Steven George and the Terror
Nathan Everett
Other Titles by Nathan Everett
Steven George and the Dragon
Steven George is a dragonslayer. He has always known he was a dragonslayer. He was raised to be a dragonslayer. But on the fateful day when he is sent to slay the fiercesome beast, he realizes he doesn’t know where the dragon lives, what it looks like, or how to slay it. Thus begins his great adventure, exchanging stories with the people he meets along the way. Each “Once Upon a Time” brings him a step closer to his dragon until Steven realizes that all roads lead to the dragon.
Jackie the Beanstalk
Jackie is a fresh 18-year-old high school graduate, still in her cap and gown when she is given the keys to her grandfather’s 1968 Ford Fairlane 500 Fastback. Jackie, Misty, and Roadkill jump in the car and take off on a road trip into an alternate dimension where they encounter robbers, mountain monsters, ogres, obstreperous customs officials, a stowaway princess, an adopted bobcat kitten, werewolves, ghosts, giants, and dragons-all on her way to rescuing the Sovereign’s kidnapped son.
A Place at the Table
Though the America Liam Cyning lives in is quite similar to the America of half a century or more ago, it is also fundamentally different. Ten clearly defined classes are the underpinning of American Society, determined by the educational system. As a newly assigned member of the Leader class, Liam is still uncertain what his role and responsibilities are. This story is a Bildungsroman, a literary genre that focuses on the psychological and moral growth of Liam Cyning from youth to adulthood.
City Limits
Who am I, really? It’s a common question. It’s part of being self-aware. But is it important? Are we really nothing more than our accumulated lifetime of memories? Or is there something inside that makes us inherently who we are? Stripped of his memories and identity, Gee Evars must come to grips with who he is as he attempts to make a home among strangers by simply doing the right thing. City Limits is the story of Gee’s loss of memory and the life and love he gains.
Wild Woods
When Gee Evars wandered into town, he lost his memory in a daring rescue of a toddler in the raging Rose River. Now the man without a memory has become a force that even the Families need to reckon with. When the city votes to annex South Rosebud, Gee accompanies a small army of high school students to tear down the fence that has separated the cultivated hickory Forest from the Wild Woods. This is where the sequel to the popular novel City Limits begins. Gee and his crew must find a way to tame the Wild Woods, uncover its secrets, and live to tell the story. Gee’s real work in Rosebud Falls has just begun.
The Gutenberg Rubric
Two rare-book librarians race across three continents to find and preserve a legendary book printed by Johannes Gutenberg. Behind them, a trail of bombed libraries draws Homeland Security to launch a worldwide search for biblio-terrorists. Keith and Maddie find love along the way, but will they survive to enjoy it?
For Money or Mayhem
Computer forensics detective Dag Hamar has been hired to help a credit card company beef up network security, but are his new co-workers helping him or attacking him? Security video doesn’t lie, does it? Dag is about to get dragged from behind his computer screen—away from the comparative safety of cyberspace—into the dirty streets of Seattle where an online predator has become a real-life serial kidnapper. But will he be in time to save his new romance and the daughter who is a victim.
For Mayhem or Madness
Computer forensics detective Dag Hamar is on the case again! In this sequel to For Money or Mayhem, Dag is commissioned by the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network (FinCEN) to find and stop a dangerous hacker who appears to be a credible threat to national security. Follow Dag as he erases his own digital identity and goes on the trail around the world to track down and neurtralize Hacker X before he does something really dangerous like erase all the nuclear launch codes in the world. Or maybe, Dag should help him.
For Blood or Money
Dag Hamar is a hard-boiled computer forensics detective with all the trimmings: the Seattle Waterfront office, the sexy young assistant who adores him, and an attitude to match the constant gray drizzle outside his window. And a new missing person case. The only problem is he’s a middle-aged computer geek who doesn’t do missing persons. And the only clue he has is the missing man’s laptop. Dag Hamar and Deb Riley discover hidden files and computer code can be as dangerous as dark alleys and flying bullets as they enter the high-stakes game of of tracing a missing friend and the billion-dollar fortune that disappeared with him.
Municipal Blondes
Computer forensics detective Deb Riley has been cut loose to continue the work of her partner, Dag Hamar. He sent her to get the code from a dead man’s tattoo. He told her she needed to crack the encryption on Simon’s thumb drive. He told her he loved her. And then he died. Now Deb finds she is in possession of something everyone wants and will do anything to get. Including kill her. Enter the world of Deb Riley, code breaker, detective, and master of disguise, as she races into the heart of the mystery and risks discovery or worse. She has Dag’s reputation to live up to.
Stocks & Blondes
Computer forensics detective Deb Riley is on the case again, this time with a dead woman named Georgia and a house full of computers. Georgia’s father doesn’t believe the police finding that she committed suicide. He’s sure there was foul play involved. He had no idea how foul it was. Hacking into the computers starts a deadly game as neighbors, friends, and even Georgia, prove not to be what they appear to be. Infiltrating the cabal throws Deb into her deepest disguise ever. Worse, it puts her in danger of ending up just like Georgia.
The Volunteer
Journey inside the head of a chronically homeless man--a man that in a less politically correct age we might have called a hobo. Gerald Good, known now only as G2, volunteered to take the place of a homeless man, believing he would work his way back quickly. Ten years later, twenty... thirty years, find G2 alone in his head, his memories, and his boxcar.
©2023 Elder Road Books
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in
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ISBN 978-1-955874-60-1
Designed by Nathan Everett
Cover image by Warm_Tail, ID2076774370 licensed from Shutterstock.com
Printed in the United States of America
1
Passion
TIME IS A FLAME that burns the past as we flee before it to live our lives. We build the flames higher, feeding them with our passions. Sometimes those passions threaten to consume us, and we run faster before the flames that pursue us.
Once in the flames of time, there was a storyteller caught in the passions of his love. He had once been his village’s dragonslayer, but the dragon he met was the gypsy Madame Selah Welinska. From their first meeting, Steven George had known that he had met his dragon and she had conquered him. He made his way on the long road with his love, telling and trading stories, sometimes mending and repairing the projects that villagers brought to him. He was not as fine a tinker as the famous Armand Hamar, but it seemed his fires were always hottest and the pots he mended stayed mended.
