"Dun is lazy," complained Broant.
"Once he was," said Oroke. "As were you."
"He is weak, then."
"And no less your brother."
Broant scowled at this. Dun was neither his brother by blood nor by marriage. But Oroke meant that he and Dun were born the same year and had grown up together.
Something had happened to Dun, though, when they began to come of age. Something had happened to his spirit. Dun had a beard and the body of a man by about the same time as Broant had. But while Broant's courage had blossomed along with his greater physical strength and height, Dun's had seemed to wither. He was always slumped hollow-eyed next to a wall, or crouching in the shade. He did not smile often and seemed to never raise his voice. He retired to bed early, yet slept late. And the way he walked, shambling and shuffling as if half-dead -- it was frankly embarrassing. And so Broant began to distance himself from Dun, and even, with other boys, to make sport of him at times.
Which was why Oroke was now having a private talk with Broant. And Broant was listening, because Oroke was an enormous bull of a man and a dragonslayer besides.
"It is because he is weak," continued Oroke, "that you should especially keep his company. He needs you more."
Broant said nothing.
Oroke's good eye looked him over. "Where did you get your strength?" he asked. "Did you find it in the mountains? In the woods? If so, you should tell Dun where to find some as well."
Broant looked at the ground and waited.
Oroke sighed. "Broant, your strength is a gift but it is not yours alone. You are part of this village and so is Dun. If he is born weak, then you should protect him; and if you have learned strength, you should teach him."
"I've tried," began Broant, "but -- "
"I say you have not tried hard enough," said Oroke. He lifted his eye patch and displayed his ruined eye, lost in the dragon hunt seven years ago. "Where are your scars?"
"I don't understand," mumbled Broant.
Oroke let the eye patch drop back in place. "You have not tried anything hard enough yet to leave a mark on you," he explained, rising to his feet and walking away.
To his credit, Broant thought about what Oroke said for a long time. Oroke had not denied that Dun was weak, but had made Broant understand that Dun deserved the protection of the village. He could see now that it had been wrong to bully him. He resolved on the spot not to do that any more, and to stop it when he saw it. The resolution made him feel better. He always did what he resolved.
But the other responsibility that Oroke had laid on him was more troubling. Teach Dun courage and strength? Broant was not sure that those could be learned, like a song. One didn't learn how to have dark hair or light hair. If a child was afraid of something, like thunder, and he was old enough, you could explain to him that the thunder itself was not actually dangerous. If he was still afraid... Broant did not know what else could be said to the child. Sometimes you could shame a child into displaying courage. They learned to control their fear in order to gain respect, or to keep from losing it. But certainly this strategy had already been tried with Dun.
Broant decided at length to help Dun train. Perhaps the problem was a lack of confidence: if Dun had more mastery of the warrior skills, it might fan the flames of his spirit. Dun agreed, and seemed grateful. And so they began to meet twice a week in a meadow hidden by trees and brush from the rest of the village. This was Broant's idea. He told himself that it was to protect Dun from the curiosity of the others, but in fact Broant was also interested in the privacy. If Dun failed, then Broant might share in some of the failure as well.
Broant drilled Dun in everything he could think of: jousting, horseback attacks on stationary targets, how to deflect blows using one's armor, and hand-to-hand combat with swords of all lengths. What came to annoy Broant as the lessons continued was the way that Dun seemed to approach fighting as a chore of some kind. Broant knew that a great deal of his own power in combat was the way that he became caught up in the battle, how he felt its heat. It was this feeling that made his sword an extension of his arm, and the reason that his blows seemed to originate from his heart and travel outward. From experience he knew that this kind of fighting was the most effective. Yes, practice was important, and Broant didn't despise practice. But part of what he practiced was the cultivation of that feeling, that sense of being sharpened. If a battle was a bonfire, then practice drills were the laying of the right kind of wood in the right shape, but that feeling was the fire itself. Dun seemed to have almost no experience of it.
