The Dragon's Champion
Read The Dragon's Champion Online
Authors: Sam Ferguson,Bob Kehl
This is a work of
fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this
book are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE DRAGON’S CHAMPION
Copyright © 2013 by
Sam Ferguson
All Rights Reserved
To my wife and
children,
my
inspiration to become more than I am.
1
Erik sat alone.
The other apprentices huddled together on the far side of the hall. He heard
them laughing and jeering. He heard the clickity-clack of the dice rolling
across the floor.
“Hey, Erik,
won’t you join us?” one of the older boys teased.
“He can’t,”
another apprentice put in. “His master won’t let him.”
Erik rose from
his seat and laid his waster, a wooden long sword, on the cold, stone table in
front of him. “There is one game that my master does let me play,” he said. The
others fell silent for several moments. Erik knew that no one would accept his
challenge. They were afraid of him.
Awkwardly, the
others turned back to their game of dice. Erik ate the rest of his thick, meaty
stew alone, as he always did. He was more than ready to return to his studies
by the time the bell chimed, signaling the end of the meal period.
He carried his
waster, as Master Lepkin had instructed him, by the hilt and launched a
practice strike at imaginary enemies every three paces. He hated shadow
fighting while walking for two reasons. The first was the teasing and scorn it
earned him from the other apprentices. The second was that it slowed him down
so much that he was always late to his next class. As a result of his tardiness
Erik had received more demerit points than any other apprentice in the history
of Kuldiga Academy, but then he was also the first apprentice that Master
Lepkin had ever tutored.
The significance
of being Master Lepkin’s chosen apprentice was usually lost on Erik, except for
the few times when he had seen Lepkin’s flaming sword. The weapon was more
magnificent than anything Erik had ever seen. The long, curved blade was forged
of black, Telarian steel –the only metal strong enough to survive the Dragon’s
Flame enchantment. It was said that Master Lepkin had once wielded the sword
against three hundred men in defending Gelleirt
monastery
from Tarthun raiders.
Erik had asked
Master Lepkin to tell the tale many times, but Lepkin always refused. In fact,
Master Lepkin hardly spoke at all, except to give Erik new chores or
instructions. Erik found his master’s silence both aggravating and mysterious.
At times he felt despondent because of the solitude forced upon him by his
master’s silence. It accentuated the separation between him and the other
apprentices. Perhaps that was why Erik had challenged the others to a game of
swordplay. He had never done anything like that before.
Erik finished
his three hundredth practice strike just before he reached Master Lepkin’s
door. He slipped his waster into the frog, a leather loop on his belt, and
pushed the heavy, oak door open. He spied his master standing at the far end of
the chamber looking out the window. Erik assumed that his master was watching
the birds, or at least he was certain that’s what Lepkin would say he was doing
if Erik asked.
“I heard that
you drew your sword during lunch today,” Lepkin said.
Erik froze. He
wasn’t sure how to respond. He was almost as unnerved by Lepkin’s speech as he
was at the thought of how many demerits this would cost him.
“Yes, Master
Lepkin, I did,” Erik replied.
“Unsupervised
swordplay is forbidden,” Lepkin reminded him. “I heard that you told the others
that I allowed such games when you challenged them, is that true?”
“Yes it is,”
Erik said.
Master Lepkin
turned to face Erik. His face was hard, lined with a scar on his left cheek
that ran from his jaw-bone up to the top of his cheek-bone. The only other
marks on him were the crow’s feet caused by years patrolling the sun-washed
borderlands for Tarthuns. Despite the wrinkles, Lepkin’s blue eyes were fierce
and piercing, sparkling with the hard experience of battle. His mouth was
straight, giving no hint of smile or frown, nor did it open to utter any words.
Master Lepkin arched one eyebrow. It was the signal that he expected a more
elaborate answer.
“They were teasing
me again because I’m not allowed to play dice with them,” Erik explained.
“Close the door
and come in,” Lepkin instructed. “It is time to explain a few things.”