But as time passed, the lovers’ passion increased, so that it threatened to consume them. Not only did they love passionately, but they fought passionately as well. When Steven looked into Selah’s eyes, it was hard not to see the green vertical slits of the dragon he had once mastered. At times, he felt so hot that he feared he would burst into flames. Lately, it seemed every decision in their unconstrained lives was cause for conflict.
It was this, in fact, that brought the couple to their current campsite. The patient little donkey, Xandros, who willingly pulled their meager possessions in a cart, had come to a fork in the road and had stopped, waiting for the couple to tell him which way to turn. He would have followed directions from either, but neither could agree on the direction to take. Steven stood on the left path, while Selah stood on the right path, shouting at each other about the merits of which way their journey should take them.
“It is too cold to go north into the mountains,” Selah stated matter-of-factly, in a voice that could be heard a mile down either path.
“The path into the forest provides shelter, food, and firewood,” Steven responded in a voice that made the donkey cringe.
Selah scuffed in the dirt with her bare heel and proudly pointed at the ground. “The yellow brick road goes this way,” she said. “I follow the long road and the bricklayer Xandros has paved it with bricks.”
Somewhat dismayed by this bit of news, Steven scuffed at the road on which he stood and spoke up sharply. “The bricklayer has been this way as well,” he said pointing at the yellow bricks paving his road. “We should follow the road the bricklayer laid into the forest.”
“You traded for warm clothes in the village a week ago while I was in the hills. I am still barefoot.”
“You generate enough heat to keep the whole forest warm.”
The argument proceeded without pause for over an hour, until both were hoarse with shouting. All this while the little donkey—named for the famous bricklayer who built the long road—stood at the fork, swinging his head from one side to the other. Left fork? Right fork? Finally, he sat down in the traces and began to bray.
Steven and Selah stopped their argument, which had brought them closer and closer at the fork. They looked at the little donkey, and then they looked at each other, and then they began to laugh. Without saying another word, Selah unhitched Xandros—named after the famous bricklayer—and set him free to graze. Steven gathered wood and built a fire pit surrounded by stones. Before the sun went down, the two sprawled together next to the fire, eating the burnt bits of a rabbit that Steven had snared while the donkey grazed quietly nearby. The argument forgotten for the moment, they laughed as they tore bits of meat from the bones and fed them to each other.
Steven rose to tend to the donkey and rub him down, much to the little beast’s delight, as Selah banked the fires. Soon Steven heard the ring of finger cymbals that he had learned meant his love was beginning to dance.
He returned to the fire where Selah had begun to beat out a gentle tempo with her feet in time to the cymbals. He pulled his little bone whistle from his belt and began to improvise a tune to go with the increasingly complex rhythm that she beat. From a slow and deliberate pace to a moderate whirl to a spinning dance that would collapse a dervish, the dance picked up speed and passion, fanning the banked fires with the breeze it created. At last, the tempo could no longer be sustained, and the gypsy woman fell into the arms of her lover. They collapsed in giggles, panting for air. Steven drew Selah to him in a kiss, but she pushed him away.
“Not yet, Steven George, dragonslayer,” she laughed. “I want to tell a story.”
“Do you mean to once upon a time me?” he asked.
“Once or twice or as often as you like,” she said, chuckling at an old joke between the two. “But you must return with a story of your own. I am already one ahead of you and you owe me. I want to know the story of your new sheepskin vest.”
Steven patted the wool of the garment. He had acquired it at the last village, but not in the way Selah thought.
“Perhaps you would like me to go first?” he asked.
“No,” she answered. “I really don’t mind you owing me one.”
And so, they lay down on their bedrolls beneath the stars and Madame Selah Welinska began her story.
2
The Fool’s Gold
ONCE UPON A TIME, there was a tiny gnome named Fonrick, who lived beneath the rugged garden wall of a great castle. He had enjoyed his position in the royal gardens for many years and had seen several generations of kings come to the throne. He had always maintained a good standing with the rulers of this little kingdom. The kitchen staff depended on him to scout out the best vegetables for the king’s table. Fonrick was comfortable and fat and raised a lovely little family of gnomes over the years.
It was this, in fact, that proved to be the source of Fonrick’s problems. When the little gnome’s youngest son, Nerrick, was just a hundred summers old, he set out to find his own garden in the world. Just as he was setting up a new home at a small cottage he had found, a crotchety old gardener named Haruld discovered him. Haruld was of the school that considered garden gnomes to be common pests, and was determined to drown Nerrick. In fear for his life, Nerrick began begging and ultimately arrived at reciting his family heritage and lineage. When Haruld heard that Nerrick’s family lived beneath the wall of the castle gardens, the cagey old man hesitated.
“Ah,” he thought. “Perhaps this little gnome could have his uses.”
He placed Nerrick in a bucket and put a plank over it while he contemplated the possibilities, for if Haruld was anything more than a crotchety old man, he was a greedy old man. He sat at his table eating stale bread and drinking sour wine, with his feet propped on top of the bucket, and mused aloud.
“I suppose that being raised in the castle, you are wealthy,” he began. Nerrick was silent while listening. “Your family, I suppose, are still living at the castle and would hate to see anything happen to their little gnomelet,” he continued. “They would probably pay some of the king’s gold to keep little Nerrick from harm. Now if that gold were to find its way to me, I might be persuaded to let this little gnome stay in my garden. What do you say, little gnome? Will you be my hostage for ransom, or will you die in my well?”
Now Nerrick was truly panicked, for although his family was happy and had all they needed, they had never needed gold. They ate from the king’s garden and the king’s cook left them special sweets. Their home beneath the garden wall was snug and comfortable. None of Nerrick’s family in all their years had needed gold. But the little gnome knew that if he did not agree to the terms, he would be drowned in the well.
“Perhaps,” he thought, “if I agree to these terms, I might find a way to escape.”
“Oh, great and mighty master,” answered Nerrick. “If I could just go to my family, I would take your demands and bring you the gold you seek. Then we could live in peace and harmony in your garden.”
“What do you take me for, gnome?” huffed the old man. “If I let you go, you would never come back, and I would have neither gold nor the pleasure of drowning you! I shall take you on a leash to the home of your parents and we shall make the demands together.”
With that, the greedy gardener fashioned a small leash out of an old leather satchel. He took the board off the bucket and, before Nerrick could gasp for breath, had the leash fastened around the gnome’s neck.