Broant tried to explain to Dun, after they had finished a clash with short swords and shields. "Dun," he shouted, "don't flinch when my sword hits your shield."
Dun looked angry and confused. "I can't help that," he said.
Broant frowned. "Do I flinch?" he demanded. Dun said nothing. "I don't," Broant continued. "When your sword hits my shield I accept that impact and throw it back at you with my next blow."
Dun's lips flattened and he looked back and forth to either side of Broant as if looking for support from some other quarter. "Just because I flinch," he said at length, "doesn't mean that I'm afraid, or that I'm giving up. It's just a shock, and I react to it."
"You've chosen the wrong reaction."
Dun seemed to sag. He looked dully back at Broant, clearly disagreeing but saying nothing.
By all the gods, thought Broant, it is hard to work with someone who gives up so easily. "Dun," he said, "you can choose your reaction. Let the shock of the strike draw out an answering shock from you. If you don't," he continued, "then you will take in the strikes of your enemy, being weakened by each one, and he will draw confidence and advantage from you. Once this scale tips, you have started to lose, and it will be much harder to rally yourself against it."
Dun sighed. "I will try."
They worked on it all that day and during the next session. It became clear that Dun could indeed tap into something that made him strike back more fiercely, to be able to match and even raise the heat of battle. Broant was pleased to see this progress. Dun had been able to turn his flinching into a kind of battle rage. But it wasn't quite what Broant had expected. He wasn't able to put his finger on it for some time, except that he knew that Dun still did not fit in with the rest of the warriors. It was especially evident at the end of a session. Dun seemed even more drained than at the beginning of the session, which Broant did not understand. He expected to see sweat and bruises and other signs of physical exhaustion, but not this defeated look.
Defeated. That, Broant realized, was the problem.
"You need to start the battle expecting to win," said Broant at the end of their final training session. "You're expecting to lose before you begin."
"No, I'm not," Dun panted.
"You may as well be honest with yourself," said Broant, taking off his helmet, "if you're not going to be honest with me."
Dun wiped the sweat off his face and glared at Broant. "I'm fighting well," he said. "Much better than I was before." He resheathed his sword. "And I thank you for that."
"You are fighting competently," Broant admitted. "But your spirit is not in it."
Dun closed his eyes. "I do not understand..."
Broant threw his helmet to the ground. "I know you don't! But it is very important and I am telling you it will prevent you from becoming a great warrior!"
They stared at each other for the space of a minute. Broant looked closely at Dun, taking the full measure of him, seeing him this time both as a boy and as a man. He could remember how they had played and fought together as boys. Dun was different now. He looked gaunt, tired. He hadn't always been.
"Dun," said Broant at last. "Do you remember when we used to race down the hill together?"
Dun stared a moment longer before replying. "As boys?"
"Yes. Do you remember how it felt?"
"Yes," said Dun quietly.
"That's what I'm talking about," said Broant. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. You have to let it fill you up, flow through you. At the end of that race down the hill, your body was tired, but your heart was not, true?"
"True."
"Now you understand."
Dun looked off to the forest that lay between them and the village. "Broant. I haven't felt that way in a very long time." He looked back to Broant. "It's as though nothing comes into me. When you tell me to strike back as hard as I have been struck -- I can do that, but it's only by spending the strength I already have inside. And I am already hollow."
Broant wished that Dun had not said that. It was something that Broant had been trying not to think ever since Oroke had challenged him to either teach Dun or protect him. Broant had feared that Dun was in some sense incapable of being a warrior. Now Dun had confirmed what Broant could see with his own eyes: Dun was not solid. He was a shade; a shell. He looked at Dun now and saw a man half-dead, seemingly propped up within armor.
"I have taught you everything I can teach," said Broant at length. "This will be our last meet."
After that Broant did not seek out Dun's company. In fact he tried, with some success, to forget about him. Since Dun did not join in on the hunts, jousts, and other contests that made up Broant's life, it was easier than Broant had expected. However, Broant did overhear things and see things sometimes that told him how Dun was doing. It seemed that Dun had taken up a trade as a tinsmith, making lamps and other trinkets. Broant thought to himself that it was a fitting trade, after all: Dun himself was hollow and easily bent, like the things he made.