Erik obediently
closed the door and hurried to sit in a wooden chair opposite a large, high-backed
arm chair. A small, round table separated the two chairs, and was usually
covered with books that Master Lepkin was studying. Today only one book lay
atop the wooden surface. Erik recognized the characters along the spine as
those of the Peish language, the language of the dwarves, but he could not read
them. He was curious to know why this book was of such importance as to occupy
Master Lepkin’s reading table by itself, but now was not the time to ask. The
apprentice waited silently as his master approached and sat in the other chair.
“The others
tease you because they do not understand you,” Lepkin began. “Your rules are
different than theirs. Your methods of study are peculiar to them. Even the
other masters cannot comprehend the reasons behind your actions.” Lepkin leaned
back in his chair and crossed his right leg over his left knee. He looked up to
a tapestry on the wall and breathed in loudly. His eyes traced the pictorial
representation of his battle at
Gelleirt monastery
.
For a brief moment Erik was struck by the notion that Lepkin would finally talk
about the event.
“Were there
really three hundred raiders at the
monastery
?” Erik asked, trying to shroud his
excitement in reverence and respect.
“We are not
talking about that today,” Lepkin replied.
“Oh, I just
thought…” Erik’s words trailed off and he shifted uneasily in his chair.
“Never mind
about that,” Lepkin said with a nod toward the tapestry. “I want to know if you
understand why your regimen is so different from the other Apprentices of the
Sword here at Kuldiga Academy.”
Erik furrowed
his brow and thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” he said after a while. “I
assumed that swordplay was forbidden for our own safety, of course, but I don’t
understand all of your rules, Master.”
“Well,” Lepkin
began. “You are partially right about the swordplay, but we will discuss that
last. First I should explain that I chose you for a very specific purpose. I
will only train one apprentice during my time here at Kuldiga Academy, and that
apprentice is you.”
“Why me?”
Erik asked hesitantly.
“Because you
understand things that the others cannot, and because you possess skills and
talents that others do not.”
“But, I’m no one
special,” Erik protested. “I’m not even a true-born noble.”
Lepkin uncrossed
his leg and leaned forward. His eyes gazed directly into Erik’s. “You may see
this as a disadvantage, another difference that separates you from the others,
but I see it otherwise. Your background is the foundation of your talents,
knowledge, and understanding.” Lepkin smiled, ever so slightly from the right
corner of his mouth. “Your youth as an orphan taught you to be self-dependent.
You learned many harsh realities of the world. But, unlike many other orphans,
you were adopted by a nobleman. He and his family have showed you compassion,
empathy, charity, and trust. These are things that all legendary heroes
understand. The ability to function in the harsh world while showing compassion
to others is a rare gift. It is this that sets you apart from the others. This
is why I chose you.”
“But why do I
have all of these restrictions?” Erik asked. “If I’m already better than the
others--” Erik was cut off.
“I didn’t say
you were better, I said you were different.” Lepkin’s smile disappeared and he
sat back in his chair. “Pride is a vice that is also common among legendary
heroes,” Lepkin explained. “That is why I give you the rules you have. The
other masters say that I forbid you to play dice because I despise gambling.
They think I make you practice sword-strikes as you walk to train your
sword-arm for battle. They say that I am silent because I want to instill
respect in you. These are all half-truths. There are more important reasons for
my methods.” Lepkin shook his head and glanced to the empty fireplace.
“What are the
reasons?” Erik asked.
Lepkin arched
his eyebrow and looked back at his apprentice. Erik fought the urge to look
away from his master’s gaze. Internally he was squirming around like a basket
of snakes, but he forced himself to keep his composure, despite being extremely
uncomfortable.
“Your innate
knowledge and understanding of loneliness and compassion are not enough. As I
said, it is only a foundation. I will build upon this foundation, and together
we will create a warrior out of you, worthy of the Bard’s sonnets and the
people’s admiration. I forbid dice games because I want you to understand what
it is to feel alone and cast out. For this is the only way to instill in you a
lasting empathy for those that society scorns. Remember the leper is as worthy
of protection by the knight’s blade as any princess.”
Erik nodded
thoughtfully. It was beginning to make sense to him.
