The Dragon Bone, Chapter 3

Faelan’s aching body streamed sweat, his right hand gripped the leather wrapped hilt of a long sword and his left hand held a round shield across his chest. His arms felt too heavy to hold the weapons any longer. The sun dipped towards the sea at his back as he measured the powerful warrior-teacher (wet nurse, his father has said) he faced. Where was the chink in the big man’s defense? Bradan squinted against the glare of the setting sun and smiled at the prince as he lunged. Good. With the onslaught of twilight the lesson would be over. Time to make a last impression on his teacher.

Steel clanged on steel, sending harsh, alien sounds rolling over the deserted stretch of beach, as they dueled ferociously, circling again and again inside a large circle gouged in the deep sand. Sword and shield whirled and blocked, grunts and gasps escaping from both men as each tried to penetrate the other’s defenses or disarm their opponent.

Both wore full armor of linked chain, breastplate and helmet. The winter sun heated the metal skin until Faelan was sure his body roasted like a fine fowl in one of the women’s cook pots. With the sinking sun, the heat lessened, but not by much.

For the last nineteen months Faelan had trained with real weapons. Although blunted, they were still capable of inflicting a serious injury. One’s mind must be far from irritating thoughts, like heat, when fighting for one’s life.

Finally Bradan jumped backwards and hollered, “Enough!” He grinned from ear to ear as he threw down his shield, sheathed his sword and moved towards the panting heir to the Wolf Kin. Faelan doubled over and rested on the edge of his shield, sucking in great gasps of air.

“You’ve done well in two years, Faelan. Too well, some might say. This island has been a good place for you to grow and learn the skills of a warrior. You have thrived here, my Prince.” Bradan wiped his dripping face with his hand. “Come, let us be rid of the sweat!”

They hauled off their armor and ran into the cold, salty water. Both muscular men’s skin showed streaks of dirt where rivulets of perspiration marked paths on the dusty bodies. With a whoop, Faelan and Bradan dove beneath the gentle waves in unison. The cold slap of the sea burned their hot skin and stole their breath.

Faelan dived for Bradan’s kicking legs and flipped the older man into the sea. As he broke water for a quick breath, Bradan grabbed a handful of Faelan’s light hair and pushed his head under the waves. After a long count, he pulled the youth’s head from the water. He sputtered and spit as he cleared his mouth and gasped for breath. With a shove, Bradan released the prince and dove, kicking his powerful legs and sending him far away from Faelan’s grasping hands.

Bradan watched as the prince ducked beneath the water after him, arching his supple back like a dolphin in play. With two kicks of his long legs, the youth appeared beside the older man, wrapping his arms around Bradan’s hard stomach, pulling him under.

“Mercy, my prince! Enough,” the man said, holding up his hands in surrender. “I must catch my breath. This old body wasn’t meant for frolicking in the water like the fishes!”

“Ha! Fishes, is it?” Faelan loosened his hold on his mentor for a moment, and Bradan was gone, as quick and sleek as an eel. Faelan laughed and followed his teacher into shore.

On the beach, the two sprawled out on a near dune to let the warm, winter sea breeze dry their skin. Neither was in a hurry to don their sweaty clothing and head back to the settlement. They wouldn’t be missed for a time yet, not until after the blue star rose in the dusky twilight sky.

Bradan looked at the lean youth beside him. Faelan would never be a large man, like his father the king, but there was strength in the powerful leg and back muscles. The leanness lent to the young prince a supple quickness in weapons training that would be hard to defend against in battle.

Battle. Ah, that was the sticking point. When would the king, Oengus, allow his son to put away the toys of a lad and arm himself with something more than a dulled blade? Bradan sighed heavily and looked out over the beach at the incoming fog lying on the water like a woolen blanket.

As if reading his mentor’s thoughts, Faelan rolled onto his belly. “I did well today. You didn’t knock my blade to the ground once. When will he see I am grown, Bradan? You know him better than most. When will he trust me?”

“The king is a deep man, prince. His loss is great. Give him time.”

“It has been nearly four years since Erlic stole the throne, and my mother was killed. How much time does he need? Can he not see I love my brothers as little as he does?” The impatience and hurt in the young voice tore at Bradan’s heart like a dagger.

“I would honor my father with deeds. I would bring glory to the name of the Wolf Kin. But here, on this little island, safe from all but the sea and wind and sand, how can I prove myself to my king? I can not defeat Erlic and Horlen and return the king to his throne unless I get some real experience against a foe that will truly test my skills.”

