Chapter Nine

IPPLES OF APPLAUSE SPREAD through the manor house, led by the master himself. The tinker looked at Steven coolly.

“I can see the truth in your story,” lauded the master. “Good Tinker Hamar would have us all believe that dragons are benign and not a serious threat to our villages, our crops, and our families. Your story puts the beast in perspective. They should be hunted down and destroyed.”

“I say the dragons hold no innate malevolence toward humanity,” the tinker clarified. “However, I would also say that they do not brook mockery mildly, nor do they hesitate to defend themselves.”

“I meant no disrespect,” said Steven. “I’m sure the dragon is a noble animal.”

“More so than many nobles you will encounter on the road you have chosen,” the tinker finished. “Good master,” he addressed the lord of the manor, “I thank you once again for your hospitality and trust you have found the story I brought for you to be satisfactory. Steven, your story-debt to me is well-paid.” The tinker seemed much lighter now and Steven ceased fearing he had offended. He, in turn, bade goodnight to the master and followed the tinker back to their camp.

“Are you the real Armand Hamar?” asked Steven excitedly when he caught up to the tinker.

“I am the only one I know by that name, but if you ask for more detail than I have told you about the impossible pot, I must decline to answer. Perhaps it was an ancient ancestor. Certainly you don’t think me so old, do you?”

“Not at all, sir,” Steven replied. “I have enjoyed your company these days and would gladly stay with you and learn more if it were not for my quest.”

“Ah, yes, young dragonslayer. There is always the quest to think of,” Armand responded. “I would, with my advice, give you another gift if I may.”

“I would be a poor guest if I refused the hospitality of my host,” said Steven.

“Well spoken. Be sure you remember that when you find yourself the guest of a dragon,” said the tinker. “Now give me your knife.”

Steven was surprised at the request, but pulled his knife from his belt nonetheless and handed it to the tinker. The tinker rummaged in the back of his wagon and pulled out a whetting stone. He drew Steven’s knife along it slowly, then more quickly. Steven watched in fascination as the man sharpened his knife for him.

But the tinker was not satisfied with merely sharpening the blade. He unwrapped a small leather pouch and withdrew several pointed instruments. By the light of the fire the tinker worked to engrave the blade of the knife as Steven watched silently fascinated.

The tinker handed Steven a hand bellows and had him stoke the coals in the fire as the tinker held the blade in the fire until it turned red, then blue, and then white hot. Much to Steven’s horror, the tinker then removed the knife from the fire and plunged the blade into a pail of cold water.

“My knife!” Steven exclaimed as the steam rose from the bucket. “It will be broken!”

“Never fear,” the tinker said. “I promised you a gift, not to take away your defense.” He pulled the blade from the water and wiped it down with a soft oiled cloth. “Unlike iron, good steel is tempered by the flames and becomes stronger with a plunge into the water.” He held the knife out to Steven. “Steven George, dragonslayer, wear this knife at your belt and display it with as much pride as you do that hat and it will one day save your life.”

Steven accepted the gift and looked at the engraving on the steel. What he took at first for a snake proved to have wings and flame burst from its nose. The bluing that the tinker had wiped on the blade made it glow in the firelight.

Steven had never owned anything so beautiful, nor had he ever thought to.

“I will treasure this always,” Steven said. “Perhaps people will start asking for the story of this wonderful knife instead of my ridiculous hat.”

“You will do yourself a favor to keep telling the story of the hat,” the tinker responded.

Camp was cold and empty when Steven awoke in the morning. There was no sign of the tinker, his cart, or his donkey. The market flags were gone and what people Steven saw were distant even when he was near them. He ate sparingly of the food he had been given for travel at the manor the evening before, shouldered his pack, and started up the long road ahead.