The poor gnome was led thus to the castle walls and in his humiliation was forced to call out to his family.
“Father, father,” Nerrick cried. “Your son has come to visit. Please come outside the castle wall to speak with me.”
Not knowing what had happened to his son, Fonrick slipped through his back door to see why he had been called. When he saw his son with a leash around his neck he was filled with fury.
“What is the meaning of this? Why have you shackled my son and brought him thus to my door?” Fonrick demanded.
“Your son trespassed on my property,” said Haruld. “I have come to demand ransom for him. You must bring me five gold pieces or I shall drown your son in my well.”
“And if I bring you gold?” asked Fonrick, smelling a foul odor in the man’s offer.
“Why then, of course, he will live beneath my garden wall as a free, rent-paying tenant,” responded Haruld.
Now, neither Fonrick nor Haruld, nor even Nerrick believed for a moment that Nerrick would be free, for the desire for gold is a disease that consumes the heart, and Haruld had contracted the disease when Nerrick first mentioned the castle. But Fonrick had not lived to the age of 832 summers without gaining some knowledge and proving that he was clever enough to survive. So, he answered the gardener.
“It shall be as you have demanded,” said Fonrick, chuckling.
“What do you find so funny?” demanded Haruld. Nerrick was terrified.
“Why, that you demand so little,” answered Fonrick. “Here you have captured a gnome of the king’s household and yet all you want is a few pieces of gold.”
This truly gave Haruld pause. In his very small mind, five pieces of gold seemed like a king’s ransom. And, indeed, it was more by far than Fonrick actually possessed. But it started the greedy old man thinking. If the gnome was worth five gold coins, of course, he would be worth ten gold coins. And everyone knows that to a king, twenty gold coins are no more noticeable than ten. If he could get twenty gold coins from the king, why couldn’t he get fifty? Or even…
“I demand one hundred gold coins ransom for this royal gnome’s ransom,” boldly declared Haruld the gardener.
Everywhere he looked, he could see gold. He imagined himself riding down the street on his proud horse, graciously tossing copper coins to the peasants who bowed before him. He would build himself a new house and a larger garden and enslave thousands of gnomes to tend it so he would never have to work again. All this flashed through his mind as Fonrick’s eyes squinted shut. The gardener saw the expression and knew he had gotten the best of the gnome family. In fact, Fonrick was trying hard to control his laughter. At last, he was able to open his eyes and calmly address Haruld.
“You have the best of me, master gardener,” said Fonrick. “Indeed, I would pay any sum to save my son, but for such a man as you, I would do even more. Your wisdom and shrewdness have brought me to conclude that you yourself should rule the kingdom.”
This startled Haruld even more, but the idea instantly took root in his mind. He pictured himself sleeping in the castle with waiters bringing food and wine for him.
“Indeed, I should,” he bragged. “But first I must have gold.”
“I can show you where there is more gold than the mind can fathom. I have lived in this garden for eight centuries, and I have watched the kings carefully. They are all fools. For generations they have stashed their gold and precious jewels in a cave on the other side of the mountain. Unknown to them, I have stowed away in their wagons on nights under the dark moon when they visited their treasure trove. The king lives in poverty here compared to what he could have. He could pave the streets in gold and sleep on a golden bed, drive a golden carriage, and eat from golden plates. All this with the gold in that treasury. And I will show you where this treasure is stored.”
Haruld sat back on the ground grasping his heart. His cunning had paid off. He would be unimaginably rich. Then he would drown this gnome and all the others in his family so there would be no witness to his theft. It remained only to follow Fonrick to the king’s treasure cave.
Now, Fonrick was 832 summers old and had not always lived under the garden wall of the castle. For a gnome, he had traveled far and seen strange things. One of those things was a dragon. He had followed the trail of the dragon for weeks until he had found it asleep in its cave high above the river valley on the other side of the mountain. There he had seen the dragon’s vast wealth, gathered into a nest on which the dragon slept at night.
But Fonrick was a gnome, not a dwarf. He had little or no interest in such wealth. The adventure of seeing a dragon was all the reward that he wanted for his efforts. And so, he had told no one about the dragon and its cave of riches in all these hundreds of years.
He advised the gardener to bring his wagon and carthorse to the city gate the next morning. Fonrick and his son would show Haruld the way to the cave of riches. Haruld was just canny enough to think at the last minute that he had better keep Nerrick securely in hand until the wealth had been delivered, so the poor boy soon found himself back in the bucket as Haruld slept with his feet on the board.
The next morning Fonrick met his son and the gardener at the city gates, and they set out for the mountain. It was a long journey, but Fonrick kept Haruld’s interest by giving him details of the kind of wealth they would find. At long last, they reached the cave. Haruld lit a torch and proceeded inside. All was silent. As soon as they were deep in the cave, the light of the torch fell upon the gold. Even Fonrick’s tales had not prepared the gardener for such a sight. He waded into gold vessels, plates, coins, and jewelry up to his waist. He bathed in his prize and laughed insanely, throwing gold up over his head and letting it rain down upon him. At long last, exhausted by his celebration, Haruld collapsed on the piled wealth and fell fast asleep.
As soon as he was asleep, Fonrick freed his son and led him quietly away from the cave and back down the mountain the way they had come.
As the moon rose, they saw the silhouette of a dragon winging across the skies, headed toward the cave. No one knows if the dragon killed the foolish gardener when he was found on the hoard. Perhaps there was no dragon and Haruld went mad refusing to leave the treasure again. Or, perhaps while lying on the dragon’s nest of gold, thinking dragonish thoughts, the greedy fool was transformed into the dragon himself.
But of this people are agreed: Travelers along the river below hear insane laughter in the middle of the night and swear the echo calls “Gold! Gold!” But none who have ever sought for the treasure have returned to tell their tale.
3
Soldier
IN THE MORNING, they had still not determined which direction they were to go, but before they could begin arguing about the matter, the stillness of the country was broken by a whistled tune. Xandros the donkey was the first to hear it and alerted the couple with his bray. The tune was not a merry tune, nor particularly sad. It was a tune punctuated by measured footsteps tramping on the path through the forest. The tune was a marching tune.
“Now, here comes a reason to have taken the south path,” Steven muttered under his breath.