Faelan threw a handful of sand at an offending swatch of grass.

“In the homeland you should have journeyed to the mountains and sought out the Shadow Wolf two winters ago,” Bradan agreed. “To bring back its head and pelt would have shown you to be a man of great strength and courage.” The older man shook his head and continued, “But here there are no mountains âÂ?¦ no Shadow Wolf except your father. Here you must prove you are a man by other means.”

“How?”

Years of pent up frustration and anguish reverberated in the simple question.

The two companions were silent as they contemplated the dilemma. The problem was familiar to both men, for different reasons. Faelan, being the heir to the kingship, must prove himself to his future followers, as well as his father, or he would never make a strong king. If they had any hope of returning to the homeland, he and the young men had to be tested and taught the skills of warriors. Could a newborn cub command the respect of a full-grown wolf?

Somehow he must show his father that he was more than the youngest son, taught by sages and scribes, that Oengus remembered from the homeland. In this new land of great changes and beginnings, Faelan was the only son of the king; the prince and heir of the Wolf Kin – a man trained in the ancient weapons and skilled in their use. But how to prove it with no enemies nigh, and no pelt to bring home? The uselessness of it made him angry.

Bradan, on the other hand, was painfully aware of Faelan’s problem, but knew it was more than just one youth’s fight to gain recognition. All the young warriors training and coming of age needed a ritual, similar to the killing of the Shadow Wolf, to prove themselves. Without it, they would never believe themselves the equal of proven warriors; never have the confidence in battle that might save them from death. Although there were no war ships off the coast ready to disgorge enemies, the island held its own dangers and the need for brave fighters was still real, especially if they were to return the throne to its rightful king.

The ex-helmsman chewed his bottom lip in thought. There were just too many people mysteriously disappearing for it to be coincidence. There was some unknown danger here in this seeming paradise, but as yet they were unable to put a face or name to it. In the two years the Wolf Kin had lived on the island, eleven people had been lost. No bodies; just people gone. They couldn’t all be dropping off cliffs into the sea below!

“Well,” said Bradan as he stood and brushed sand from his legs and back, trying to shake the subject of missing Kin and the warrior testing from his mind, “what will you do tomorrow?”

“Why, train with you, of course.”

“Not tomorrow. I have taught you all I can with blunted weapons. What you now need is practical experience, and that I cannot give you. So, again, what will you do tomorrow?”

He smiled at the look of mingled joy and astonishment on the young face. The smile split into a wide grin as Faelan jumped up and did a dance around Bradan, his feet sending sprays of fine sand flying in the soft, balmy breeze. Coming to an abrupt halt, he looked his teacher in the eye with something akin to fear reflected in his own.

“My father will be angry; say I need more schooling.” The disappointment in his voice hung heavy in the air.

Bradan turned to pick up his discarded clothing and armor. “I will speak with your father tonight,” he said through the stiff cloth of his tunic. His head emerged from the garment and he continued, “I will suggest he give you a man’s sword and spear. He cannot put off your coming of age, any more than the mountain snows can withstand the thaw.”

Faelan was silent as he donned his tunic and leggings, picked up his weapons and followed his mentor down the trail that led to the settlement, within the ruined stones of an ancient village.

“As far as the testing matter is concerned,” continued Bradan, “I will speak with Oengus and we will consider the problem. He is a good man, Faelan. He just resists the necessity of change. Give him time, my prince,” he repeated quietly in the night.

The silent men walked the rest of the distance to the settlement in easy companionship; two compatriots bound to each other with more than just the need to solve a single puzzle. A fleet deer bounded across the trail and the blue star rose slowly in the twilight sky. High on a rock-sharp cliff, the mist covered the battlements of a tall black tower like a delicate shawl on the shoulders of an ancient grandmother. The surf played around the cliff’s ankles and threw a challenge into the night.

Soon Faelan thought. Soon his destiny would tap him on the shoulder. He needed to be ready, had to be ready. Soon, the despicable brothers would regret their evil overthrow, and he would be ready to take his revenge.

~ * ~

The boat smelled of fish. In fact, thought Faelan, the whole world seemed to sink of fish!

The sun beat down on his unprotected head as his small vessel tossed and dipped on the restless sea. The bottom contained about three inches of water, in which swam and wiggled fish of varied sizes. Four hours’ work had provided him with enough food to supplement the settlement’s supper.

With the day’s quota filled, Faelan had most of the afternoon to do what he would. Of course, no one had expected him to find so many vetta fish so soon, and none would be looking for him for hours yet. The waters off the Tower Reef proved to be a veritable spawning ground for the plump, blue fish, which had become so important to the settlement’s survival.

