staring down at him “Get,” Ardvan shooed them like dogs. “Do as I ask when I ask it.” He was shouting now and the men moved.

The whole situation was becoming more than he could bare, the embarrassment of running from his father, having his men watch him as he shook with fear, and now he had to attempt to mount a terrified horse. As he reflected on these things, he was surprised by the strength he felt ebbing back into his muscles. His horse reared wildly as he reached for the reigns and snapped at him with its teeth. Ardvan felt his anger fuel his veins with a new strength and he reacted without thinking, whipping his horse across the head and neck with the reigns. The more he beat the horse the greater his rage became. With each stroke he felt he was shattering the images of fear and failure that he carried in his mind. He beat his horse until the blood pouring from its ruined eye and torn neck had covered his hands and face. The reigns were slippery with sweat and blood and his horse was badly hurt.

Ardvan released his horse and it quickly bolted away from him about twenty feet before it stopped. In his heart he wanted to reach out to his favorite horse, but he could not find the courage to release his grasp on this new found strength. He turned his back on the wounded beast and began to run towards the tavern. He looked back once to see his horse walking slowly in circles with its head hanging low, leaving a trail of blood behind it. Perhaps he was more like his father than he realized. He opened himself to his anger and relished in the power he felt as his boiling blood pumped through his body. Part of him wanted turn back and confront his father again but even in this haze of fury he knew that such a meeting would prove fatal, and not for his father.

The path to the village wound down a steep hill about 1 mile and Ardvan ran it without tiring. As he entered the outer perimeter of the village he could see the people milling about looking at him curiously. They must have thought it strange to see him running like this, a lord without his horse usually walked with an air of authority and grace. He didn’t care what they thought and ran on. He passed between his men just as they were pulling up to the Tavern. Both of their horses startled and they had to fight to regain control. Ardvan saw the glance that passed between them. It was a look of surprise, but there was something else. He couldn’t put his finger on it but he stored that look in the back of his mind so he could discuss it later.

“I’ll meet you inside,” Ardvan shoved the door open and stood, breathing heavy in the doorway. The Dragon’s Draught was a Tavern that served free food and drinks to all the Chosen. It was one of the perks that came with the job. It was a filthy, broken down shanty and it was rare that anyone other than the Chosen ventured inside. The stench of dried urine was almost overpowering so it was no surprise that others rarely came in. As Ardvan’s eyes adjusted and he surveyed the room he could see several groups of men huddled together in casual conversation. Some looked his way to see who he was but the ones closest to him had all just released their bladders and were backing away from him in deference. Ardvan had only seen the Chosen back from his father and he was surprised to see them do this now. It filled him with such a feeling of pleasure that he lost his grip on the anger and smiled broadly.

“The next round of drinks is on me,” Ardvan moved to the bar and slapped his hand down. “Ale, and quickly, I have a thirst.”

The bar keep scrubbed out a large mug with a filthy cloth and filled it to the brim then slid it across the table to him. Everyone stood frozen watching him until one man in the corner of the room laughed saying, “I’ll have that drink then, since everyone else here drinks free.”

Ardvan looked across the room and saw a man of medium build standing in the back corner furthest from the bar. He was blocked in by a tight barricade of dragon spears. To touch them was a crime worthy of death so he stood straight and unmoving. In spite of his awkward position, his smile and attitude were open and easy and he seemed unaffected by his potentially lethal surroundings. The Chosen were not a group that anyone moved among freely unless you were one of them or the king himself. Clearly the man had intruded by entering this bar and now he was paying the price for his offence. There was no way for him to get out of the corner without removing some of the spears. Doing this would require him to touch the spears so the man was stuck.

“One drink for my friend, if he can manage to come and get it.” Ardvan scanned the group of Chosen and winked. They laughed, enjoying the jest.