Selah smiled smugly as they awaited the approach of the marchers. Soon three soldiers marched into view and came to a halt at the edge of Steven’s camp. The leading soldier walked directly up to Steven.
“Are you Steven George the Dragonslayer?” he asked gruffly.
A truly clever and quick-witted man might have made up another name on the spot, but Steven was not clever and quick-witted enough to lie to the soldier.
“I am Steven George, sometimes called Dragonslayer, but the truth is that I didn’t really…”
“Doesn’t matter,” said the soldier. “Never met a dragon. Never want to. It’s just a name.”
The fire where Steven had been cooking breakfast suddenly flared to life, startling the soldiers. Steven spared a glance at Selah who smiled demurely.
“Well, how can I help you?” Steven asked.
“Steven George the Dragonslayer,” intoned the sergeant in his best heraldic voice, “you are summoned to the presence of Montague Magnus the Fourth, King and Liege of Sylgale, Puissant Paragon of Mariria, and the Simple Pride of Arining, to dine at the King’s table and regale our monarch with tales of your adventures; for which His Royal Highness has promised you just compensation and opportunity for magnanimous reward.”
The sergeant then turned to look at his two men, who briefly consulted with each other and then nodded back to the sergeant. It was obvious that the poor soldier was not used to delivering decrees from the King and had been practicing on his comrades in arms for as long as they had been on the road.
Agreed that he had delivered the message correctly, the soldiers began to sniff the air.
“Is that a stew cooking on your fire?” asked the sergeant hungrily.
“It is,” said Selah coming forward. “We had rabbit for dinner and made the rest into a stew this morning. Would you care to join us?”
As hungrily as the men gazed toward the fire, the sergeant still demurred.
“Now, we couldn’t eat rabbits that were poached from the King’s lands,” he said. “It’s a crime and you may be punished when the King is told. We have rations we can eat.”
“Really?” asked Selah. “And where are the King’s lands?”
“Oh, all this forest is the King’s,” said the sergeant. “Anything caught within it is his.”
“Well, that settles it,” Selah said with finality. “These rabbits were caught in the field here, not within the King’s forest. Surely now you can join us to eat.” The soldiers consulted with each other quietly, then the sergeant turned again to Madame Selah Welinska and bowed.
“Seeing as no rabbits were caught in the King’s forest, there can be no harm in our accepting your invitation, Lady. We would be most delighted to dine with you,” he said as respectfully as possible. “And there need be no report or mention of what didn’t happen should any soldier appear before the King, neither.”
With that the soldiers dropped their packs and disassembled their mess kits, standing at attention in line next to the fire as Selah dished out stew. They fell to eating with the appetite of soldiers on a long march. When they were scraping out the bottom of their plates, one of the other soldiers—who looked as much like the other as twins—spoke to Selah.
“Begging your pardon, lady,” he said to her. “But would you be the dragon-lady spoken of in so many stories?”
The sergeant rapped the young soldier on the head and reprimanded him sharply for his impudence. Therefore, none of the soldiers noticed the fiery look that Selah gave to Steven.
“So, I’m spoken of in many stories, am I?” she began. “Pray tell, what do these stories say?”
“Well, now, ‘many’ is a relative term. When a man has heard only two, one is many of them. And that was just hearsay. The boy meant no insult, Madame,” said the sergeant. “We were given specific instructions on how to identify the dragonslayer. We were told that he travels in the company of a beautiful lady that was sometimes called the dragon-lady. Personally, I never met nobody who would dare to call her that to her face. It was of no more significance than the mention of a donkey. It was how we were told to identify Steven George the Dragonslayer.”
“And does the King’s summons extend to the dragon-lady and the donkey?”
“I ain’t saying they wouldn’t be welcomed in the court, but the King made no mention of inviting the lady and the donkey. Not that the King would ever presume on her nor neglect to mention her. ’Twas an urgent summons for the Dragonslayer only.”
“Good,” she said with finality that startled Steven. He could not mistake the fact that she looked determinedly down the southbound road.
“We should start back,” the soldier said. “If you would be so kind as to accompany us, Steven George the Dragonslayer?”
Steven was not ready to make this decision. He could see that Madame Selah Welinska was still determined to travel south. He needed to have time to convince her to go with him.
“How many steps is it to the King’s court?” Steven asked the sergeant.
“How many steps?” the sergeant asked. “Now I don’t rightly know. It is three days’ march back the way we came through the forest.”
“Three days and you cannot kill any game to eat?” Steven asked.
“We have rations.”
“I don’t,” Steven continued. “What do you say we spend the day hunting here in the prairie fields where there is an abundance of rabbits and an occasional deer? Then we can prepare roast meats for the journey tomorrow.”
“That sounds all right,” said one of the soldiers. Steven could not tell if it was the one who had spoken before.
“Now, just a minute,” said the sergeant. “We need to get the message to the King that the Dragonslayer is approaching. Otherwise, half the soldiers in the kingdom will continue to be out on the road looking for him.”
“Are more looking for me than you?” Steven asked incredulously.
“Oh yes, sir,” said the sergeant. “The first ones went out two weeks ago. We were sent out just a few days ago. They are searching in every direction for you. I’m not saying they aren’t searching the south road as well.”
Steven contemplated what this might mean, as the sergeant turned to his men.
“Now you two will have to double-time back to the castle and I will stay and escort this party back at their pace. Our orders was to treat them kindly, but we have got to get word back. You two got full bellies now, so get going. You should be able to get there by nightfall tomorrow and tell them to get things ready.”
There was considerable grumbling, and at last Selah packed the men a few strips of dried venison from their stores and told them how to make a savory stew out of it. Soon the two were gone.
“Wouldn’t one of them have traveled back faster than two?” asked Steven.
“Soldiers don’t travel alone,” said the sergeant. “I’m not saying they’re simple, but it takes both of those two to equal one good man.”
“But that means you are alone,” said Steven.
“No, not exactly,” said the sergeant. “I’m with you.”
“But I may not choose to go to the King’s court,” Steven said.
“Now, I can’t force you to come to the King’s banquet table,” said the sergeant. “You are not presently under arrest. I’m merely here to escort you and protect you from the forest bandits. So, if you choose not to go to the King, then I’ll just have to go with you.”
Selah snorted next to the wagon in a very unladylike way. Steven decided that it was best to get the sergeant out in the field hunting rather than talking in camp.
