The Dawns Call

Winter crept in through the old master’s window. He hadn’t noticed, but soon found out. Sharp needle like frost crisped round the edges of the old stone walls, creating a prison cell, while the old man dreamt of warm fires, and toasting bronze goblets filled with rum, which burnt the tongue with the sweet richness of Spring. 

The wind howled through the castle window. He hugged the sheets closer to his body. It’s warmth had shielded him all night from the frozen air. If he had the choice, he would of stayed in the comforts of the sheets. Once he lifted the first sheet, the feeling of warmth was soon forgotten. His body shivered. Winter had made itself welcome during the night he noticed. 

Searching for his gown, which he soon found, neatly scattered over his bedside. He flung it round his body, and hugged it close to him. It was warm. But maybe not as warm as he’d hoped. The stone slabs numbed his feet. Painfully, he walked towards the old brace door, leaving his bed, and sheets and comforts behind.

Winter wasn’t the only intruder of the night. The Great Hall seemed so unfamiliar. The old stone walls were washed with darkness. The curtains loomed in the shadows as if they were alive. And seated at it’s throne, at the end of the old man’s hall, was a cold darkness. They stared at each other. A strong chill came towards him, filling the old man numb with fright. The master breathed heavily, till his breathe steamed through his nostrils like a dragon. There hadn’t been any dragons for over thousands years. Long may it last this way. 

A silver light found its way into the castle Hall. He knew it was the moon, but never felt like it was. A lonely candle sat on the Hall window sill. It’s waxed body glistened in the moon light like a ghost. It sat in a golden dish. It was beckoning for him. He fumbled round in his old gown pocket. One left. 

The flame twitched and swayed, as it danced in the darkness. It brought a sense of home to the old man, as he cupped his numb hand round the flame; warmth. He’d missed it. It was a second shield, a second comfort. The flame’s light peeled the darkness off the castle walls each time the flame touched it. The stories of a thousand years lay hidden in the castle walls. They knew more than any wiseman, and what future is to come. 

Th heads of dragons guarded the dead fireplace like gargoyles. The remains the last night’s feast lay in a body of ash. The smell of burnt rum washed through his memories, till he was reliving the night of the feast.

He could hear the sound of roaring fires and the clashing of goblets, toasting his name in his honour. Their cries and chants roared through the Great Hall like deathly howl. They sang the tales of olden times, and washed the sweet liquor of mead down their parched throats. He barely helped himself to his goblet of rum. Not even mead could soften his edges. The young man stared into the rum, it was as thick as blood, and it’s smell stung sharper than a sword’s blade. Finding no comfort, he changed his glance, and soon found himself staring into the eyes of the dragon’s head. 

The old master took another sip of rum. It burnt his tongue like fire. One more sip, and that shall be his last. “Your great, great, grandfather had slain that dragon himself, you know.” The young man stared towards his father, till their emerald eyes met each other. They’d both aged, but distant in years. “Tomorrow, you’ll be like him, and the many other greats of our family, you’ll make us proud.” 

The his son stared back into his goblet. His shame boiled in the red of the rum, as his own reflection stared back at him. “You’ve barely drunk to your own health,” said the old master, “Is the anything troubling you, my son? I could ask for some mead?” He said nothing, as he continued to stare at the shame. 

As if he were a piece of night, he came out from his shadowed corner, towards the host and his son. His hair blazed like silver, as the fire of the candles touched it. His body was clothed in a dragon skin. It was as black as a hunters night, which draped down him like a slaughtered rabbit hanging from a butcher’s thread. He had a sword, which he carried by his side wherever he went. He was hungry too, ravenous for a kill. 

“I see the young master is ready for tomorrows kill,” he said, to the old master, as he slithered through the guests. “He’s a slim as a stick, and as blunt as a kitchen knife.” The young man had no choice but to stare into his black eyes. Either way he looked, he’ll still be facing shame. “You see that boar, roasting in the fire, Flamigon Vic,” said the old Master. “My son, Jori hunted that boar. You’d go hungry for the night if it weren’t for him.” Flamigon stared at him in silence. His black eyes narrowed in disgust at the future Master. 

“Congratulations, master Jori,” he said in a flat voice. “May all the luck reign in you. I suppose a congratulations are in order.” They two shook hands. Flamigon’s hand was a clean as sin, hundreds of lives of dragons lay in his palms. He said no more, and made his way back to his shadowed corner.

“Don’t listen to him, son,” said the old Master, taking another sip. “Your pathway is just beginning. You’ll be a fine Master.” The two stood in silence, watching the fire dance off the logs. Jori gazed once more into the dragon’s eyes. They blazed like bronze burning in a furnace. “Why do we kill them, Father?” The old Master whipped his lips, the rum burnt him a little. He stared at the flames in a deathly silence, “I do not know, my son. I do not know.”

Last nights feast burnt in the old master’s memory. The dragon heads were as fierce in the winters morning as what they were last night. They gazed at him, standing alone, with is hand cupped round the little flame. A waxed tear slid down the candle’s side. 

The stairs spiralled up the old tower like a serpent, as the old man climbed to the top. His son was always in the tower, it was the only place where he could escape from the world he was living in. The old Master found Jori, gazing into the winter night, like a eagle about to spread its wings. His long blond hair glistened in the moonlight. His hands frail and numb. The sword lay resting in its sheath. It had been sharpened and ready for its new Master. “Are you ready, my son,” he asked? Jori gazed at his father. His emerald eyes met his. “Yes, father,” he said, “I am.” 

The men walked by each other’s side, shielding themselves in their cloaks as they entered the frozen courtyard. A brown stallion was waiting for Jori. He mounted the stallion, sent his wishes to his father, leaving behind the castle he’d known all his life. 

The sun burnt through winters night, lining itself with the earth, as the young master rode through the frozen air. The sun was beginning to wake, and was redder than blood. A hunters sun as what his father would have said. But Jori knew he weren’t what his father had hoped for. He gazed down at his sword, hoping it would change his mind. The shaming look of his reflection stared back at him. 

The sound of the horses hooves, beating against the snow filled him with emptiness, as the two rode to his death. The beating of the hooves only made him worse, as he felt the same as the hollow ground. 

He pulled the reins. The stallion reared to a halt, as young Jori stared into the snow. She lay in the ground, as the mounds of snow buried her into the ground. He unmounted his stallion, silently walking towards her. She was broken, a fallen angle, resting in the snow like she were ready for the earth to take her. Her eyes were fierce but wise. She was a dragon. 

Jori breathed heavily, his breath steaming each time he sucked in another mouthful. He stared into he fiery eyes. They brunt as bright as the flames of the sun. How could a man possibly slaughter an innocent soul such as hers? 

He gazed down at his sword once more. The face he saw wasn’t the shame. He took it from his sheath, and left it for the earth to sort. “I’m no dragon hunter.” The dragon eyes softened as he spoke. She breathed heavily into the snow, melting away the pain they each felt.