For the past hour or so, Faelan had been contemplating the tall black tower peering down at him from a cliff, as he automatically hauled in fish with his small net without any conscious effort. The Tower was decrepit and falling apart, and off limits to all, per order of the king. But it drew Faelan constantly. There was hardly a waking moment when he didn’t feel the pull of the tall building. It was almost as if he belonged there; would find something very important and dear to him there. Even his dreams were over-shadowed by the black Tower.

Well, he’d had enough fishing for one day. Since his intense training with Bradan had stopped, his time spent trading blows had been replaced by mundane chores. Yesterday it had been farming, and the day before, herding the cattle and sheep. Goddess! How he hated running after those dumb, stupid beasts! But, although boring, it was far more preferable to be sitting in the boat fishing than running around the island after stray mutton. They were so stupid they would run right off the cliffs if not watched over.

Oengus had reluctantly agreed that Bradan had taught the prince all he could. Long days learning tactics and swordplay had come to an end, although every fighter on the island was expected to show up in the practice yard and put in two hours of work each day. Faelan preferred the early morning hours when it was still cool. It also left the whole day free to do other things.

When Oengus summoned his son, two days after the session on the beach, Faelan had been filled with expectation and dread. This was no ordinary meeting of his father over the supper table, or between comings and goings. Oengus had formally announced the forthcoming audience before all the Kin at the evening’s feast. All knew the significance of such a summons; the king was to bestow the weapons of manhood on the prince.

Bradan helped the youth dress for the most important moment in his short life. The white woolen tunic he placed over Faelan’s head was bare of any design, like a clean sheet of parchment waiting for the words, which would shape the rest of his life. His leather leggings were new and stiff, and as he walked they chaffed his thighs and calves.

“Don’t tremble so, my prince,” said Bradan as he belted a thick and sturdy scabbard around the thin waist, the leather worked in the design of great Shadow Wolves in different poses – some in play, some charging, other in repose. The scabbard hung empty, ready to receive the sword the king would bestow to his heir. It was strangely light at Faelan’s hip, causing him to walk with a rolling gait as he tried to compensate for a weight that wasn’t there.

The torchlight, as he stepped into the circle of waiting people, glowed on the swords and shields of the veteran warriors. The flickering light threw strange shadows over the ground and on the bodies of the assembled group. The only sound was of the waves breaking on the rocks, and the eerie moans and whistles from the hundreds of caverns and pitted cliffs. The otherwise heavy silence screamed in Faelan’s ears. Here at last was the event for which he had awaited most of his life, and all he could think of was that his stomach rolled and knotted, and he hoped he didn’t embarrass himself by throwing up his dinner.

He glanced around the circle at some of the youths his own age, all of whom had made this same walk two or more years ago. He tried to swallow the shame and anger he felt. It was close to insult that his father had delayed this ceremony, which should have taken place when he was fifteen or sixteen, not nineteen.

To be fair, his father had had some valid reasons for putting off this night. Faelan, being the third son of the Wolf Kin king, had been trained only slightly in weapons. It had seemed inevitable that he would be a scholar, maybe even a healer. The young prince had been tutored by scribes and learned men from an early age. His future as a great and wise counselor for the king was assured. Until, that is, Erlic, oldest son and heir to the throne, along with the second born, Horlen, had taken the throne by force.

Queen Aindle, Faelan’s mother, had been killed during the long battle, and some of the life seemed to leave the king at her loss and the betrayal of his sons. The two brothers were merciless, but hesitated against taking their own father’s life, or the life of their half-brother. Oengus had been offered exile or death.

For his part, Oengus would have gladly chosen death over the humiliation and shame of his sons’ coup, but there were families of loyal retainers and servants who depended on him to provide shelter and respite from the death and desolation the brothers would wreak if his protection were withheld. Oengus, along with his youngest son, Faelan, who was too young to be mixed up in court politics, gathered his loyal people and set sail, one month after his disposition, in five small ships. The royal brothers had agreed to each family taking provisions for their new home, however, their charity fell short of equipping the vessels properly.

But Faelan vowed the Kin’s time in exile would be put to good use. Someday, he would lead a strong and powerful force against the brothers, and Oengus would reclaim his throne.

So here he was, three years after his brothers’ takeover, being given the weapons of a man. The face of his father shone stern and unreadable in the flickering torchlight. Was he remembering the nights he conferred the same honor to his older sons? Was he wary this last son would try to wrest his kingship away from him? Faelan longed to reassure his stiff and unyielding parent of his loyalty, and dreamed of the time when it could be accomplished with more than mere words.

