The Dragon Horn Read online

  Ivan turned sharply to follow the walkway toward the blacksmith shed. Suddenly, the house’s back door banged open. A big man stepped outside. He wore a richly worked black jacket with silver fur cuffs and a fur collar.

  A knight from Frankland, Ivan thought to himself. Custom said that only nobles could wear fur. Sometimes rich merchants did and highly ranked priests.

  “Ho, lad!” the man called, speaking with an accent. “Stop a moment.”

  Ivan paused, as did the hounds.

  The broad-shouldered knight wore silver spurs and knee-high black boots. His silver-colored pants were fashioned out of some costly fabric that Ivan didn’t recognize. He did recognize the pearls sewn onto the knight’s waist-belt. A heavy broadsword in an ornate black scabbard hung from the belt. The sword’s silver pommel had been fashioned into a lynx’s snarling face.

  With spurs jangling, the knight stepped down from the porch and onto the walkway. Vesna’s hackles rose, as did Flay’s. Both hounds backed up. Stribog whined throatily.

  “Stop that,” Ivan ordered, embarrassed and outraged at his hounds’ behavior. “I’m sorry, milord, for their bad manners.”

  The knight stroked his square chin. His head seemed a trifle too wide and rectangular, but that was the least of his strangeness. Extremely fine, silver hair hung down to his shoulders. His age couldn’t be determined. His chiseled features made him seem old, until one noticed the smoothness of his pale skin. The eyes seemed to hold the key. They were a washed-out icicle blue, hard and knowing.

  Ivan swallowed and averted his gaze.

  “Interesting,” the knight said in his deep voice. Spurs jangling once more, he stepped closer.

  Vesna growled and crouched. Flay followed her example. Stribog’s legs became stiff as if he meant to lunge and slash with his teeth.

  Ivan wanted to order them to stop. He couldn’t because he kept staring at the knight’s boots. Besides, he trusted his hounds. If they didn’t like someone, neither did he.

  “Look at me, lad.”

  Ivan fidgeted. Knights were supposed to be obeyed, but he couldn’t lift his gaze.

  “Boy!”

  The two hounds cowered and pressed against Ivan’s boots. Stribog’s lips peeled back to reveal his fangs.

  “Your pardon, good sir,” Ivan said hastily. He turned and ran toward the kennel, dragging his hounds with him. He didn’t look back as he rushed past the blacksmith shed and banged against the kennel door. He clawed it open and hurried within. He slammed the door shut and leaned against it, panting.

  Would the silver-haired knight follow him?

  It took perhaps two heartbeats of silence. Then the kennel erupted with a bedlam of whining and barking. Hounds stood on their hind feet, their front paws resting on the wooden siding of their stalls as they greeted Ivan.

  He blinked at them, his fear of the knight draining away. “All right, all right,” he said a moment later. “I’m back. You can all rest easy now.” With his head ducked forward because of the low ceiling, he worked his way down the row and touched each dog in turn. That caused their tails to way.

  Many of the kennel hounds were big creatures, used to chase down bears and wolves. Grown men shied away when these hounds ran free. To Ivan they were simply his charges. During his years as trainer, a few had bitten him and made blood run, but they’d never torn away long swaths of flesh with a slashing attack to the bone. He was their friend and they were his. It seemed, too, that a pact had been worked out within the kennel. Ivan would fight for them so they would fight for him. Here, he felt safe. Here, he was at home. And here, he was the king, even if he was the servant outside the kennel.

  The door opened as Ivan picked up the feed pails. He looked up fast, worried the knight had followed him.

  Instead, a plump woman wearing a shawl over her head stepped inside. She had keen eyes and a sharp way of looking at people. She was Magda, and she was unique to Belgorod Holding. She gave sage advice and her cheery spirit lifted others out of gloom. She also had a special gift. With it, Magda could have found a position in the king’s household.

  Ivan had heard the story many times. It had happened before his birth. Lord Mikulas had held a tourney just as they did in East Frankland. Master Volok had joined in the mock battle. The thunder of war-horses, the clash of lances and iron swords, the cheering, it had been a grand time. However, a young noble of Great Moravia, the present king, had taken a terrible blow to the head. When retainers had pried off his helmet, they’d cried out in anguish. Blood had flowed from a cut to his scalp. The leech had been summoned and he had sadly shaken his head.

