The Dragon Horn Read online

  “I saw him,” Ivan admitted.

  “Isn’t he huge?”

  Ivan nodded as he hefted the pack to check its weight. “I have an errand to run,” he told Janek.

  The young boy’s face lit up. “Can I come with you?”

  “Not today,” said Ivan. He eyed Janek. “Say, after you run the three whelps do you think you could feed the hounds for me?”

  “Sure!”

  “Good. Remember, keep the whelps away from the holding. Take them out behind the mill. Mind you, don’t let them stray.”

  “Yes, Ivan.”

  “I haven’t had time to run the whelps today, and they’ve been cooped up for a couple of days.”

  Janek took three leashes from the wall-pegs and opened the gate to the litter. The whelps barked in delight as Janek snapped on the leashes.

  Ivan hid the warspear. Then he changed into dry clothes and donned an old jacket. “When you’re finished feeding the hounds, I want you to take these to Mary.” He pointed at his wet clothes.

  “Yes, Ivan.” Janek pulled the whelps and raced out of the kennel. Ivan smiled. Janek was a good lad, but had trouble with the bigger hounds. Like himself, Janek had a hard-luck story. But also like himself he’d found a home at Belgorod Holding.

  Shouldering on the pack and picking up the warspear, Ivan leashed Stribog and peered out of the kennel door. There was no silver-haired knight in sight. Therefore, Ivan slipped out and strode for the chestnut grove.

  -3-

  As Ivan crunched over snow, he had the distinct feeling of being watched. He glanced back at the holding, at the smoke drifting in a thin line out of the chimney. There was nothing unusual that he could see. The feeling didn’t go away, however, and caused him to twist his shoulders. Increasing his pace, he glanced at Stribog to see if he noticed anything. The dog seemed unconcerned. The feeling of being watched grew. Ivan clutched the warspear as his stomach roiled with uneasiness. He finally reached the top of the slope and stood beside the barren old oak tree. The feeling intensified. He looked all around, wondering if the white wolf had doubled back to the holding.

  “Don’t you smell anything?” he asked Stribog.

  The dog glanced at him.

  Ivan squinted up at the oak. Not more than five feet above him perched a huge raven with a heavy black beak. The raven bent forward as it watched him. A white mark marred the beak.

  Ivan’s heart thudded. He’d seen this raven in the woods. He stared into the shiny black eyes. A chill swept down his spine. Intelligence flickered there. It wasn’t a kind intelligence, either, but a nasty, spying, plotting sort.

  Sweat beaded Ivan’s forehead. He felt lightheaded. As he stared into those midnight-colored eyes, the raven bobbed its head. It seemed to be leering at him, mocking him. Ivan’s throat tightened. If the raven spoke, Ivan was afraid he’d drop the warspear and run screaming down the hill to Magda.

  The raven cawed loudly. Ivan lurched backward. With a second cry, the raven spread its huge wings and leaped into the air, making the bare branch shake.

  Open-mouthed, Ivan watched the raven spiral down toward the holding. Some instinct caused him to crouch behind the oak’s trunk and pull Stribog from view. Then he peered below. Men carted bundles off the sleigh and through the house’s front door. A big man in silver and black stepped off the porch and looked up in his direction.

  “Sir Karlo,” whispered Ivan.

  The raven landed on the porch-roof. Karlo turned to it. In moments, Sir Karlo turned toward the oak tree again. In Ivan’s imagination Sir Karlo squinted, but it was too far to tell. Frightened, Ivan tugged Stribog and strode away from the tree.

  He glanced over his shoulder from time to time. No one followed him. What just happened? As Ivan put distance between himself and the incident, he slowly lost the feeling of danger. He began to question what he’d really felt.

  Ravens don’t think like men. “Magda and her stories,” he told Stribog. “That’s what spooked me.”

  He wasn’t quite able to laugh it off, however. He would never tell anyone. No, that would be silly. Ravens that think like men—ha! People would call him a fool. If he were unlucky, people would call him Raven-talker, or something equally unpleasant. So....

  “So nothing,” he said. “Concentrate on your task.”