“I have never yet turned down a free drink and I won’t today,” As the man spoke he lifted his arm and in one fluid movement he knocked down a whole side of his barricade with the frame of his harp. The Chosen lunged forward, shocked by his bold maneuver. The man just smiled and began retuning his harp as he kept walking forward. He crossed the room quickly and took a long draught from his mug of ale then spoke, “Relax men, I didn’t touch your spears, my harp did and I know there is no law against that.” He smiled again as he took another long pull of his ale. The Chosen seemed to take measure of the situation and seeing he had done nothing wrong, they relaxed. A few even chuckled at his cleverness.

Ardvan immediately liked the man. He had a manner about him that made him relax and feel a strong sense of peace within himself. He didn’t know the man but he felt immediately that he could trust him. The feeling of calm and trust was so strong the only emotional response he could compare it to was the unreasonable fear and unease he felt when he was around his father. It was very strange and he felt he should mistrust such an instinctive response to someone whose name he did not even know. However, in spite of lingering doubts that bubbled up in the back of his mind, he knew beyond question that this man was his friend.

“I suppose you are wondering who I am.”

Ardvan had been staring slack-jawed and he quickly clamped his jaw shut and smiled nodding.

The man gently placed his harp on the bar and turned to face him. Standing with his arms straight down at his sides, he bowed quickly and gracefully.

“I am called Mizuya and I have come to this land in search of you.”

Ardvan’s eyes opened in surprise, “Why would anyone come looking for me?”

“I have come to meet the next Crown Prince and successor of the great King Drakinval. I did not expect to see you until the announcement at the Dragon fire festival this evening. However, when you entered the bar your demeanor gave you away—clearly you must be the Crown Prince!” Mizuya said this with a flourish of his hands and another more formal bow.

The smile froze upon Ardvan’s face and his feelings of ease, trust and friendship were devoured in the fierce flames of his anger. He could not yet tell if this man was deliberately goading him or actually so stupid that he did not already know what everyone else in the kingdom knew—the crown belonged to Hamred. As Mizuya straightened from his long bow he met Ardvan’s eyes with a steady gaze. The rest of the Chosen had already released their bladders as their bodies reacted to the dragon scent that Ardvan was expressing in his almost overwhelming anger. Everyone had backed away carefully and yet this man still stood unaffected, gave him another easy smile, and reached for his harp.

“Allow me to play you a simple tune. I think you will like it.”

Oblivious to the danger around him and standing before him defenseless, Mizuya picked up his harp and began to play.

Chapter 2--The King

The King

King Drakanvil took a sip from his cup of wine and grimaced. The wine was cold and today there were be no one to warm it for him. He had mixed feelings about the annual Dragon’s fire festival. It celebrated the rebirth of their small country and helped him remember his own modest origins. He had brought this country back from the brink of destruction and the people had repaid him by making him their King. It was a kindness that he did not want to forget—a boy of common blood becoming King was unheard of, yet no one contested his right to the throne. To honor his journey and to acknowledge the people who supported him, he celebrated with them once a year as a commoner. Part of him enjoyed this time each year as he reflected on his past and how he had arrived at his current station in life. However, he was accustomed to the luxuries of a King now and he despised having to warm his own wine, fix his own breakfast and do all the mundane tasks that a common man must do to live. Until the King returned with a new spear tempered by the Dragon’s fire, all men were to act as equals—the King included. It was tradition. The people loved it. But all this really meant for the King was that he had to fix his own meals and deal with his wretched sons himself. So rather than eat he would drink. This would keep his belly full and his mind too cloudy to be bothered with the constant pestering of his needy sons.