Broant did not like to think about the fact that he had failed Oroke's challenge. But Dun, like the other weaker members of the village, still deserved protection, and Broant gave it, every time the village was threatened. Broant's courage grew as he defended the village against raiders, against thieves, against wild animals, and yes -- finally -- against a dragon. He distinguished himself in that hunt, drawing first blood and preventing the dragon from taking flight, by means of a well-thrown spear, and then by leading the charge that flushed the wounded dragon on foot out of the woods and into the semicircle of armored warriors waiting for it. Nobody from the village perished in that hunt, partly because it took place a half-day's march from the village itself. The dragon had been sleeping in its cave, but the warriors had seen the smoke and had decided to strike early rather than waiting to be attacked, as had happened in Oroke's time. Despite its slow beginning, however, the battle had been fierce, and Broant earned a dragonslayer's stamp on his breastplate for drawing first blood.
Two years passed.
A traveler came to the village and stayed at the inn. He let it be known that he was bringing grave news and would speak of it that night, after the evening meal. That night the inn's main hall was crowded with folk. Standing in front of the fire, the traveler told them that once again a dragon was once again prowling and killing in the kingdom. The villages of Yathesby and Mottock had both fallen to it.
"Let the worm try his teeth on us, then!" shouted Broant from the rear of the hall. He remembered vividly the hunt of the dragon two years ago. The memory of his horse's muscles rippling beneath him, the joy of being able to see the direction the battle was taking, and to steer the battle as surely as he steered his mount, came back to him. He rose involuntarily to his feet. "Let him try tonight!"
Broant's enthusiasm rippled out through the crowd and answering cheers echoed back. Broant was pleased to see it, to know the heart of the village and to feel his heart leading theirs.
The traveler smiled and raised his glass to the room. Then he continued, telling them that the strange news was that Yathesby and Mottock seem to have fallen without a fight. "It was as though they were slaughtered in their sleep," he said, "or as though scavengers had come to a village already destroyed by plague."
The room was quiet except for the snapping and popping of the fire. "In their sleep?" wondered Broant aloud. "Was there no watch posted?"
"Plague?" asked another voice. "Must we contend with both plague and dragon?" The murmur of "plague" began to repeat itself through the crowd. The traveler put up his hands, calling for silence.
"I said, as though by plague," he shouted. The room quieted again, slowly. "What I mean is that there was no sign of battle."
"Yathesby are not cowards," said Broant sternly, sensing the implication.
"Nor Mottock," agreed the traveler. "I only bring the news and the warning. Keep watch. Prepare yourselves."
Bands of warriors were sent to both fallen villages to spy out the damage. The stories that returned were mysterious and disturbing. It was just as the traveler had said. Bodies lying on the ground, gnawed as though by rats, and no sign of struggle -- no broken lances, no bent swords, no shattered helmets.
A fortnight later news arrived that Imaedia, only eight miles distant, had been struck. So near, and yet no sound of attack had carried. Yet the Imaedians were as dead as those in Mottock.
Fear began to brew in the village.
The watch was doubled. At night the gate was closed and during the day hunting parties were dispatched to search out the dragon in its lair, hoping to catch it asleep as they had two years past. But nothing was found.
One morning as Broant was choosing warriors for another sortie against their still-unseen enemy, Dun appeared, dressed in the armor that he had not worn in years. "I want to help defend the village," he said.
Broant stared at him, knowing immediately that he did not want Dun's help. His mind raced. Broant knew that Dun's haunted manner would hurt morale on the hunt. But if Dun was willing and able-bodied, and the village was in danger, then Broant's denial would be suspicious. A long moment passed while Broant made up his mind. "Excellent," he said at last. "You'll be with me." At least this way he could arrange to keep Dun at the rear. Besides, he still felt a certain responsibility toward Dun and was not sure how well he would be tolerated in one of the other hunting parties.