“You practice
sword-strikes as you walk so that others may judge you for it. This will give
you wisdom when you judge others so that you will seek to look beyond the
physical and judge not by what the world esteems, but by truth and empathy.
Remember that no matter how vile the monster, it was still created for a
purpose. People often fear what they do not understand. A knight must learn to
discern for himself what is evil and what is not.”
“Like the
Gelshon Witch Trials,” Erik said as it clicked for him. “The women were burned
as witches based only on the color of their eyes.”
“Exactly,”
Lepkin nodded. “At that time it was believed that women with green eyes were
the offspring of demons, imbued with dark powers. Now the people of Gelshon
know it is not so, but imagine the lives that were lost until Sir Roderik
arrived and stopped the trials.”
“The other boys
assumed many things about me because of my rules,” Erik noted.
“Not the least
of which, I’m sure, was the assumption that you are learning special sword
techniques that make you superior to them. The others fear you because of this,
but that will change today.”
“What do you
mean?” Erik asked.
“An Apprentice
of the Sword must choose his words carefully, for his word is his bond.
This lesson must be learned if you wish to attain
knighthood in the Order of Kelteshteg
.” Master Lepkin rose to his feet
and walked to a wooden chest that lay on the stone floor. He pulled a key from
the right pocket of his robe and turned it over in his hand. “During lunch, you
made an open challenge
to
many of the other
apprentices. Now you will follow through and duel each of them, starting with
the youngest.”
“I can’t fight
all of them,” Erik protested.
Lepkin arched
his brow and scowled. “You will follow through with your words. The other
apprentices will assemble in the courtyard.”
“Yes, master,”
Erik said. He dropped his gaze to the floor and slumped forward in his chair.
How was he supposed to beat all of them? Some of the boys were years older than
him.
“I have some
training armor here,” Lepkin announced. He opened the wooden chest and flipped
the lid up to reveal old, brown leather pads. Erik shuddered as he watched
Master Lepkin pull out each piece. First
came
the
large, apron-like chest pad. It had a hole for Erik’s head and the back and
front panels could be tied together at the sides so that it remained in place.
Then Lepkin pulled out a chainmail shirt, made of Feather-steel, a special,
lightweight metal designed specifically to protect apprentices at Kuldiga
Academy while sparring with wasters. Lepkin also removed leather leggings,
padded boots with shin guards, padded gloves, and a barbute helmet from the
chest.
“Master, I can’t
beat all of them,” Erik said. The words were almost inaudible, for he feared
that he would anger Lepkin.
“I did not say
that you had to beat everyone,” Lepkin replied with a shrug. “I said that you
will duel each of them.”
Erik nodded as
though he understood but his expression revealed that he didn’t.
“Do you know why
I am quiet?” Master Lepkin asked. He tossed the chest pads over to Erik and
motioned for him to get ready. “Before today, I haven’t spoken to you more than
a sentence or two at a time and those were either instructions or criticisms.
The other masters will say that I behaved that way to instill in you a sense of
respect, or even to make you fear me, but that is not so. I talked little in
order to create silence. For you must learn to listen, and you can’t listen
–truly listen- unless there is silence. So start listening to everything around
you, then you will come to understand your surroundings.”
Erik nodded and
began suiting up. He could appreciate what his master was saying, but it didn’t
ease his nerves at all. Within minutes, he was fully suited in his training
armor and on his way to the courtyard. Every three steps, he swung his sword at
an imaginary foe. This time however, he imagined the other apprentices’ faces
as he sliced the air. Master Lepkin walked slowly behind him, reading a book.
The walk to the
courtyard was painfully slow, thanks to the practice swings, giving Erik plenty
of time to think about what might go wrong while he dueled with ninety-seven
apprentices. He tried not to dwell on the fact that well over thirty of them
were older than him by several years. It seemed to Erik that nothing would overcome
the building dread inside of his churning stomach. He was wrong.
As he and Master
Lepkin entered the courtyard a chorus of laughter erupted around him.
“Look at his
training armor, it’s so
old
!” someone shouted.