  Master Volok summoned Magda, a young housemaid then. She knelt, prayed to Hosar and then laid her hands on the prince’s head. Her hands had grown warm as her countenance had grown haggard. To everyone’s surprise, the scalp-wound had closed and then miraculously healed. The weary but very alive prince had taken Magda’s warm hands in his cold ones.

  “Stay with me,” he had said. “You must always be by my side.”

  Magda had demurred, saying that her place was at Belgorod Holding.

  Magda had a miraculous gift. At times, when the spirit moved in her, her hands became warm. Then she had a healing touch. After Lady and Lord Belgorod, it made her the most important person at Belgorod Holding. In some ways, though, Magda had become the most important person. Her words carried great weight here and throughout the territory. Her unique gift had vaulted her out of the lower class and into that of the noble-born.

  “Hello, Magda,” Ivan said.

  “Oh no, don’t you ‘hello Magda’ me,” she said as she set a steaming mug atop a barrel. She waggled a plump finger at him and set a long object, wrapped in a spare cloak, beside the mug. “Where have you been?” she asked. No smile lit Magda’s face, and Magda always smiled.

  “Yury and I went hunting this morning.”

  “Hunting?”

  “For a white wolf.”

  “Just the two of you?”

  Ivan didn’t like what her tone inferred. “We’re old enough,” he said.

  “Old enough for what?” she asked. “Old enough to take Petor’s sword?”

  He gulped. “You know about that?”

  She sighed and stepped up to him, searching his eyes. She patted his arm. “Well, what’s done is done, I suppose.”

  He nodded hopefully.

  “Oh!” She turned and picked up the steaming mug. “Here, I thought you might like something hot.”

  Ivan smelled the broth aroma as he accepted the mug. “Thanks.” He sipped and sighed as the hot liquid slid down his throat. He took two more sips. Some of the chill left him.

  “I watched Yury slip inside,” Magda was saying, “and set the sword back onto its pegs. Yury slipped away just as quickly, to hide, I suppose. But Petor won’t be fooled.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Ivan asked, clutching the mug with numb hands.

  “Very sure.”

  “Oh!” Ivan said. “Flay broke his leg. I was wondering—”

  “Where is he?”

  Ivan pointed.

  Magda opened the gate and stepped inside the straw-littered stall. Flay wagged his tail. Hiking up her coat, Magda bent down and ran her fingers over the splint.

  “You did a good job,” she said.

  Ivan grinned as he sipped hot broth. “Can you heal him?” he asked quietly. He’d only seen Magda heal someone twice before. Those times had left him speechless and amazed.

  She gently squeezed the leg.

  “Careful,” Ivan said. “He might bite your hand.”

  Magda seemed not to hear. Finally, she stood. “I’m sorry. I can’t heal him.” She stepped out of the stall.

  Ivan noticed that he’d been holding his breath. He let it out as he closed the gate.

  “Did a wolf break it?” Magda asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you kill the wolf?”

  “No.”

  “Hmm.” Magda folded her arms. “Flay h
as to stay locked up for a week then.”

  “A week? But that’s too long.”

  “Not to see if he has the foaming sickness, it isn’t.”

  Ivan nodded after a moment, seeing the wisdom of her words.

  “Did you see the wolf?” she asked, studying him.

  “Well…a little. You—”

  “No. Forget it,” she said. “There isn’t time.”

  “Huh?”

  “You saw the sleigh, did you not?”

  “I did.”

  “It belongs to Sir Karlo Aufling, the Silver-Haired. He’s a Frankish knight from Eastern Bavaria. Or he was until only a year ago. Sir Karlo told us a grim tale. Wend warriors crept up one moonless night, bewitched the mind of the guards and slipped into his castle. They butchered everyone.”

  “That’s horrible!”

  “The Bavarians and Wends attack each other endlessly. It’s a harsh land north of Vaclav Mountain. And it breeds harsh men.”