“I found the rabbits just at that rise,” he said. “Why don’t you go set a couple of traps and I’ll get my bow.”
He winked at the sergeant and nodded over his shoulder toward Selah as if to indicate that he wanted time alone with her. In a trice, the sergeant perceived his meaning and said loudly that he would be just “over there,” where Steven could join him. He was no more than out of earshot when Steven turned to Selah.
“Don’t even ask,” said Selah as Steven opened his mouth. “I will not be traveling the north road to a walled castle through the lands of a king who thinks the free game of the world is his personal property. You go and pay homage or be honored or whatever the mad monarch wants. We’ll meet up again later.”
“Where and when will we meet, Madame?” asked Steven. “How will I ever find you again?”
“How did you find me the first time?” answered the dragon-lady. “One day I will be in your path and you will find me.”
“When?”
“Steven, how long have we traveled together?” asked Selah.
“Thousands of steps over many seasons,” Steven answered.
“You must learn to tell time and distance like other people,” Selah laughed. “It has been seven years. It seems like it would be a good idea to travel our own roads for a time and see if we still like each other.”
“Like each other?” asked Steven. “But I love you!”
“Then our love should be stronger when we meet again.”
“But I will be an old man,” Steven lamented.
“Look at you, Steven George the Dragonslayer,” Selah laughed. “You are younger now than when we first met. At this rate, if we stayed together, you would be in a short tunic playing with colored stones. Being apart, maybe you will be as old as you were when we met the first time!”
“I shall always miss you and mourn our parting,” Steven said.
“You shall always wonder if I ever really existed or was just a dream,” Selah smiled. “Ah, Steven, it is truly better if we walk our own paths for a while before we kill each other. Have you not noticed how hot our arguments have become? This time of cooling off will do us both great good. Now go help your poor soldier capture a rabbit or there will be no supper.”
“If I turn, you will leave,” Steven said.
“Not before you tell me about your vest,” she answered. “Remember?”
Steven kissed Selah, Then he turned, retrieved his bow from the wagon, and went to hunt with the sergeant.
After they had cleaned the game and feasted on a roast haunch of venison with the remainder smoking over the fire pit, Selah began to dance. The sergeant was rapt with the hypnotic movements of the dance. Selah’s gestures wove a spell that held even Steven speechless for a time. But for the soldier, the trance was deep, and when she stopped dancing, he began to snore.
“Now,” said Selah to Steven as she snuggled into his arms, “about that one you owe me.”
4
The Inevitable Change
ONCE UPON A TIME, there was a midwife. We assume she was given a name when she was born as most babies are, but over the years she had adopted the name of her patroness as many in that profession do, and was called Mylitta of the Green Vale. Throughout the valley, children had found their way into the world at her coaxing, and mothers had survived the most rigorous childbirths because of her care.
Mylitta was the first of twelve children, herself. From the time she was just upright on two feet, she had been with her mother at the birthing of a child. And when it was not her mother giving birth, her mother was helping a neighbor give birth or even helping the livestock in the barn. Mylitta had been around birth all her life.
Mylitta was at the birth of her sister, four brothers, two more sisters, a brother, two more sisters, and a brother. She watched her neighbor give birth to her firstborn with her mother in attendance. She helped with the calving in the spring at her father’s side, and sat with newborns through the night to be sure they suckled and were not rejected. When she was ten years old, Mylitta and her mother were called to the home of the magistrate of the nearest city where the magistrate’s wife, Ell, was in the midst of a particularly difficult birth. Mylitta rushed to get bowls of hot and cold water, fresh clean cloths, and to organize the servants to instantly carry out orders as they were needed.
When she returned to her mother, she was asked to help support Ell as her mother positioned the birthing bed beneath her. It seemed remarkable to Mylitta that as soon as Ell rested upon the old fleece, her breathing eased, and her desperation seemed to disappear. Ell smiled weakly at Mylitta.
“How nice that my little daughter will have a sister to welcome her into the world,” Ell breathed weakly. “Just having you here makes the labor easier.” It was not long after that Mylitta’s mother reached into Ell’s womb and turned the baby, so the little girl was born headfirst into the world. Ell, though weak, smiled and brought the babe to her breast, then fell asleep at last.
“Mother,” said Mylitta quietly, “it was not really my presence that comforted Ell, was it?”
“Sweet child,” said her mother, “your presence is always a comfort to mothers—even to me. But you are right in assuming it is not just your presence. It is the property of the birthing bed to bring change upon those who rest in its embrace. For you see, daughter, this old fleece is enchanted.”
The birthing bed had been present through every birth that Mylitta had attended. Her mother even threw it over the backs of cows, sows, and ewes when they experienced hard births. Though it was called a bed, it was nothing more than a huge sheepskin that Mylitta and her mother placed beneath the birthing woman to welcome her child. It was soft and was always cleaned with tropical oil and treated with wool wax. It was impervious to any stains.
“This sacred birthing bed…” Mylitta’s mother told her, “…has seen the births of kings and queens in ages past. It was the object of an ancient quest and is made from the skin of the prized ewe of Aciannis, goddess of health in ancient Ursentia. The ewe gave birth to the stars and in her old age was sacrificed to save the life of Aciannis’s own child. Since that time, it has been passed down from generation to generation. This, I am told, is but a fragment of the original fleece, which has been divided among midwives the world over.”
Mylitta was in her twentieth winter when her mother gave birth to the last of the children. After Mylitta had cleaned the sheepskin and brushed it with wool wax, she gave it to her mother while watching her newest little brother suckle. She was surprised when her mother handed the heirloom back.
“It is for you, now, child,” her mother said. “I will have no more children. You will take this wherever you go and protect the newborns and their mothers with it.”
“But mother,” Mylitta said, “I have no husband and no desire to get one. Give it instead to one of your daughters who will marry.”
Mylitta’s mother laughed a little at this, jostling the suckling infant. She well understood that the girl had seen enough of childbirth to shrink at the thought of becoming pregnant herself. But she also saw how talented her daughter was at helping in the process.
“You may not wish for children of your own, my dear,” said her mother, “but those who do will want you at their side. Take it and share its comfort with those in need.” Mylitta took the skin as her mother instructed her, but her mother was not finished yet. “Always remember, whoever lies upon the birthing bed changes forever.”