He glanced over the top of his cup as he swallowed another mouthful of cold wine and shuddered. His four sons sat around his throne watching him intently. Their faces were masks of hurt and feigned confusion. It was their eyes that showed their true emotions and staring into them made him shudder. They had the cold, shiftless stare of vultures awaiting their turn at a fresh kill. He had just delivered a terrible blow to their collective egos and they were still mute from the shock of it. Slack jawed they stared at him but he could almost hear the gears of their brains spinning as they tried to counter what had just happened. These boys had been bred into lazy, self important lords and as much as Drakanvil hated to admit it, they disgusted him. He shared no common interests with them and could see very little of himself in any of them. If they did not all have his steel gray eyes, he might have doubted their relation to him. Certainly there was no love lost between them. There was no denying these brats were his but that had not made his decision any harder. The country needed a protector, someone capable of fighting the dragons and his sons were useless, fearful, boys, barely able to dress themselves, so he had made the only decision he could. Now that his decision was final, his sons had banned together and somehow found the courage to face him. They seemed ready to plead or even grovel for what they considered their “rightful inheritance” but none of them showed an ounce of fight. It was sickening.

Not one of them had attended the Dragon’s fire feast last year. Now they all claimed that because of this they had not had proper warning and, consequently, they had been unable to meet the demands of his hasty decree. Their arguments were weak. He had read them in the many letters they had sent over the last several months. The King had decreed whoever killed the most dragons over the next year (regardless of his station in life) would be named heir to the throne and be given the title of Crown Prince. The excitement had been tangible. For one night people had treated him as a kindly father. It had been a rare moment for him and one he still cherished. Best of all he had met a beautiful girl who did not cringe at his touch. They had slipped away together that night but when morning came she was gone. Privately he searched for her but he dared not issue a public search as he wanted her to come to him freely. Most people were hardly able to bare his presence and, in spite of his lofty position, he craved their acceptance. To have met a woman that might be able to truly love him was something beyond what he thought possible. That one evening had been glorious. And now his sons sat before him as a painful reminder of all the fear and loathing he elicited in a people that he wished would love him for all that he had done. In truth, he was lonely and this is was what he despised most about his life. He had brought this kingdom the first peace they had tasted in years. In thanks they had made him their King, but they rejected him as a person. What could he expect? His own sons had cried uncontrollably when he had tried to hold them as babies. Their rejection had cut him deeply but now he only felt disgust for what they had become. He had given away their title and cut off his only tie to them.

All four of King’s sons took great pains to avoid eye contact with him as they stood before him. As the King placed his cup down his eyes met with his eldest son, Ardvan. Ardvan’s mouth opened and a sound like a frightened mule crept out of his throat. He glanced at his brothers as though hoping the King was looking at one of them. He was such an incessant whiner that his voice box needed to warm up with a preliminary whine before he began speaking.

“Speak up boy, I won’t have you braying like a mule.” The King spoke quietly.

Ardvan looked startled; he seemed amazed that the king could tell he was getting ready to speak. However, he gathered himself and proceeded, “Father, how could you do this to us? Giving the rights of the crown to a bastard born child cannot be allowed—the people will be outraged!” He looked to his other three brothers who all bobbed their heads in support. Their backing bolstered him and he continued, “If you pursue this we will be forced to appeal to our blessed mother’s family, may she rest in peace. Even you must understand that they will never let this happen.” He had used his voice to the best of his ability changing from hurt to indignant. Seeing that the boy was ready to continue his pathetic tirade, the King raised his hand to stop him, “First let’s make one thing clear. I will not be threatened or bullied by any son of mine or his uncles. This crown is for the man best suited to the job and that was made abundantly clear when I issued my decree last year. That you chose not to attend the feast is not my problem. You were invited and even warned that I would be delivering a decree of great import to you. You had all the advantages in the pursuit of my crown and you did nothing to gain it. Not one of you even fought a dragon, let alone killed one. The fault for losing your rights to my crown lays upon your own heads, not mine!” He leveled his gaze on all four boys for emphasis then took another swallow from his cup to wet his dry throat.

“Father, Hamred is a scoundrel and a bastard. He is low born in blood and manner. He simply cannot be expected to look after our people.” Ardvan looked to his brothers once again after this little outburst. He often measured the strength of his convictions by the support of his peers. He was charismatic and appeared so strong standing before him but he was weak. Looking at him standing there so proudly the King decided to test Ardvan’s metal.