  In the distance rose the woods. Feodor and his father Dimitri supplied most of the firewood to the farmers of Belgorod Holding. In spring, after the planting, some farmers joined Dimitri up in the woods and near the Berryborne River. Then all throughout the forest echoed the sounds of chopping axes. Woodcutter Dimitri chose the trees to be felled and made sure never to over-cut in any particular area. It meant, at times, dragging trees a little farther to the Berryborne, but nobody really minded. They could use the forest, but not abuse it. That was an ancient law.

  Ivan had joined the farmers last spring and developed two handfuls of raw calluses. Woodcutter Dimitri had kept a careful count of who cut down which tree and which team dragged which log to the river. Then, when the carpenters from Verchen came to pay for the logs that had been floated down-stream, Dimitri took out his records and made sure each farmer received his share of coins.

  Ivan had earned thirty coppers. He’d given them to Magda to help Nadia in Pavia. At first, Magda hadn’t accepted the coins. She’d told him to buy something that he could call his own. Ivan had insisted, however. He keenly felt his debt to Magda. He also knew that she’d run short of money for Nadia’s schooling. In the end, he’d simply poured the coppers onto her night table and hurried from her room.

  Ivan sighed as his legs began to ache. Since early morning, with all the wolf hunting, he’d covered at least twenty miles. Dimitri’s cabin lay five miles from the holding. It stood near the Berryborne River and a stone’s throw away from the woods.

  He unclipped Stribog’s leash. The tall dog bounded ahead and tested the air with his nose.

  Suddenly, from off in the distance, a wolf howled. Ivan halted. Stribog cocked his head as his hackles bristled.

  “What do you think?” asked Ivan.

  Stribog took a few steps forward.

  “No you don’t,” Ivan said sternly. “You stay unless I tell you otherwise.”

  Stribog’s ears drooped. Obediently, he took up a position near Ivan.

  “I guess we might as well keep going.” Thinking about Magda and her worry, Ivan broke into a trot. The pine forest drew closer and the ground became hillier. He saw the frozen Berryborne to his left. In another hour, it would be dusk.

  “I just hope they’re in the cabin,” he told Stribog as steam misted from his mouth. Tramping about the woods at night without a torch…Ivan shook his head. He wanted no part of that.

  He increased his pace, passed several familiar trees and spied the cabin. Sturdy pine logs, with the bark still on them, made up the cabin’s stout walls. Piles of chopped wood leaned against three of the cabin’s sides. Tendrils of smoke trickled out of the chimney.

  Ivan’s stiff lips widened into a grin.

  A dog from within the cabin began to bark. Stribog barked back. The door opened and a wide-shouldered youth peered out.

  “Who’s there?” the youth called.

  “It’s me, Feodor. Ivan!”

  “Ivan?” Feodor stepped outside as a dog streaked out at Stribog.

  Stribog raced toward the dog. As the two creatures closed, they slowed and circled each other. In another moment, they sniffed each other carefully.

  “Crazy hounds,” Feodor said as he shook hands with Ivan.

  While shorter than Ivan, Feodor had shoulders just as broad and thicker arms, legs and chest. His bluff leather coat strained at the seams because of his muscles. Feodor had a wide honest face with a blunt nose, somber gray eyes and brown, shaggy hair that hid his ears.

  “It’s good to see you.” Feodor examined his friend. “You look cold. Come on inside.”

  “Great idea.”

  The two friends wiped their feet before tramping
within. The hounds, after allowing their masters to wipe their feet, followed.

  “Where’s Dimitri?” Ivan asked.

  “Father’s out,” Feodor said.

  The interior of the cabin was small and cozy. It had thick quilts and heavy furniture. The biggest kitchen chair had huge armrests and a snarling bear carved in the headrest. Two axes lay beside a foot-driven whetstone, and a metal smell lingered throughout the house.

  Ivan slipped off his jacket. “I was hoping your father was in.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  Ivan told Feodor about Sir Karlo Aufling.

  “Silver hair, eh?” Feodor said at last.

  Ivan nodded.

  “Hmmm.” Feodor sat beside the whetstone. He picked up an axe, pumped the foot-pedal and ground the edge against the big spinning stone. Sparks flew as the axe and stone made a loud noise.

  Stribog shook his head.