Two hundred sixty-eight thousand seventy-five. Two hundred sixty-eight thousand seventy-six. Steven soon settled into his long one hundred step per minute stride and was amazed that his time with the tinker had allowed him to acclimate to the altitude. He breathed more easily and the rise of the road no longer slowed his stride like it had when he first entered the mountains. He continued to gain height, however, and had gone only two hundred ninety thousand two hundred forty steps when he stopped for the night and huddled by his campfire in the cold mountain air.

The road was broad, but grass and weeds had begun to grow up in the center. Steven met no other travelers coming toward the manor after he had passed the few outlying farms. The world was still and cold. This pattern continued for two more days and Steven found that the air was so cold in the mornings that he could see his breath, and at one curving of the trail he actually saw snow caught in a crevice of the rocks.

But when Steven had traveled three hundred forty-nine thousand one hundred eight steps toward the dragon, his journey was brought to an abrupt halt. The road he had been traveling ended abruptly at a long, wide, clear lake. Steven tested the water with his fingers and immediately decided that entering this lake like he had entered the river with Ranihaha was out of the question. His finger turned blue with the cold of the water in an instant. Puzzled by the sudden turn of events, Steven could not figure out why an apparently well-traveled road would have no travelers on it and end abruptly at a massive body of water. He was ready to camp for the night when he heard a melody whistled off in the bushes to his right.

“Ho there!” Steven called. “Does someone come through the forest?”

“Ho yourself,” called a voice. “Who comes interrupting my melody?” Steven was taken aback. It did not sound like a particularly friendly greeting. He stood firm and strung his bow as he called back.

“It is Steven George, the dragonslayer,” he called back. “If you be man or beast, come show yourself by the water’s edge.” Steven had nocked an arrow and held the bow at the ready looking into the woods. He heard a rustle in the bushes and drew the bow.

“What do you see there?” whispered a voice beneath his elbow. “Is there a dangerous beast?” Steven nearly shot himself in the foot as he lowered the bow and swung to see beside him a very small man leaning on a very large axe.

“What, er… who are you?” Steven sputtered.

“I’m Upik the woodcutter,” the little man answered. “And don’t tell me you thought I was a dragon. My breath is as sweet as clover.”

“I just was surprised,” Steven answered. “And I thought… well, I didn’t know what to think. I haven’t seen anyone in three days and now the road I have traveled ends at this lake and I shall have to go back and find where I turned off the wrong way.”

“Ah, well that would be easy,” said Upik the woodcutter. “You must have taken the high road back at the manor of Master Borgia. It’s an easy mistake to make, but you’ll put it to rights by just going back to the manor and taking the low road out of town.”

“But,” said Steven, “that is eighty-one thousand thirty-four steps. That way,” he added.

“You are one of those, are you?” the woodcutter muttered. “Can only go forward. It’s a hard world if you can’t go back.”

“Yes, it is,” Steven answered. “Is there another way to go? A path around the lake, perhaps?”

“Well, now that you ask,” grumbled the woodcutter, “I suppose Rayna would have my beard if I didn’t take you on. Come with me.” The little man led Steven off the path and on the other side of the bushes Steven saw a small boat anchored just out of sight from the end of the path.

“The water is too cold to pull a raft across,” Steven said.

“I’ve no intention of getting in the water,” the woodcutter said, getting in the boat and laying his axe on the bottom. “Get in.” Steven stepped gingerly into the boat, it rocked and he fell to his knees grasping the gunwales.

“That’s it,” said the woodcutter. “Stay low and hang on.” He dipped his oars into the water and with a powerful pull dislodged the boat from the sandy bottom and they floated out into the lake. The little man’s powerful strokes made the boat glide rapidly to the center of the lake and then past to the other side. Steven frantically counted the strokes, but as with the floating in the river and the thumping of the staff, he soon gave up counting anything that wasn’t one foot in front of the other. He was three hundred forty-nine thousand one hundred twenty-one steps from home across the lake and across the river. He knew exactly where he was.