“Come here,” the King sat at the top of the dais looking down on his boys. It was a breach of custom to approach the King on the dais and Drakanvil could see the fear in his son’s eyes. Ardvan’s hesitance frustrated the King and he spoke louder, “Come here.” He gestured with both hands and knocked his cup of wine from its place on the arm of his throne. As he watched the wine spill over the steps he felt his frustration flow into anger. He took a deep breath to check himself. Drakanvil had taken great care to control his anger over the years because it seemed to reduce even the strongest of his men to weak kneed children. He couldn’t understand it. He was told he was more terrible than a dragon when angry. It made no sense to him but it was a fact he continued to struggle with. The whites of Ardvan’s eyes were showing and his face was drawn in fear but he still stood there. The other three sons were already running for the door.

“You are dismissed Ardvan,” the King waved to the door and his son bolted. As he bent to pick up his fallen goblet his nose caught the familiar smell of sulfur and he felt a burning heat pulse threw his body. He felt sad and relieved as he watched his last son go. It had required some bravery from him stay put after he had sensed Drakanvil’s anger. There were very few men who would not turn and flee when the King was angry. Perhaps that is why he liked Hamred so much. The boy could face the King and keep his wits about him even when the King was angry. Other than the Spearmaker, Drakanvil did not know of any other person who could stand before him when he was like this. He wondered if the girl he’d met last year could.

He wondered if he was a monster.

Chapter 1--The Spearmaker

The Spearmaker moved frantically. The girl was moaning low so she must be between contractions. Where she came from he didn’t know but for once he wished he lived closer to the neighboring village. “There is no time for this”, he thought as he opened random cupboards looking for a clean cup—the girl was thirsty! He needed to be in the sun room to make the final preparations for his spears. The Dragon’s fire would arrive at sunrise and he still had so much to do.

Finally he found a ladle lost in a pile of tools on the table. The house was filthy and stunk of sweat and iron. He had no time to waste on cleaning because he had been putting the finishing touches on his spears to prepare them for the coming of the Dragon’s fire. His house was more a workshop than a home. It sat nestled in at the base of Dragon Mount beside the clear running mountain river unimaginatively named, Coldstream. His home was built over an open crevasse in the earth that constantly bubbled with molten lava. The fumes that spilled forth reeked of sulfur and the deep unknown and probably would have killed most men, but the Spearmaker was not most men. He had built his forge around bubbling crevasse and the heat from the earths’ belly allowed him to shape iron to his will. The river, flowing next to house, provided the pure water in which he tempered his steel. However it was the Dragon’s fire that his weapons needed the most. It came once a year and was the key step to making his renowned weapons. All he did was pound the metal using the basic methods of a gifted smithy. A spear kissed by the Dragon’s fire was a miracle.

“Water!” The girl was insistent. It was the only word she had spoken since she knocked on his door. He had been surprised by the knock. No one came to his home. In fact people seemed to fear his place. He lived a solitary life and had lost himself in his work. He was more at home in the heat of his forge, pounding iron than living among people these days. He seldom ventured to town and only the King visited him once a year and that day was tomorrow.

“I need to get her out of here,” he mumbled as he emptied the contents of the ladle on the floor and dipped it into a fresh bucket of cold river water. He walked quickly to the girl and pressed the ladle to her lips. She drank greedily then sighed. Her body relaxed and the Spearmaker began to gather hope. Maybe this will be quick and easy.

But then the girl opened her eyes and seemed to see the room for the first time. She looked equally confused and horrified. Clearly this house was not where she wanted to give birth to her child.

“Is there anything I can do to help you along?” The Spearmaker asked. He hoped that she would simply ask him to help her leave. He could do that. In fact, he would prefer to do that. Watching a strange woman give birth was not something he felt prepared to do.