  Ivan knew that Feodor wasn’t being rude. He had his chores to finish. Feodor followed methodical procedures about such things. No doubt, it came from Dimitri’s teachings. The woodcutter and his son were alike in many ways. For instance, before they chopped down a tree they would first inspect it from many angles. Once inspected, either father or son would step back and carefully examine the lay of the other trees.

  Ivan had asked Feodor about that last spring.

  Feodor had stared at him for a moment. “I have to figure out how the tree will fall so it does the least damage to the forest.”

  When everything was decided, Feodor would spit on his hands, rub them together and pick up the axe. At first, he’d swing slowly, watching wood-chips fly. At twice the speed Ivan could do it, the wedge into the bark deepened. Then, when the first section had been chopped out, Feodor walked to the next position and began to swing. These swings came quicker than before, until broad blows hammered against the tree. Ivan had to rest several times when he felled a tree. Feodor just kept chopping until suddenly he stepped back. The instant he did so a loud crack sounded, and ever so slowly, the tree fell.

  As Feodor let the whetstone roll to a halt, he set aside the axe. “We have two choices,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “We can head into the forest and look for father, or we can wait here.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  Feodor drew his thick eyebrows together. “Hmm. Magda wants us there as fast as possible. For supper, you said.”

  Ivan nodded.

  Feodor’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Men don’t fight in earnest when they’re eating.”

  Hounds do, Ivan thought to himself.

  “So Magda really only needs us for nighttime.”

  “I guess so,” Ivan said.

  “Then we’ll wait for father.” With the decision made, Feodor picked up the other axe and began to sharpen it.

  Ivan tugged off his boots and socks and set them before the fire. He roasted his toes as he lay back on a quilt. Stribog came over and lay down beside him.

  “Hey, boy,” Ivan said as he idly petted the hound and stared at the ceiling.

  Two strangers in one day, Ivan mused. First the strange crone, then Sir Karlo. Ivan wondered if they had anything in common. What did the raven have to do with them? Had the raven carried a message to Karlo? That seemed silly. He hadn’t seen a message tube. Nor could raven’s talk, not unless magic was used. He wriggled his toes. Maybe a talking raven was a dumb idea, but when the raven had been staring at him....

  Feodor’s dog perked up and began to bark. Setting aside his axe, Feodor said, “Father’s home.” The dog jumped to the door and wagged its tail in anticipation. Feodor went to the fireplace and ladled hot broth into a bowl.

  Wood clattered outside. A moment later, a large man tramped to the door. The door opened and the dog leaped eagerly forward.

  “Hallo, hallo,” Dimitri said. He stopped upon seeing Ivan. Dimitri was a larger version of his son, with an even deeper chest and bigger arms. He held a huge axe, while a heavy brown beard dangled midway down his chest. “Ivan,” he said, smiling. “Welcome, welcome.” Dimitri banged the door closed. “What brings you out this late in the day?”

  Ivan told him the story.

  Dimitri frowned as he sat in the throne-like chair. He nodded. Feodor handed him the bowl. Dimitri slurped up broth and cut into the bread and cheese that Feodor set on the table.

  Ivan waited, knowing Dimitri’s thorough ways.

  “A silver-haired Bavarian knight, you say?” Dimitri said at last.

  “He says he’s a hunter of ancient relics,” Ivan said.

  Dimitri plucked at his beard. “How many servants did he have?”

  Ivan shrugged.

  “It matters not, really.” Dimitri glanced at Feodor. “Did you sharpen the axes?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Then I suppose after we change into our best clothes that we should be off.”

  “We’ll need torches,” Feodor said.

  “Yes, agreed,” Dimitri said.

  In their thorough way, the two set away the dishes, put on their best clothes, lit torches and doused the fireplace. After adjusting their green woodcutter cloaks, Dimitri picked out the biggest axe for himself and gave the next biggest one to his son.

  “Dusk is upon us so we must march quickly,” Dimitri said.

  Ivan had his fire-warmed socks on and was ready to go.

  Dimitri ushered them outside, secured the door and laid the axe-head over his shoulder. Ivan and Feodor held the torches. The smaller dog playfully nipped Stribog.

  “Off we go,” Dimitri said.