When the bottom of the boat scraped along the bottom of the opposite shore, Steven was able to jump from the boat and only splash a bit of water on his boots. He helped the woodcutter pull the boat to shore and then followed him to a pleasant little cottage where the woodsmoke from the chimney spoke of warmth and the pleasant smell of cooking promised nourishment. When they entered the cottage, Upik called out. “Rayna, we have company.”

A woman as tall and thin as the woodcutter was short and stocky emerged from behind the fireplace. She was bright and welcoming while Upik continued to grumble and point Steven to a place where he could put his pack down.

“I’ve already set a place,” said Rayna. “Saw you coming across the lake with Upik,” she smiled. I suppose you are hungry aren’t you? We’ve a good stew tonight.”

Steven inhaled deeply of the tantalizing aroma. “It smells wonderful,” he answered. The three sat down to eat and Steven told them why he was on this journey.

“A dragon?” Rayna said. “My my. Upik, there hasn’t been a dragon in these mountains in what? Fifty years? Maybe more. How did you ever come to be up here?”

“Took the high road instead of the low road,” Upik muttered.

“Well, it’s lucky you found us,” said Rayna.

“Why does the path simply end at the lake?” Steven asked. “Is there no path around?”

“Now that’s an interesting story,” said Rayna, anxious to start in at once.

“Just a moment,” Upik interrupted. “How do we know this dragonslayer has any stories worth trading? He doesn’t seem to know much.”

“Oh, I’d be happy to trade stories,” said Steven. “I’ve many very good stories.”

“Well, suppose you tell us the story of that fine feathered hat you wear,” suggested Rayna. “I’d certainly like to know that story.” In a few moments they had agreed to swap stories and Rayna was ready to tell her story to Steven.

The Underwater Well

NCE UPON A TIME, not so very long ago for those with a good memory, and not so very far away for those who have strong legs to carry them, there lived kind Prince Florian who ruled this land with care and the people prospered under his rule. But people do not live forever, and in due course, kind Prince Florien and his wife passed to the grave and their foolish son, Prince Gavril came to power.

As kind as Prince Florien had been, Prince Gavrel was cruel. Where Prince Florien had been generous, Prince Gavrel was greedy. The people of the land suffered under the burden of his taxes and even the crops in the fields seemed to wither.

Not only was Prince Gavril greedy, he was also foolish. Whenever he heard of a treasure to be had, he sent an army to fetch it for him. If a neighboring prince prospered, Gavrel made war against him. Soon the tiny principality was surrounded by enemies. These enemies met in secret conference together to determine what to do about the wicked prince. They had no desire to waste their people in war, so they kept their prosperity secret. But the threat still loomed over them and they devised a clever plan.

One day a stranger traveled to Prince Gavril’s castle. The stranger was neither young nor old, rich nor poor. He asked a simple traveler’s comfort at the castle. At first Prince Gavril was ready to turn him away, for he was not a hospitable prince. But the stranger said, “Perhaps the prince would be interested in this small token of gratitude that I bring from my people.” With that, the stranger presented a golden goblet to the prince.

Prince Gavril was awed by the workmanship of the goblet. He had never seen such a thing of beauty in his life. But more importantly, he was impressed by the value of the gold from which it was made. He had already made plans to melt it down and make new coins with his own picture on them as he invited the stranger in.

Thinking himself very clever indeed, Prince Gavril set a great feast for the stranger and plied him with wine late into the night; for Prince Gavril was certain that where one such fine piece of gold came from there would certainly be more. He asked the stranger his name and where he came from.

“I am Wullion of the Skulhellitans,” said the stranger. “My people share this same land with you, noble prince. But while you walk on its surface, we walk in its depths.” At these words, the prince was incensed. How dare another people share his land and not pay him taxes? But keeping his anger to himself, Prince Gavril plied Wullion with more wine and questions about his land. Wullion held up a dinner plate before the prince.