At the sound of his voice she looked up and she seemed to see him for the first time. Her eyes scanned over his face and body, taking all of him in. He was a large man and gruff in appearance. His hair was blond but darkened and matted with sweat and oil from long days of hard labor. His eyes were dark and guarded and gave no indication of what he might be feeling. He was a man that had learned to live within himself and rely upon no one. You could stare into his eyes and you would still have no sense of who he was. Most people could handle little more than a passing glance at him, but this girl stared for sometime, nodded to herself, and asked, “What is this place?” She cast her eyes about the room searching then pointed to a white door that stood out like a beacon in the dark filthy room. “Is there a clean room in there? Please, I cannot have my child in this filth.” She hoisted herself up and began hobbling over to the door. The Spearmaker moved swiftly and grabbed her arm firmly. “That room is not available. It has been prepared for my spears.” He said, scrunching his face into his most intimidating look. To his surprise, she brushed his arm off and continued past him, pushing the white door open. People didn’t ever respond to him that way. When he showed anger, even if it was fake anger, people usually shook in terror. Clearly this girl was unusual.

The contrast between the two rooms was startling. The Spearmaker’s living space was dark and filthy. There were no windows in the front room and every inch of it was covered with dirty dishes, tools, and half finished projects. The only light source in this room was a dimly lit lamp and the glow of the forge. The Spearmaker lived in his work-space and gave no thought to the daily comforts one might see in a typical home. The room behind the white door was Spartan, in fact, the room was completely empty of all furniture and it was immaculately clean. The walls had recently been white washed and there was one large window facing east toward Dragon Mount. A dim glow from the fading stars and waxing morning light reflected off the walls and the many spears that lined them. They seemed to be laid out with a purpose and, in spite of the presence of the weapons, the room felt safe and quiet, a place of meditation and sanctuary.

After a brief pause the girl stepped into the white room. “I will have my baby here,” she said, moving deeper into the room to look out the window. The Spearmaker shook his head gently, “This room is for my spears. You should not be in here.” He said, but he did not pull her out of the room. She looked too fragile in her simple dress and besides she had impressed him with her courage. Suddenly, she dropped to her knees and began moaning again. Her pains had come again, hard. She looked up at him, her face white and drawn. “Please get me some clean cloth. Something for my baby.” She was crouched below the window with her hands pressed against the wall for support. She had found her place and there would be no moving her.

The Spearmaker ran back into the main living space to find some clean rags but as he paused in the doorway to the room he knew he had none, none that were clean. He had used all his clean rags to polish his spears and make them ready for the white room. He wondered what would happen if they were still in this room when the Dragon’s fire came, he had never been in the room when it had come. Time was too short now. He would not be able to get the girl and baby out of the room before the sunrise. He could already see brightness illuminating the sky. There was nothing to do but help and hope for the best. He went to the closet tucked in the corner of the room by his cot. He had one clean shirt. He had planned to wear it when the King arrived today. It was soft and clean and was the only thing that would work well for the new baby. He took a deep calming breath to squelch his mounting frustration, then quickly grabbed his only clean shirt. Next, he placed a bucket of fresh water over the fire to warm. They would need warm water to clean the baby. And finally, grabbed the blanket off his cot. The girl would need that to lie down upon; it would ease the discomfort of the cold floor.

As he rushed back into the room he heard the girl gasp desperately, she was now sitting with her back to the wall and with one final push she gave birth onto the bare dirt floor. The child flopped limply and did not move or make a cry. The Spearmaker could see that something was very wrong. The child was a deep purple color and did not make a sound. He quickly noticed the mother’s umbilical cord wrapped tightly around the child’s neck. It was a little boy. He was well formed with powerful arms and legs, big hands and a beautiful face. But his life had been strangled from him before he even had a chance to live it. The girl had noticed this too and even in her exhausted state she began to sob. Slowly the Spearmaker knelt beside the small babe and pulled out his knife. He rested his hand gently on the baby’s small chest then cut the cord from around his little neck. Gently, he lifted the boy into his arms and pressed his ear to the baby’s little chest. “This child still lives.” He said. “I can feel his heart beating within him.” The girl, now a mother, found new energy and hoisted her exhausted body up off the floor to look at her new child. She had thought he was lost and now she clung to a weak strand of hope. “He can’t be alive.” She said, but her voice carried no conviction. She had heard what she wanted most to hear and her heart would not let it go even though her new baby still hung blue and lifeless in the Spearmaker’s arms. “Let me see him.” She struggled forward but was too exhausted from the ordeal so she reached feebly. The Spearmaker moved closer to her and placed the baby in her outstretched arms. They watched him together, praying. The baby’s small chest did not rise and fall with breath but still they watched. With a great longing and desperate hope in her eyes, the mother asked, “Why won’t he breathe?”