Oengus hugged his son in the ritual embrace after Bradan had presented him as candidate, then stepped back and picked up a long bundle of white woolen material. Slowly the king opened the folds and laid bare to the firelight a long sword of superb workmanship. A gasp escaped from the crowd as the settlement recognized Oengus’ personal sword.

Bradan’s iron grip on his shoulder reminded the stunned prince that he must kneel, swear his oath of allegiance, and accept the weapon from his liege. Faelan’s mind was in a whirl as he received the sword from his father’s hands and reverently kissed the blade before sliding it into its sheath. Oengus stepped forward and helped his son to his feet. Then, taking Faelan’s left hand in his right, Oengus raised his arm and turned to the assembled company.

“Behold Faelan, Shadow Wolf Kin Prince, heir to the throne, and my son! As of this night he shall be called warrior and be accorded all honor due that title.”

Turning to his son, the king embraced him once again and said, “May you fight with the wisdom and cunning of the Shadow Wolf. And may your life be long and blessed by the Goddess.”

The formal words and solemn tone held no trace of the pride Faelan hoped to hear in his father’s voice. The young man’s heart sank lower with every syllable. Someday, his father would be proud of him. Someday soon. It was done.

“His sword, Bradan,” said Faelan in wonderment as the two left the circle and walked back to the settlement. “He gave me his own sword! Why?”

The young man’s emotion-packed voice spoke low and for Bradan’s ears only. His blue eyes glistened with moisture as they searched his mentor’s face for an answer.

“It was time. Giving you the king’s own sword will silence those among us who might wonder at the relations between the two of you. Now none can say Oengus trusts not his remaining son and should look elsewhere for an heir.”

At Faelan’s surprised glance, he continued, “As the eagle shares the sky with a vulture, so too, this island holds more than loyal followers. If you are truly a man, it is time you realized ambition can drive a man harder than loyalty.”

~ * ~

Faelan came awake suddenly as the small boat banged against a large rock formation barely visible above the waves. The fishing vessel had drifted perilously close to the rock-studded island of the Tower. The tall dark form loomed silently above him, its shadow hiding the sun. He sat in the wave-tossed boat for a few moments staring at the mysterious building. Why was it there? Who built it? What secrets did it hold? His curiosity demanded to be satisfied!

He set the oarlocks and turned the boat towards the lowest rocky shore. There was no safe landing at the foot of the cliffs, he had scouted that area out months ago. He would have to drop the anchor in the tiny bay and climb the cliff from the in-land route. There used to be a well-worn track or road leading to the tower, but it had been unused for ages. All that was left was a thin, weed covered trail.

Fifteen minutes of hard work brought the boat to rest in the shadow of the tower and cliff. Faelan covered the vessel with an old tarp to keep the sun and flies off his catch. He had no intention of letting the camp’s supper spoil while he chased old ghosts.

He climbed out of the boat and up the rocks, then followed the trail closely, feeling somewhat off balance. He missed the usual weight at his side where his sword normally hung. Only a mad man brings a sword fishing, but still, he wished for its reassuring presence. He felt foolish as he bent to pick up a heavy piece of driftwood. Maybe he was an old woman with worries, but it felt better to have something more than a dagger in his hand as he approached the forbidden tower.

From a distance he could see that the door could only be reached after climbing a set of stone stairs that wrapped around the tower like vines around a sapling. The steps were steep and narrow, and in some places, age had eaten into them, signs of crumbling decay evident as he drew near.

The roar of pounding waves, throwing themselves at the feet of the cliff crashed and boomed in his ears. Birds wheeled above in the afternoon sky, but their lonesome cries could not be heard. The sun had burned away the ever-present mist in a rare demonstration of its power, and the spray-drenched stones of the tower glistened defiantly like a torn slash of black in the blue fabric of the sky.

He stood at the bottom of the stairs and tilted his head back to look at the door. It seemed to be made of heavy wood, maybe oak, and banded with metal. It fit snuggly in a stone lintel. There looked to be an iron knocker in the center of the door, but at this distance he could not be sure, nor determine its design.

The stone steps were covered with moss and looked treacherous. They measured about three feet long and twelve inches deep. The granite they had been fashioned from was worn in places and crumbling with age in others. The scouting party the king had sent to explore the tower soon after they had first arrived at their new home had lost a man when he tumbled into the sea when a decayed step gave way. They were slick with dampness, as were the sides of the tower. Climbing these stairs was going to prove an adventure in itself.