That day passed quietly and without incident. From time to time Broant dropped back to speak to Dun, who slumped in his saddle and gazed at the horizon with his haggard eyes. Broant urged him to sit up straighter, to look more alert. Dun tried. Broant kept him in back and repeatedly downplayed the importance of the hunt to Dun. "It's just something to keep the men busy," Broant lied. "The village is actually quite safe."
But the next morning Dun was present again, ready to hunt for the dragon. Broant resigned himself to the burden. The hunting parties worked their way outward from the village in a slow circle. No signs of the dragon were seen.
No further news arrived from other villages.
The hunting parties now traveled quite far from the village, completely losing sight of it for much of the day. They moved slowly, searching the ground for signs of tracks, of attacks. Nothing was seen.
But the next morning, as they rounded a low hill, they spied a feather of smoke on the horizon. Broant could feel the sudden wakefulness that wound its way through the band of warriors. He said nothing, only pointed his sword, and the hunting party broke from their widening search and moved with him.
After a half an hour they could just make out a thread of orange at the bottom of the smoke. They quickened their pace, trying to make out what, if anything, moved among the flames. They searched the sky above it and around it, but saw nothing else. Broant searched the horizon for landmarks, confused. He could not guess what would bring the dragon here. He knew of no villages, no farms that would tempt a dragon in this part of the kingdom. It was desolate.
"Dragon!" came a shout behind him. Broant whirled. Enok, his sharpest-eyed scout, was pointing to a patch of sky just above the hill they had rounded. Broant shielded his eyes and tried to focus through the thinning smoke from the ground, searching among the high cirrus clouds that stretched over the sky. After a moment he saw it -- a twisting curl of gray, looking almost like a piece of ash tossed into the sky by the fire. Despite its meandering path, Broant saw that it was moving purposefully. Silence fell over the men as each eye picked out and followed the shape. Broant watched it for a moment longer, determining its direction. With a shock he realized what had happened.
"To the village!" roared Broant, and wheeled his horse around. "To the village with all speed! The dragon has lured us away!" He smacked the flank of his horse with the flat of its sword and it bolted forward. Instead of retracing the steps of their search, Broant drove his horse in a direct line toward the barely visible rooftops of the village. Behind him he heard the crescendoing thunder of the horses behind him.
A high, piercing scream, like a hawk's, but shriller, floated down from above. It was a fearful sound, but Broant knew how to answer it. He gathered his breath and roared a battle cry in return, feeling his anger and resolve grow as he did so. "The worm taunts us!" he shouted back to his men, then shook his sword at the sky and roared again, bringing out this time an answering roar from behind him.
The dragon continued its lazy twisting through the air, above, as the hunting party raced through mud and underbrush, leaping over stumps and fallen trees. The river lay ahead, but they were two miles downstream from the bridge they had crossed over on their way out. Broant picked out a path across the shallowest part with his eyes. He had no intention of tracking back along the riverbank to the bridge. He felt that bonfire in his heart, the power and confidence, its reflections in the rest of the hunting party. They would conquer every obstacle. "Forward!" he shouted, and plunged into the river. The horses' hooves churned the water and sprayed it high into the air where it fell again on them, streaking their faces with mud. The shock of the cold water struck Broant and he laughed aloud, accepting it and adding it to the bonfire, as he had tried to teach Dun. As Broant's horse struggled out of the river on the opposite bank, Broant turned around to see what, in fact, Dun was doing. Dun was not only at the rear but several lengths behind the others, clinging to his mount and bracing himself against the splashing water, lips drawn back from clenched teeth, forehead wrinkled, looking nearly like an infant about to wail. He seemed to bounce around inside his armor, as if the armor was attacking him as well. Damn! Broant wished he had not seen that. He should have banned Dun from the hunts, perhaps because he was out of practice if for no other reason. And now he dragged behind them like an anchor. Broant turned angrily back around and spurred his horse onward.