  Ivan had a vague notion of local geography and history. The dreaded Avars of the plains had once held much of Moravia in thrall. Then Charlemagne and his knights had ridden out of the west and engaged them in battle. After several campaigns, Charlemagne’s knights found the hidden Ring, the Avar capital encircled by earthen mounds where the horse-archers buried their dead. The Ring also had a wall seven cubits high and wide of oak and yew. Moravians had fought with Charlemagne and afterward, their lands became a vassal state of his glorious empire.

  With Charlemagne’s passing and the struggles between his sons and grandsons, Moymir I had set himself up as king of Great Moravia.

  King Sviatopluk ruled now, although he paid homage to the vicar of Rome. The Wends of the north raided Great Moravia just as they attacked Bavarian outposts. Sometimes, too, Frankish knights rode east in search of plunder. And lately, there had been troubling news of new horsemen who’d appeared in the plains to the south.

  Moravia’s king seldom summoned the kingdom’s warriors into one host. Instead, local places relied on their lords, knights and armed freeholders for protection. News from the outer lands told of fierce struggles and bearded raiders wielding axes. Kingdoms fell or they splintered into warring factions. Sometimes, warriors with holdings smaller than Belgorod claimed the rights of sovereign rulers, acting in any manner they chose.

  As far as Ivan knew, the East Franks bound Moravia to the west. The Great Plains to the south limited them there. Primitive mountains tribes marked the eastern frontier, while the savage Wends blocked them in the north. Vaclav Mountain marked the northern boundary and the beginning of the land of the Wends.

  “Why did Sir Karlo leave Bavaria?” Ivan asked.

  “A good question. One that Lady Belgorod put to him. Sir Karlo answered vaguely. I suspect Sir Karlo had been nothing more than a robber. His castle had probably been nothing more than a log-cabin filled with villains.”

  “Magda! What an awful thing to say.”

  Magda nodded sourly. “You’re right. I suggest it only because those are the only tales I’ve heard about the East Bavarians.”

  “Who do you know who has been there?” Ivan asked.

  “Folkwin.”

  Of course. Folkwin was a wandering monk, a big fellow with a stout staff. He fearlessly preached Hosar’s goodness wherever he went.

  Magda said, “Sir Karlo claims that his warrior days are over. He fled with his life and a pouch of rare Roman coins. Now he claims that he’s a hunter of ancient relics.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Magda patted his cheek. “Karlo has a writ from the king. It seems he gained the king’s trust, or ‘tickled his fancy’ might be closer. The royal writ allows him passage through Moravia and demands that aid be given him from loyal subjects. Sir Karlo told the king he knew the location of an ancient horde of coins. Once this horde is secured, Sir Karlo is supposed to return to the king to give him his third—the price for the writ, I suppose. Sir Karlo and his men came this morning while you two were out hunting.”

  Ivan winced.

  “When the stable boy came rushing in and told Petor about Sir Karlo, Petor hunted for his sword. He wished to greet Karlo in proper knightly style. Imagine Petor’s surprise, and anger, when he couldn’t find his sword.”

  “Oh no,” said Ivan.

  “Well, enough about that. I don’t trust Sir Karlo. That’s what this amounts to.”

  “You think he’s a bandit?” Ivan whispered.

  Magda gave him a wry smile. “Many things are possible. What neither Lady Belgorod nor I like is that Master Volok and his squire aren’t home. There are too few fighting men left in Belgorod Holding tonight. By law, however, we’re required to house Sir Karlo and his retainers for up to a week.”

  “Because of the royal writ?”

  “Yes, and out of noble courtesy.”

  Ivan digested that. “The hounds don’t like Sir Karlo.”

  “I saw that.” Magda compressed her lips and glanced at the door. She turned back and studied Ivan. “I have an errand for you.”

  “What?”

  “I want you to go to the woodcutter’s cabin and invite your friend Feodor and his father to supper.”

  There goes the warm fire, Ivan thought to himself. He sipped his broth and realized now why Magda had brought it. He finished off the drink and set the wooden cup aside.

  Magda said, “I want you to tell the woodcutters to bring their axes.”

  Ivan’s eyes widened. “Do you really think Sir Karlo will break the laws of hospitality?”

  “Lady Belgorod and I have agreed on this decision.”

  Ivan nodded. Master Volok gave many orders. In reality, Lady Belgorod and Magda saw to the essentials.