Many years passed and Mylitta became a legendary midwife. But then a great plague came on the land. People were sick in every town and farm, and many died. No children were being born, but Mylitta was kept busy tending the sick. These, too, seemed comforted by the birthing bed, and many were borne into the spirit world while resting on it.
The last victim of the plague was Mylitta herself. She came home from tending the last of the ill and lay down. She was so tired that she fell asleep on top of the birthing bed that had welcomed her into this world. She dreamt of her mother and of all the babies she had welcomed into the world on this very fleece. And she saw the spirits of the dead welcomed into their new lives while lying on the old sheepskin. And then she knew the truth of the legend her mother had told her. Whatever lay upon the sheepskin changed, but so did everything else in the world.
It is said that Mylitta’s laughter is what drew the only witness to her death that day. And Mylitta pushed the sheepskin into the hands of the visitor with her last breath, saying “She changes everything she touches and everything she touches changes.”
Not knowing the story behind the sheepskin, the unnamed visitor thought at first to burn it for fear that the plague was in the sheepskin. But it was so soft and pleasant to the touch that she kept it, washed it carefully, and waxed the wool. Then, not knowing what else to do with it, she thought how it could keep her warm in the winter. She cut it and sewed it into a vest, mittens, and a liner for her boots that she wore all through the winter months.
By the end of the winter, however, she realized that there were those less fortunate than her and she gave the vest to a traveler and the mittens to a child. The boots she wore until her own death, and they were passed on as well. All through her life she was known as a kind and giving woman who helped the poor and provided for the needy.
The traveler who had received the vest stopped traveling and began to farm. Since he was no longer on the road and had a comfortable house to live in, he gave the vest to another, and so it happened that the vest has come down in this way to me. It is the vest of Mylitta, and protects me from harm. But all those who have worn it have changed, and now, so have I. For where I once traveled the long road with my love, now I set foot on it alone.
And one day, I shall pass it on to a traveler that I meet.
5
Forest
WHEN STEVEN WOKE in the morning, he was cold like he could not remember being in all the time he had traveled with Selah. He rolled over, but she was not next to him. Rubbing sleep from his eyes he sat up and looked around. A few steps away, a soldier stood as if on guard, gazing out toward the south.
Ah, yes, Steven thought. The sergeant.
Then Steven took in the rest of the campsite. The fire still smoldered, and his pack lay at his head. But there was no sign of Selah. Or the donkey. Or the wagon. He rubbed his eyes and looked around again, scrambling out of his bedroll. He rushed to the sergeant.
“Where is Selah?” he demanded of the soldier.
“Who is Selah?” responded the sergeant.
“Selah is my… The lady who was with me when you found us yesterday. And the donkey and cart?” Steven blurted.
“I don’t know about no lady, sir,” said the sergeant calmly. “There is no lady here, nor donkey and cart, neither.”
“I can see she is not here,” said Steven, “but where is she?”
“Now how would I be supposed to know that?” asked the sergeant. “If there is no lady here, why would I know where the lady is? You are not making sense, sir, if I may be so plain.”
“Now see here,” Steven blustered. “Yesterday you arrived with two other soldiers and found Madame Selah Welinska, Xandros the donkey, my cart, and me. You sent the other two back to court to tell the King I’d been found. We spent the day hunting and preparing supplies for the journey through the King’s forest. We ate dinner and Selah danced and you fell asleep. Now where is Madame Welinska?”
“Well, now, that is just as I remember things,” said the sergeant. “But I’m not committing to having seen a lady. No, I can’t say that I did.”
Steven was dumbfounded. The soldier was aggravating. What did he mean by not committing to having seen a lady after he just agreed that she’d been there and danced the night before? Steven had slept in her arms until… He wasn’t quite sure exactly when, but he had fallen asleep in her arms. And he had been traveling with the blasted little donkey and cart for seven years. He began to look on the ground for tracks indicating which way they had gone.
He found none.
As far as Steven could tell by the ground, there had been no one camped in this hollow but him and the soldier. There were no donkey tracks or other signs. There were no wagon ruts. There was nothing that would indicate anything other than what the sergeant had said.
Steven sat in the middle of the road and ground the heels of his palms into his eyes. He scuffed his feet into the dirt of the road looking for a sign of bricks, but even that evaded his investigation. Steven was heartbroken and confused. It was not possible that he had been here alone. What had transpired over the past seven years?
“Now, begging your pardon, sir,” interrupted the sergeant, “If you wouldn’t mind getting your pack together, we could get under way. Our journey lies that way,” he said pointing into the forest.
“Yes. Certainly,” Steven said quietly. He silently got up and put his pack together. There were plenty of strips of roast venison to pack in his bag, but certainly not a whole deer worth. He supposed it was just as well that Selah had taken the rest of the meat, because without the wagon he would surely have no means to transport it. He still could not understand how he could have slept through Selah rising, harnessing the donkey, and pulling the wagon with its tinkling bells away from the camp.
At last, he shouldered his pack, picked up his walking stick, and looked sadly around the last campsite he’d shared with his beloved.
“Are you absolutely sure you didn’t wake up when the lady left?” he asked the sergeant.
“Now, a soldier is always alert to what is going on, son,” said the sergeant. “I ain’t saying I slept the whole night long, but I ain’t saying I saw no lady get up and spirit away a donkey and wagon in the middle of the night, neither.”
“Spirit away? You mean she just vanished?” Steven asked incredulously.
“I didn’t say I saw that,” said the sergeant. “You can’t convict me for something I didn’t confess to. Now if we could get moving?”
“Lead on,” Steven growled.
He followed the soldier into the forest.
They had not gone far into the forest when Steven began to feel the need to talk. He had begun counting steps the moment they left the campsite—something he had not done in seven years. But now it seemed that if he kept track of the footsteps, he would know how far and in what direction he needed to go to get back to his beloved Madame Selah Welinska. The footsteps seemed hollow, however, and he was sure he could entice the sergeant to tell him more.
“Sergeant,” said Steven finally, “I don’t know your name. I am Steven George the Storyteller. What are you called?”
“I’m called Sergeant by those who know what’s good for them,” he answered.
“But surely you have a name, don’t you?” Steven probed.
“I ain’t saying I don’t have a name,” the sergeant answered. “You asked what I’m called. I’m called Sergeant.”
“All right, Sergeant,” Steven continued. “What is your name?”