They crashed out of the light woods bordering the river and into view of the village with its stockade fence surrounding it. The dragon, descending, was larger now in the sky. Broant could just make out its claws. Alone in the sky, there was nothing to compare it against, and thus no way to judge its size -- nor exactly how close to the ground it was. The hunting party galloped across the open fields toward the village while Broant tried to judge where it would land. He fixed his eyes on it; his sword seemed to become part of his arm. He could almost feel a fiery thread of pursuit tying him to the dragon, tugging them together. "Sound the horn!" he shouted. Somewhere behind him, amid the clanging armor and the pounding hoofbeats, someone pulled out the horn and sounded it, blowing the one long, one short note of Broant's party. Some five seconds later they heard the two long notes of Oroke's. Good! They would not be alone; there was someone to drive the dragon to them. The bonfire in Broant's heart was blazing. The ground in front of them was flat and even. It was time to encircle their prey. "Spread out!" he commanded. Slowly the other horses came alongside and then moved out to the right or left until the entire band was moving across the fields like a comb. Broant did not see Dun in the line. He did not bother to check behind them. Let Dun take care of Dun.
Like a falling kite, the dragon drifted down toward the ground, curling and twisting toward the village, inside the stockade. "ARCHERS!" bellowed Broant. Even though he knew, distantly, that this part of the battle did not belong to him, it did not feel that way. To his joy, a volley of arrows burst up from within the stockade, driving the dragon back outside the gates. The dragon shrieked. Broant looked closely but could not see that any arrow had found its mark. "Sound!" he shouted, and from the corner of his eye he could see Seaka raise the horn to his mouth. The one long, one short note sounded again. Oroke's band answered, but still sounded distant, still perhaps within the woods on the other side of the village. The dragon continued its descent. It dipped for a moment below the treeline and Broant realized that it was quite a small dragon after all. Perhaps it would try to escape.
But it did not. Instead, it twisted in Broant's direction. He could feel the bright thread of pursuit tightening between them. The horses' hoofbeats pounded like drums. The dragon, gray and sinuous, fell to the ground with a scream, alighting perhaps fifty yards in front of the gathered band of warriors. "Encircle it!" roared Broant. He began to slow his mount, saw the other warriors move out to the sides, moving to surround and entrap the dragon. Now that it was on the ground, Broant could clearly see how small it really was. He laughed aloud. "It's smaller than a horse! The work of a moment!" Answering laughter greeted him.
The dragon shrieked and unfurled its wings. It did not rise from the ground but merely squatted there, wings wide.
Broant despaired.
His mount gasped and whickered, then stumbled and stopped, shaking its head and swaying. Broant slid awkwardly off of his saddle, barely managing to regain his footing on the ground. The sun seemed pale and small. Broant tried to lift his sword but felt confused and distracted. He needed to lead the charge. The charge. Tiny details overwhelmed him; he was mesmerized by the pebbles on the ground in front of him. His sword seemed heavy and strangely balanced and his grip on it was weak. If he could only lie down for a moment... horrified, he watched the sword slip from his fingers and land with a muffled ring on the hard-packed ground. His armor felt like a prison and his own skin another prison within it.
The dragon opened and closed its jaws. Drool began to run along the line of its lower jaw and drip from its chin. Wings still extended, with an awkward waddle, it began to approach him.
"Sword, got to pick up the sword," Broant whimpered to himself. He bent over, reaching for it, but dizziness struck him and he toppled to his knees. His kneecaps struck the inner part of his shinguards and it hurt tremendously. A petulant anger overcame him and he sobbed a curse. He'd taken arrows in his thigh before and it hadn't hurt this much. He wanted to take his armor off. He couldn't think, couldn't seem to think with all this armor on.
He raised his eyes and saw the dragon, still shuffling toward him. "Go away," he muttered at it. He began to wheeze desperate, impotent curses. The dragon's teeth looked so sharp. He realized now how much they would hurt when it began to bite. And it wouldn't bite just once, no. Fear burned at the base of his throat, strangling him. His limbs jittered with panic.