“Suppose this is the Principality of Gavril,” began Wullion with a suppressed belch, “begging Your Highness’s pardon. Now on this side of the plate is where your castle is built. Your people plant and harvest all around you. There are mountains and rivers. But on the other side of the plate is the Kingdom of Skulhellita. We, too, have a castle with a ruler; but where you have rivers that run with water, our rivers run with gold. Where your people plant crops of wheat and corn, our people plant crops of diamonds and rubies.”

“I should like to pay my respects to your king,” Prince Gavril said. “How might I journey to your amazing land?”

“Ah,” said Wullion, “did not your father, Prince Florian, tell you this secret? We wondered why we had not had the grace of your presence in our kingdom in all these years since your father died.”

Now Prince Gavril was truly upset that his father had never told him about the wealthy kingdom that lay beneath the soil of his own. No wonder his father had rich crops in the fields and food on the table, while the crops in Gavril’s principality withered in the fields. His father had always had access to the wealth of Skulhellita!

“The crossing is made between our lands at only two seasons of the year,” Wullion continued his story. “At the time of the last harvest of autumn before the frost has taken the ground and at the last planting of spring when the crops first begin to sprout, the gates between our worlds become thin and it is easy to pass between them. I myself have journeyed on this side of the plate,” Wullion said, pointing to the top, “since the planting in the spring, and now I am preparing to return as the frost is nipping lower in the hills.”

“I would return with you,” Prince Gavril said. “To pay my respects,” he hastily added. “Where is this gate?”

“Why the gate is right here in the castle!” exclaimed Wullion, amazed at Gavril’s lack of knowledge. “The passage is in the main well, and the gate is open early in the morning.”

Gavril was ecstatic at this information. He bade his guest goodnight and gave him the best room in the castle. Then he went to prepare his soldiers for an attack on the underground kingdom in the morning. He worked furiously all night preparing the troops and at the first light of dawn he rapped lightly on Wullion’s door to awaken him for the journey.

There was no answer.

Prince Gavril opened the door and to his surprise found the room unused, the bed unslept in. Wullion had gone without him.

Gavril went instantly into war mode and sent his first troops down the well. They reported back that they found no gateway to another kingdom. Gavril himself went down the well and found now gateway. But he was determined to find the underground kingdom, so he ordered his troops to start digging around the well.

The troops dug a hole around the well, and then under Gavril’s scourge enlarged the hole to include the well. He sent more and more soldiers into the hole, making it larger and larger until the hole covered the entire courtyard and dirt, thrown over the walls was piled as high as the castle gates. But still, Gavril found no gate to the underworld. He went to bed that night seething at how his opportunity had escaped.

When the Prince and his army awoke in the morning, they found that the hole they had dug was full of water. The prince ordered the hole to be filled in, but the dirt from the hole had been thrown over the walls. When he sent the soldiers out of the castle to get the dirt, they found the castle gates blocked by the piles they had so carelessly discarded. They were sealed into the castle by their own engineering.

And still the water rose.

Gavril moved to the second floor of his palace, but in the morning, the water covered the floor in his bedchamber. He moved to the top tower of the castle and locked the doors so that the soldiers could not join him in the tiny chamber. And still the water rose.

The soldiers seeing that their prince had abandoned them, in their turn abandoned the prince and jumped from the castle walls onto the piles of dirt. Those who survived decided not to remove the dirt from in front of the castle gates, but rather to flee the principality and its foolish prince. The people of the principality, seeing the soldiers flee, followed them and soon only the prince was left in his high tower surrounded by water.

And still the water rose.

The surrounding rulers accepted the fleeing soldiers and peasants into their lands and provided for them. But they sealed the Principality of Gavril in its valley. After many months, those traveling the road to Gavril found they were blocked by an immense lake and could see no trace of the castle that had been the last home of the last prince in the valley.

That lake is the lake you have crossed this day.

Chapter 8
Chapter 10