The sergeant mumbled something in return and Steven asked him to repeat it.
“Busker,” the sergeant said more loudly. “I’m Sergeant Busker, if you must know. Now can we pick up the pace a bit here?”
“Well, Busker,” said Steven, “shall we tell each other stories to make the journey go faster?”
“Sergeant,” answered Sergeant Busker. “No one calls me Busker. And if you would like to make the journey go faster, we could pick up the pace a bit. This scarcely qualifies as a march.”
“I didn’t know we were marching,” Steven said.
“Soldiers march,” Busker answered.
“I’m not a soldier. I’m a storyteller,” Steven said. “I walk. So far, we have come seven thousand two hundred fifty-five steps this morning.”
“I’m a soldier. I march,” Sergeant answered. “We have barely ‘walked’ a league.”
It had been many years since Steven had picked up the pace, as Sergeant wanted. He had never hurried anywhere since meeting Madame Welinska seven years ago. But he remembered the one hundred five step-per-minute pace that had always been his norm on the road and determined to regain it for the sake of having civil conversation with Sergeant.
Sergeant was pleased when Steven set out a longer stride, but Steven had difficulty maintaining a consistent pace. It was once so simple, he thought. How I have changed.
“Why don’t you Once Upon a Time me,” Steven asked presently.
“I beg your pardon?” Sergeant shot at him.
“Tell me a story,” Steven clarified. “Then I shall tell you a story. It will be a pleasant way to pass the time and we shall both be a story richer by the end of the day.”
“Soldiers don’t tell stories,” Sergeant retorted. “Soldiers say only what they see with their own two eyes. Soldiers must always be depended upon to report accurately to their superior officers.”
“Well, let’s start there then,” Steven said happily. “What did you see with your own two eyes when you woke up in the middle of the night just before the lady and the donkey vanished.”
“I ain’t saying I saw no lady in the middle of the night,” said Sergeant. “I ain’t saying I saw no great winged dragon launch into the sky with a baby dragon at its side and a wagon in its claws, neither. That would be a silly thing to say I saw. No one would never believe it.”
“You saw a what?” Steven gasped.
“I didn’t say I saw nothing,” Sergeant said firmly and set his jaw as he lengthened his stride. Steven found himself running to catch up, walking and falling behind, and running again as the soldier seemed to maintain a smooth even stride. Sergeant finally pulled a small tambour from his pack and began tapping out the pace for their march. Steven found it much easier to settle into the pace with the steady beat.
“Is this how a soldier marches?” Steven asked after his breathing had caught up with the new pace.
“Aye, it is,” said Sergeant. “I use this to help new recruits learn how to set an even pace.”
“Tell me more about being a soldier,” Steven begged after they had traveled two more leagues, as Sergeant call them. The path which had once been a road continued to narrow, and they now “marched” in single file.
“What do you want to know?” asked Sergeant.
“I know nothing about the life of a soldier,” said Steven. “We have passed soldiers at different times, but never talked to them. I once served a company of knights. Is being a soldier like being a knight?”
“No!” answered Sergeant emphatically. “Being a soldier is more like being a knight’s horse, except you aren’t cared for so well.”
“Oh,” Steven said as he thought about how the company of knights had cared for their horses. The horses were always cooled, watered, fed, and brushed before the knights sat to eat. “Tell me more about being a soldier.”
“You want to know about being a soldier?” Sergeant asked.
“Yes,” said Steven. “Tell me about being a soldier.”
“Duck,” Sergeant said matter-of-factly.
“Wha…?” Steven began as the branch Sergeant had pushed out of the way snapped back and struck Steven full in the face, knocking him to the ground.
“That’s one,” Sergeant said, offering Steven a hand to get up to his feet. “A soldier obeys orders instantly. This time it was just a branch in your face. Next time it could be your life on the line.”
Steven climbed to his feet rubbing his face and mouth where the branch had struck.
“Now, step lively, recruit,” barked Sergeant, as he began a rapid tattoo on the tambour. Steven found it much easier to keep the pace now as he was alert to any sign that Sergeant would snap another branch into his face. The forest became denser, and the path got even narrower.
“Is the road like this all the way through the forest?” Steven asked. He was already regretting having ever argued with Selah about what direction they should go. The donkey and cart could never have made it through this dense undergrowth. Baby dragon? he thought fleetingly. Where had the road gone?
“We’re taking a shortcut,” said Sergeant. “We left the road two leagues ago. This path is a little more rugged, but we’ll get to the castle a full day earlier if we keep up this pace.”
Steven was listening to Sergeant, but even more to the forest sounds around him. In all his travels since he crossed the great river near his village, he had never left the road. It seemed to go everywhere he and Selah wanted to go. This was more rugged than even the game trails near the home he had left so long ago.
The sounds were different here. Sergeant had left off tapping the tambour as the forest closed in. Now, Steven was aware of his own heavy breathing and more than once thought he heard breathing behind him. He kept as close as he could to Sergeant, and thought the soldier had also become increasingly alert.
“Double time,” Sergeant said suddenly, and broke into a trot. Steven did not hesitate to keep pace as the forest seemed to become more and more threatening. The sun had been blocked completely by the foliage and Steven was certain he heard branches snapping behind and beside him.
Something was on their trail, and Steven wanted nothing more than to string his bow and nock an arrow. Sweat trickled down his forehead and into his eyes as he stumbled suddenly into a small clearing at the edge of a cliff. Without hesitating, Sergeant went over the edge, commanding, “Jump!”
Steven hesitated. Was he mad? He turned to look behind him and was faced with the biggest bear he had ever imagined. So startled was Steven that he stepped backward and over the edge of the cliff.
Time stopped as Steven saw the bear charge toward him, only to slide to a halt at the edge of the cliff, watching his dinner fall into the void. It seemed forever, as Steven held the eyes of the bear receding into the distance. Then his fall was arrested by tree limbs, giving way to dense brush that cushioned his impact with the ground that he never quite touched before stopping.
“Hoo-woo!” shouted Sergeant, jumping on the springy undergrowth. He offered Steven a hand and pulled him to his feet as they stepped off the cushion at the foot of the cliff and onto a path again.
“We jumped off a cliff!” Steven shouted in disbelief.
“Always trust your sergeant, recruit,” said Sergeant. “He’ll never lead you astray.”
