View Full Version : The Storm Hold's Call
The Storm Hold's Call (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w9E-oOmsz9k&feature=related)
2571
I sit here in disgust,
For the block strikes nigh again,
I've spent my day whittling my nib,
Fighting my restrain.
I want to write just one last verse,
A line to end all lines,
I want to smell the roses wrought
In the woodland realm of pines.
I talk myself a merry talk,
Soothe soul with caustic lies,
For every time I flick to paper,
The poet in me dies.
I seem to have hit an end stop,
A stop to all dictation,
Of dragons, dreams and dust I dream,
Of tripling and sedation.
I long to write like I’ve never written,
Make marks in a mystic land,
But here I am, settling for nothing,
Fighting with time's hand.
Cydney Oliver.
Ozoric turned the page of Carmella’s Almanac with zealous reverence. It was the sort of childish wonder only a scholar could muster over a text book, and the sort of curiosity driven mind that only madmen could appreciate.
“The lightning worm is the most vivacious of all the lesser dragons, coiled and easy to anger. When it is berated and bereft of any other option, it jettisons its solar reserves in lightning clouds and peals of thunder, capable of shattering bone and crushing rock.†The youth read a particularly interesting line under his breath, careful not to shout his obsession for the entire grand hall of the Drakengard to hear.
For three hours he had remained engrossed in the content of the tome, mouthing the words silently as he read for the most part, except where he could contain his exhilaration any longer. He had remained engrossed in the late explorer’s account of the many varied creatures of the Windlacer Mountains through a game of javelin along the dining room’s table, an argument between the serving girls and the head chef and a recital in practice for the summer solstice. Not one of the distractions had drawn his attention from the pages.
He was bedazzled by the anatomical accounts of dragon gizzards. Through his delving, he saw another world alien to his own. He was enticed to read more on the topic of the medicinal properties of ground oxen horns, the poisonous properties of lichen Fae and the soothing effects of the ice drakes’ aura. Somehow, Carmella had a way with words that drew him in. Despite all of his cold, stoic determination and logical approach to the assimilation of knowledge, she had him with her mysticism and wordplay.
Even though the young novitiate had never seen the windswept peaks, let alone been fortunate enough to travel Scara Brae herself, the book brought the land to life through its vivid descriptions and its involving narration. The more he read, the more he felt like he was there, taking in the air, crying at the beauty of it all with a well of emotion.
Though he was not technically enslaved, trapped or bound to his duty in the ranks of the Dragoons, Ozoric was trapped by other means. He was snared with his own sense of self duty. The Drakengard had given him a life, an education, an opportunity unlike any other in all the kingdoms of Althanas. He doubted that he would ever get the opportunity to retrace Carmella’s steps through the steppes, because of his own stubbornness and self-loathing.
Though the flickering flames of the grandiose fireplace kept him warm and comfortable in his seat, the thought of remaining in the bleak mountains of northern Corone chilled him to his very bones. It left him shivering late at night, trembling at the prospect of remaining in turgid isolation. When he finally came to know sleep he dreamt of nothing other than flying on a dragon’s back, soaring over the country that scorned him and the world that was denied to him.
“One day Ozoric you will go out into the world. One of these days…†he paused to make certain he believed the conviction in his own dreams. He cleared his throat to ratify his position. “One year, you will see the wonders the words you read describe…†With succour boredom dripping from his tongue he redoubled his efforts. If anyone had been listening, they might have displayed repulsion at his half-hearted commitment to changing his own life’s circumstances.
As he ran out of descriptions of dragons and demons, his fingers flicked faster and faster through the sections on tame creatures. He had no interest in the gentle beasts of the flats; they were beyond his purview, cast out of the arena of war that he stood in. There were many entries about wildebeest, hanging creepers and gazelles, none of which interested his enthusiastic mind for the more feral creatures of the world. After ten or so pages he came across another entry on black dragons, and beamed a smile of contention that could have shattered glass.
2572
“Better, much better.†He settled back into a slouch in the tall wing back chair by the grand hall’s fireplace and continued to read.
The youth spent many of his days in a similar fashion. With fanatical zeal and without fail he always rose early to tend to his many chores. He always roused from slumber at least half an hour before the serving girls rang a gong at the end of each dormitory hall and barracks. With vigilance, they sounded the dawn’s arrival at the sixth hour of each day. They did so with a sense of honour and duty that even the dragoons could not match, and most importantly, they did so without fail. His tasks include the long list of mundane chores that were required of a novitiate, and many self-imposed rituals of order. Once those were completed he spent the remainder of the dawn cleaning his armour, marshalling the day’s guard and shovelling mountains of dragon dung from the battlements.
By early morning he would be relinquished of his duties. Between one war and another he was given a few meagre hours to do as he pleased. He could do what he pleased until the grand horn atop the tallest tower of the Drakengard sounded. This great instrument served two purposes; the first was to change the guard, the second was to call those coming off duty and those who were not marshalled to the great hall. There, they would revel in the company and the providence of the midday feast. Once they had taken their fill, they would then scatter and do as Ozoric did – clean their armour, put away their tools and then relax until sundown when the guard changed once more and the evening lessons began.