  “Feodor and Dimitri may not be in the cabin,” Ivan said. “They might have gone into the woods.”

  “I realize that. You’ll have to go into the forest after them. I know you’ve been out most of the day and that you’re tired and damp. I’m sorry. I wish we could send someone else. But you know the woods better than most.”

  Ivan suppressed any grumbling. If Magda wanted him to run an errand then he’d run it without complaining. That was another thing she’d taught him, although it had been a difficult lesson to learn.

  “Do you really think Sir Karlo will do something bad?” Ivan asked. “I mean…well….”

  “A wise person counts all the possibilities. Belgorod Holding lies at the edge of Moravia’s influence. Therefore, when strange knights come knocking and ask for lodging, a show of strength becomes the height of wisdom. Master Volok, his squire and Gruner will return. Until then, I want Feodor and especially his father, Dimitri, here. You must make sure they come. Of course, Petor must never hear of the reason why they were invited. That would wound his knightly pride.”

  Ivan understood. “Should I take one of the horses?”

  “No. Both Feodor and his father will have to walk. Besides, this is only a precaution. You’re to quietly slip away.”

  “Is Yury coming with me?”

  “Yury is Petor’s squire,” she said. “Knights and squires are fighting men.”

  Ivan nodded once again. Yury, as a squire, had practiced many hours with both sword and spear. That’s why he had been able to cut the wolf today from horseback. If he, Ivan, had tried such a swing, he’d probably have cut the horse instead.

  Magda squeezed his arm. “Be careful.”

  “Is something wrong, Magda? Something you’re not telling me?”

  She smiled sadly. “Oh, Ivan, you’ve grown up so quickly.”

  He looked away, embarrassed.

  She let go, patted his arm and turned to leave. “Take Stribog with you.” Without facing him, she unwrapped a long object: a stabbing spear. It had a razor-sharp head and three feet of solid ash behind it.

  Ivan’s eyes widened. Master Volok kept the stabbing spear above his bed, pegged to the wall. Its wonderful balance made it a heavy dart. Wends used these with skill. The short spear could be used like a st
abbing sword, and a moment later could be hurled at one’s enemy. In his youth, Master Volok had gone on a campaign with Lord Mikulas north of Vaclav Mountain. There they’d defeated the Wend chieftain who had led raids against their farmers. Master Volok had taken the spear as a trophy. Apparently, it had once belonged to a tough Wend clansman.

  Without facing Ivan, Magda set the warspear against a stall. “Take it with you,” she said.

  “Magda?”

  She wiped her cheek, and for a moment, Ivan thought to hear her sniff. She walked away and closed the door behind her.

  Ivan stared at the spear. It was a warrior’s weapon. He’d only trained with hunting weapons. He knew how to grip a boar-spear. And he’d been taught some of the carefully guarded mystique of archery. At those times, he had used Petor’s bow.

  Even here at Belgorod Holding, nobles were touchy about bows. Custom called it an aristocratic hunting weapon. Nobles with bows shot at bears, wolves, deer and boars, not men. If a farmer owned a bow, he labeled himself a poacher. Therefore, no farmer admitted to having a knowledge of archery. Besides, good bows could only be bought from bowmakers, who by law and even more by custom only sold them to the highborn.

  Master Volok had thought it prudent to give Ivan a working knowledge of bows. For the most part, however, Ivan only assisted in the hunts. Thus, his main skills came in handling the hounds, tracking, netting and the proper use of a boar-spear to back up the hunting knights.

  Ivan glanced at the kennel door. A big boar-spear was pegged above it. It had a heavy crossbar directly behind the iron head. It had been last year’s birthday present and was one of the few items that he actually owed. He would have used it this morning if he’d taken only one dog. With all three along, he’d only had hands enough for his club.

  He went to the feed stall and stuffed his pack with some smoked fish, a lump of cheese and a hard chunk of bread. Ever since Master Volok had sent him from the dinner table without his supper, Ivan kept extra food in the kennel.

  The door opened. A ten-year-old boy with red hair and a purple birthmark on his cheek rushed in. “Did you see the knight, Ivan?” Janek asked excitedly. A leather sling dangled from Janek’ back pocket.