Faelan grasped the driftwood club in his left hand and placed his right hand on the cool, wet tower wall. Progress up the stairs was slow and dangerous. Twice his foot slipped and he nearly plunged to the rocks below. He only managed to keep his balance by the precarious finger holds the stonewall and the dubious support of the club. The steps wound around the base of the tower and ended at the giant oak door, thirty-five feet above the cliff’s edge.

The huge iron knocker, upon close inspection, was unadorned of any design. It was also solidly rusted in place. The door appeared to be made to open into the tower; there was no handle or latch on the outside.

The sound of the surf boomed distant and remote; the rhythmic waves merged with the pumping of his heart and the racing of his pulse in his ears. He felt as if the purpose for his whole being was to push open this door and enter a life totally different from his present routine.

Applying a small amount of pressure on the door with his shoulder, Faelan felt the heavy obstacle give slightly and then stick fast. His left foot slipped and almost slid off the small entryway. He grabbed the metal ring before he went over the side. His stomach flipped and dropped as his heart banged against his chest. Switching the club to his right hand, he leaned his left shoulder into the wooden door with all his weight behind it, using the club for leverage. With a scream of rusty hinges, he fought the door open to about ten inches; the wooden monster refused to budge further.

Faelan peered into the gloom of the poorly lit chamber, then squeezed his trim body through the opening and stood in a small vestibule, paneled in worm-eaten wood, with a stone floor. The small room was approximately six feet by five feet wide. A door to the right beckoned to the inquisitive youth.

Muffling a sneeze from the dust his feet kicked up, he approached the door slowly. This one was rather smaller from the one he just entered, and it had a badly tarnished brass doorknob. Grasping the knob in his left hand, Faelan eased the door open and stepped into a very large, open room. The immediate impression he received was that he was peering into the heart of a living rainbow. His breath echoed in the vast emptiness of a great hall bathed in a dazzling and endless spectrum of light. The unexpectedness of the glowing room stunned him for a moment. Blinking repeatedly, Faelan tried to make sense of what he saw.

Looking up, he gasped as a kaleidoscope of brilliant, multi-colored light threw beams of glorious hues into the room with abandon, casting the vast room with a warm glow that beckoned to be inspected and explained. The entire ceiling appeared to be a huge stained glass window depicting âÂ?¦ actually he wasn’t sure what the window depicted. His eyes could not make sense of all the color and light. He closed his eyes and tried to rub the glare away. He stepped cautiously into the room and looked about.

Narrow arrow slits in the walls allowed for a small amount of afternoon sun to filter into the room, catching dust motes and cobwebs in its revealing beams, but the regular sunlight could not stand against the glorious colors of the ceiling. Everything in the hall, including the dust and motes, seemed washed with the brilliant hues. The hall obviously had been used for banquets and important meetings, as witness to the intricately carved tables, chairs and benches.

A splash of color, different than the rainbow light, on the eastern wall caught his attention. A dull and faded painting of what he thought might be a night sky peeked out beneath hundreds of years’ neglect. Drawn by the unusualness of the painting, Faelan stepped towards the design for a closer examination.

He leaned the club against the wall and brushed at the thick layer of dirt and cobwebs. The uncounted years’ accumulation of neglect fell away in a cloud of dust, causing a fit of coughing. Behind the grime revealed a fresco of exquisite workmanship – a design vaguely familiar, yet excitingly new and fresh. A thought pricked his memory for a moment then disintegrated before he could completely grasp it, like the cobwebs he brushed away. This was it; this was what he was meant to see.

Slowly, he lowered himself onto the thick carpet of dust and hugged his knees to his chin. His eyes roamed every detail of the mosaic, every brush stroke the artist had lovingly made. The images looked to be as fresh and bright as the day they had been painted. Who was the artist? Why had such a glorious room and picture been abandoned? Who had lived here?

After a while, Faelan stretched out on the dirty floor and studied the colorful beams of light and the unique ceiling from which the rainbows came. How could such a delicate and beautiful ceiling have survived the long years without damage? What was the purpose of such a piece of art in the middle of nowhere? Was there a purpose? He supposed it could have been created just for the love of beauty, but he had a strong feeling there was purpose behind it. He felt the need to work out this puzzle �

The sun sank lower into the sea, but the prince remained transfixed and without thought of his waiting father and the Wolf Kin. It seemed to him as if the tower and hall had been waiting for him, and now rested on its foundation like a lovely old lady settling in for a cozy chat.