“You knew we’d bounce?” Steven asked.
“It’s not like I’ve never done this before,” Busker said, “but I’m not saying I have, either. We usually take the path down the cliff over there,” he said pointing. “Speaking of which, we should get a good distance between us and this cliff, just in case that old bear decides we’re worth coming down the path for. If we’d tried to come down that way, one or both of us would have been dinner. But at least it was just a big old bear and not the Terror.”
Steven was shaking as they set off down the path again. The going became easier on this side of the cliff and by late in the afternoon they reached a river.
“We’ll camp here,” said Sergeant. “We’ve come nearly halfway to the castle now and the way will be easier after we cross the river.”
“Wouldn’t it be safer to cross the river now?” asked Steven. “We could be on the opposite side of where the bear is.”
“Oh, the bear is long behind us now,” Sergeant laughed. “Besides, a little thing like a river would be no barrier to it. Bears can swim. We’ll have to be careful to pick our way across on the rocks and I’d rather do that in the light of the morning, with a full belly and a night’s rest.”
They built a fire and enjoyed the venison they had packed. Steven was exhausted from the forced march of the day and could not remember the last time he had covered forty-two thousand seven hundred forty steps in a day. He surprised himself with that. Even running from the bear and jumping—or falling—off the cliff had not interrupted his count. He still knew where to go to get back to Selah.
He slept fitfully through the night, thinking at every moment that he heard the bear coming through the woods. But nothing appeared near the fire. In the morning, they continued their journey and at long last Steven saw the largest city he had seen since leaving Byzantium years ago. It was an uncomfortable feeling, for Steven’s adventures in the city had been disastrous, leaving without his knife, sword, horse, bow, or coins. There was little to be done, however, and he resolutely followed Sergeant into the castle of the King.
6
King
STEVEN AND SERGEANT arrived at the castle and the busy metropolis that surrounded it just minutes after the twin soldiers the sergeant had sent ahead arrived to announce they were coming. The soldiers had taken the road through the forest instead of the shortcut, and still managed to get lost on the way home. As a result, no one was ready for Steven’s sudden arrival. He was treated as an obstacle in the way, as the castle prepared for “an important guest,” and thought perhaps he had been summoned to meet someone else who would be there.
Eventually, Sergeant started ordering people around and everyone jumped at his voice to do whatever he said. Steven was taken to a fine room and a servant was assigned to see that he ate, slept, ate, and dressed in time for the King’s banquet the next night.
The bed was so soft that Steven scarcely slept all night. During the day, he was allowed to wander about the castle, always with the servant in tow, so he would not get lost. Of all the places in the castle he visited, Steven liked the kitchen the best. He tried not to get in the way, but commented on the seasonings and suggested herbs for the stew. Until he ate his noon meal, he was welcome to dabble with the kitchen help, but when the chief chef arrived to prepare the banquet for the evening, Steven was summarily shooed out as an army of kitchen help moved in to wash, chop, boil, sauté, roast, fry, and bake.
The servant assigned to Steven suggested they spend some time in the “game” room, which Steven assumed was a place where trophies of the hunt were kept. Or perhaps it was a zoo in which living species were on display from the King’s Forest. Instead, he found a room in which the children of the castle gathered to play.
There were various toys, including balls for the children to play with. Some—made from the bladder of a pig, he was told—bounced off floors and walls, as laughing children threw them from one to the other. Other balls were smaller and harder and were used to throw at various targets. Steven was enthralled with the happiness of the children in the room and waded right in among them to play as well.
He was thrown a ball and threw it to another, hardly having it out of his hand before he had to catch a different ball. The children, happy to have a little boy who was as big as an adult playing with them, soon evolved a new game where every ball was passed to Steven as quickly as it was thrown back. Several of these, unfortunately, went uncaught. Steven did his best to dodge the balls as they came upon him at an ever-increasing speed.
The servant had taken refuge behind some stacked bales of straw, behind which were huddled a variety of nurses and servants who peeked out cautiously to watch the children.
Steven discovered there was a rhythm developing in the children’s throws. Allowing one ball to hit him squarely in the chest and bounce off, he reached in the pocket of his vest and quickly put his whistle in his mouth. Although he couldn’t play much of a tune with both hands involved in catching and throwing balls, he started to pipe the same rhythm that the sergeant had used to enforce his march through the forest. The children, easily influenced by the rhythm, matched it with their throws and were soon taking orderly turns, as Steven caught and threw balls with both hands. He began to step to the rhythm of the music in a pattern reminiscent of Selah’s dance he had watched for the past seven years.
At one point, a nurse popped out from behind the straw to call the name of a child and usher her out of the room for “dressing.” She threw her ball to Steve, and then vanished out the door with her nurse. Steven, not knowing what to do with the abandoned ball now that there was no one to throw it to, tossed it into the air while he caught and threw another, and then caught the ball again before it fell to the floor.
Apparently, it was time for the children to be bathed and dressed for dinner, for they were subsequently called by their nurses and servants, threw their balls to Steven, and rushed out of the room. Steven lost track of the number of balls in the air, but the rhythm he had established allowed him to keep many in the air and only a few fell to the floor.
At last, he was faced with just one child, whose nurse had taken another and just returned for this one. Steven looked at the child and the child looked at Steven. Steven threw the balls into the air and caught them automatically as he watched the child. The child threw the last ball to Steven.
All the balls fell to the floor as Steven reached to catch the last ball. The child laughed with glee as though this had been the best part of the day. He ran off with his nurse and there were no more children in the room.
Steven’s servant appeared from behind the straw bales and called to him, as if he were one of the children. He led Steven away to be bathed and dressed for the banquet with the King.
Montague Magnus the Fourth, King and Liege of Sylgale, Puissant Paragon of Mariria, and the Simple Pride of Arining, was a jovial monarch. Some said he was simple of mind. Others whispered that the King’s simplicity was a front that allowed him to get the best of his enemies and to negotiate shrewdly. Certainly, the most recent victory over the King of the Southern Reaches in Byzantium seemed to be testament to this latter opinion.
Mariria, the city surrounding the castle, loved their King and enjoyed the stories of his misadventures. When Steven was led into the great hall where the banquet would take place, his presence was announced by a herald whose voice was considerably more authoritative than Sergeant’s had been when delivering the message to Steven.