And as the Spearmaker made to reply, the Dragon’s Fire came.

The red light of dawn broke through the window into the white sun room, kissing the baby on the crown of his head. His small body glowed with the Dragon’s Fire, then; he startled, as though he had been awakened from a sleep, took a deep breath, and cried out loud and clear. The smell of forge, sulfur and a great cleansing heat filled the room; it was the smell of dragon. Humans typically flew into uncontrollable terror at this scent but the child seemed calmed by it. The mother’s eyes widened and she cried out as she pulled the child close to her. However, she too seemed largely unaffected by the overpowering scent of dragon. The Spearmaker marveled at this. The only other man he knew that could resist a dragon’s fear scent was the King.

The Spearmaker felt tears come to his eyes as he remembered the ancient legends that spoke of a child that would come into this world dead but be brought to life by the fire of Dragons. Softly he spoke the words of the legend to himself, “He shall be called names of fear and terror, kindness and peace; but all will know him as Mighty.”

He looked at the girl with a feeling of reverence. She had just given birth to a legend. He had given no thought to who she was or where she had come from, since she had knocked on his door. He had been so busy getting ready for the arrival of the King and trying to help with come arrival of the new baby that he hadn’t really thought about her. Even in her exhausted state she was beautiful. Her features where delicate and her frame was surprisingly small. Her body was lean and well muscled and her palms were callused. She had a scar on her left cheek. It was a clean thin line that had healed nicely leaving only a slightly red scar. The scar did not diminish the girl’s beauty but added a hardness to her face, as though her innocence had been lost. He wondered how she had earned it. While he was staring at her full of questions, he remembered the pending arrival of the King and panicked.

“I must get you out of this room.”

His voice must have carried the urgency that he felt for the girl looked up at him immediately. However, now that her baby was safely nuzzled to her breast she had lost all her drive. “Why hurry?” she asked, not moving from her place. As she spoke she looked around the room again and noticed, for the first time, the spears lining the walls of the white room. “What is this place anyway?” She stared intently into the Spearmaker’s eyes. The spears had caught her attention. Few were aloud to touch spears and the penalty for touching one without the Kings’ permission was usually death. Being so close to so many spears was clearly making the girl uncomfortable. The Spearmaker took note of her reaction. She did not react to the overpowering stench of dragon (something that caused even the bravest of men to lose their wits), but she did responded to the culturally imposed fear of spears. He shook his head and muttered to himself, “Unusual, highly unusual.”

The Spearmaker was impressed by the girl and decided to explain to her: “I am the King’s spear maker. Each year I make several new spears for the King using only the best materials and craft available. I line them in this room and wait for the coming of the Dragon’s fire. That day is today. Once the spears are touched they become the weapons of choice for all the Dragon Slayers in the kingdom. These spears will never melt under the heat of a dragon’s breath, never lose their edge, and they are the only weapons that can pierce a dragon’s hide. Today the King comes to view the spears and take one back to present at the Dragon’s fire festival.”

At the mention of the King, the girl’s face drained of all color and she clutched her baby to her chest and asked, “That is today?” The Spearmaker nodded absently, looking over his weapons. “You must hide us,” she sounded frantic now and looked down at her baby as she spoke, “Tell me where to go. I will do whatever you ask.” Her body trembled and her voice carried a strong undercurrent of emotion. Her eyes had lost their brave spark and she looked lost. Since she had walked into the Spearmaker’s home, it was the first time that she had reacted properly.

Everyone feared the King.