  -4-

  When they were halfway to the holding, Ivan asked, “Do you really think there’ll be a fight?”

  Neither Dimitri nor Feodor answered right away. Ivan watched the torchlight flicker across the snow, casting dancing shadows upon it. They followed the trail he’d made earlier. Above, the moon shined eerily, while wisps of clouds flew high across the nighttime sky.

  “I think not,” Dimitri answered at last.

  Ivan blinked in surprise at the delayed answer. “If you’re right, then why does Magda want you at the holding?”

  Dimitri mulled the question over. At times Ivan felt the woodcutters guarded their speech too much. Each of their words seemed carefully chewed over and pondered. In that way, Feodor was quite unlike Yury, who spontaneously wove countless reasons for just about anything. The more fantastic the reason, the better it suited Yury’s tastes.

  Ivan knew he would fight, if it came to that. Then he recalled Sir Karlo’s hard eyes. Could he stand up against a knight like that? He could try, and perhaps with the aid of Stribog he could do something. But in the end, he dreaded the idea of facing Sir Karlo. If the knight drew his sword, the fight would be short and savage. He, Ivan, would be on the losing end. Even Master Volok would surely fall before Sir Karlo.

  Dimitri cleared his throat. “Magda wishes to avoid a fight. She also wishes, I think, as does Lady Belgorod, to add weight to Petor’s decision.”

  “Huh?”

  “Sir Karlo has traveled far,” Dimitri said after a moment.

  “If Sir Karlo is from Bavaria,” Ivan asked, “what is he really doing at Belgorod Holding?” Ivan didn’t believe the horde of coins story.

  “A good question,” Dimitri said.

  Feodor spoke up. “Yes, I as well have been trying to understand the knight’s true purpose.”

  The three of them crunched through the snow.

  “Maybe,” Dimitri said, “Sir Karlo is really what he says he is: a hunter of relics.”

  Feodor glanced at his father. Ivan caught the look.

  “Maybe it’s time to tell Ivan a tale,” Dimitri said.

  “Can I really tell him?” Feodor asked.

  “Tell me what?” asked Ivan.

  Dimitri smiled. “Tell him,” he said.

  “Last winter,” Feodor began, “Father and I trekked east into the Old Forest.”

  This was news. Few went into the Ol
d Forest, which was situated on the ancient slopes of the inner Carpathians. At night, people whispered bad legends about the olden place. Evil beasts and especially bats were said to haunt it.

  “The winter work was done. Father wished to repay his debt to the Axe People.”

  Ivan stopped, putting his torch near Feodor’s face. He was surprised that Feodor wasn’t laughing. “The Axe People?” Ivan asked, trying to understand the joke.

  Dimitri laid a hand on his shoulder. “Keep walking, lad. Let Feodor tell you the tale. It is the truth.”

  Ivan gazed in amazement at Dimitri’s blunt features. He finally nodded and resumed marching. Throughout the region, Dimitri was known as the most honest man there was.

  Axe People! Goosebumps rose on Ivan’s arms. His stomach felt hollow. It seemed incredible, but Dimitri said they were real. Ivan smiled in spite of himself.

  Feodor cleared his throat. “There are indeed Axe People, Ivan. I’ve seen them. Father met them first. He told me about them, but bade me not to speak about them, not even to Yury or you, although Magda knows the story.” Feodor lowered his voice. “The axe on Father’s shoulder is of their make.”

  Ivan eyed the axe.

  “The metal is better than regular iron,” Feodor said. “It holds a better edge and that for a longer time. Even so, it sharpens more quickly than other axes.”

  “Amazing,” Ivan said. He could hardly believe this. Just how far had the two woodcutters trekked into the Old Forest? And if there were Axe People, why did they keep themselves hidden?

  “Five years ago,” Feodor was saying, “the year my mother died and upon Folkwin’s suggestion, Father trekked into the Old Forest. It time he came upon a band of Axe People, stout folk with long dangling beards that they tucked under their leather belts. Shorter than men, and most especially shorter than you, Ivan, they were still very strong and had wide hands for their size. My Father talked with them for many nights. One night, when clawmen attacked, Father helped them defend the camp. The—”