From the other warriors he could hear whimpering and keening. Nobody was attacking the dragon. Nobody was going to help him. They were all going to be eaten, a bite at a time. He had to lead the charge, yes. He would. Just not today. This was not a good day to fight. Tomorrow, when his head cleared. He just wanted to get away. Just get away and tomorrow he would hunt it down. It could wait. It would have to. Broant began to crawl backward on hands and knees.
Yes, that felt better the more he thought about it. He just needed a good meal and some extra sleep. If he could only get an hour's rest. Get away from this. The very sight of the dragon was too much. He kept his eyes on the ground. As he backed up he saw out of the corner of his eye that the other warriors were also dragging themselves away. Good. Good. That was the smartest thing, really. He couldn't be expected to face a dragon on a day like today. Nobody could. Everybody would understand. It was just that kind of day.
Then, impossibly, he heard footsteps behind him. Shame pooled in his stomach. He could not be found on his hands and knees if someone in his band was upright. He struggled to a sitting position, frantically inventing excuses, searching the ground for something that would seem to explain why he had briefly stumbled. It was going to be hard to explain the abandoned sword four feet in front of him, though.
The footsteps came closer, and, as Broant lurched to his feet, Dun trudged past him with his usual clumping gait. Broant could not seem to think at all. The shame completely engulfed him. "Dun," he croaked, but did not know what to say next.
Dun bent over with a grunt and a muttering and picked up Broant's sword. His posture and manner made him look as though he were hauling water. Broant knew that Dun was going to die here. How he had managed to walk so far was a mystery. But that was no way to handle a weapon.
The dragon seemed no less surprised as Dun approached. It hissed uncertainly and shook its wings. Dun muttered and puffed to himself but kept walking. The dragon shrieked and struck.
Broant felt as though the whole landscape had been draped under a sweaty horse blanket. He could not understand how Dun seemed to galvanize himself and sidestep, turn, and parry the dragon's strike. He saw Dun's face, weary and set as it always was. He was not fighting brilliantly, but, as during their long-ago lessons, he was fighting competently at least. Broant tried to keep watching, but he had to close his eyes just once. Just for a moment. His eyes burned and his eyelids were so heavy.
The feeling lifted. The sense of a suffocating horse blanket was gone.
Broant's eyes snapped open. The dragon's head lay to one side of Dun. Its body was shifting and sighing to the ground, to the other side. Dun himself stood, looking weary and slumped as always. Everyone was so quiet that you could hear the dragon's blood pooling.
The memory of the past two minutes was crystal clear in Broant's mind. And so the shame that overtook him was nauseating. Here he was, unarmed, impotent, in front of a tiny dragon barely the size of a man, whose dead body looked wrinkled and even tinier in the early afternoon light. Its mouth was no longer than his own hand. The humiliation! His cascading golden locks, and his armor with the embossed dragonslayer stamp on the breastplate, felt like a disguise, a joke. His palms and shinguards still carried the dust and grass stains of the meadow, where he had been crawling backward away from the enemy.
It could not be endured.
Dun trudged back to Broant and handed him the sword, hilt first. "Your sword," he said. Broant's hand accepted it. He felt like a cripple. He felt the stares of the warriors on him.
"I am a coward, a craven coward," he whispered to Dun. "In its hour of need I abandoned the village. Kill me. Please." He tried to push the sword's hilt back into Dun's hands.
Dun smiled faintly. "I would rather not," he said.
Feeling desperate, Broant stared at Dun. He did not dare to catch the eye of any of the other men in the hunting party. But then in that moment Broant saw what to do with his shame, how he could reclaim his spirit. He filled his enormous lungs with air, seized Dun's wrist, thrust it into the sky, and bellowed:
"HAIL DUN!
HAIL DUN DRAGONSLAYER!"
Broant's voice echoed as only it could while the other warriors took up the shout, and then the air reverberated:
"LONG LIVE DUN!
LONG LIVE DUN DRAGONSLAYER!"