The Dragoons of the Drakengard had eaten together in the central chamber of the mountain fortress for centuries. The guards, servants and seamstresses joined them in one of the few times when rank, station and squalor faded into obscurity. During the feast, everyone was equal. In the hall, there was no hierarchy, only celebration and relaxation. It was less a requirement of their station and duty, and more a legendary tradition passed down through the generations. Almost a full score of men and women young and old would pour in through the triple arches on the northern wall. They came like crows to a carcass when the great horn sounded its peal. This grand procession lasted for almost half an hour.
They were drawn down from the many aerie crofts and dragon pens. The deep thunder of horn travelled all over the Drakengard, and no magic, door or wall offered any resistance. Right up to the library towers and down into the deep and empty bowls of the mountain they would be summoned. They were drawn with the promise of honey roasted meats and platters of vegetables piled high several feet high. Sometimes there would be game and sweet meats and sourdough amongst the platters, though this depended on the success and daring of the hunters, and wherever or not they dared to venture down to the flats of Corone.
A cacophony of mumbling voices finally dragged his attention away from the iridescent fire.
“Get those plates out lad, chop chop!” it was the unmistakable voice of the verger.
His tall white hat and long stirring spoon had earned him the pious nickname long before Ozoric had arrived on the mountain. Nobody questioned the title once they learned of it, and fewer still dared to ponder on its origins beyond the obvious, physical facts presented to them. There was a certain mystical quality to the name, one that transcended the hierarchy of the aerie. The verger was one of the few servants who could chastise a dragoon and be allowed to do so. He had even brought the Knight Commander down a peg or two in his many years of service, or so Ozoric was lead to believe.
His eyes, long strained reading from the pages of Carmella’s spidery script took a few moments to adjust to the gloom. In the twilight, the novitiate could make out the shapes of several servants standing around the verger. Behind them at the far end of the hall, several servant entrances on the southern wall divided the feast from the warren like kitchen and stores beyond. In the twilight, the novitiate could make out the shapes of several servants standing around the verger. Ozoric had been in every chamber of the Drakengard except those of the kitchens. He had seen with his own eyes the armour of the forefathers, the blades of kings and the spears of the gods, but had never been fortunate enough to look upon the cooking pots that kept the army of the aerie alive.
There was frenzied movement in the gloom.
“Do they never rest?” He asked no-one in particular. He flicked his brown hair from his eyes, and his pupils glowed with a rush of anger at being disturbed from his study. His scars, tattoos and aura burnt brighter for a moment before it died.
At the end of the hall, a company of stoic men and grizzled women clad in splattered white overalls carried large trays back and forth to the far end of the grand gallery table. Its long, single length ran along the centre of the hall. Despite its relatively slender size, it was an imposing presence in the ancient stronghold. It was lined with four scores of chairs and various well stained benches, and every three chairs there was a taller chair, reserved only for higher ranking members of the dragoon guard. Those chairs were ornate and gothic, older perhaps than the Drakengard itself, imported from distant lands in times forgotten.
“It cannot be midday already,” he moaned.
If it was nearly time for the feast then it would nearly be time for him to report to the armoury. If it was nearly time for him to report to the armour, then it was nearly time for him to ascend to the tower and call the Storm Hold. After that he would have to help marshal the new patrol for the coming moon’s cycle in the stables. His peculiar skills and talents were vital to calm the younger hatchlings into compliance and to keep the elder dragons mindful and challenged by the conversation between intelligent beings. Ozoric suspected that he was called upon so much so that the marshalling transpired without incident.
Ozoric had witnessed the grand ritual of the feast preparation enough times in his short life to know that once the end of the table was loaded, a team of serving boys and girls would arrange them into appropriate places all along the gallery’s mottled surface. Wherever you sat at the table at feast time, a plate of meat, vegetables and deserts was always within an arm’s length. Sadly, as he was in the middle of his training, and it was his turn to sound the horn, he would not witness such wonders. He had to eat before the others, and thus would not partake in the feast today. It would be not until the moon cycled and someone else took up the mantle that he was allowed to re-join his brethren. It was a respectful responsibility to bear, but he had started to miss the company whilst he ate, the raucous storytelling and the camaraderie amongst like-minded men.
“Mr Newalla, Mr Newalla!” the spritely and squeaky voice of a young kitchen hand broke Ozoric’s train of thought. Its perky pitch told the novitiate all he needed to know about its owner’s identity. It could only be the young scamp Jack.
Sure enough, as the duke peered out from behind the wings of the chair he caught sight of the boy. The lad’s cheeky grin and messy hair was an all too familiar sight to the novitiate, who had become somewhat of an uncle, or perhaps a father to the orphan.
“Hello there Jack, you little scamp. What’ve you got to eat for me today?” He disappeared from the boy’s sight to set his book down on the small coffee table. It dropped onto the polished surface with a satisfying and relinquishing thud. The elaborate piece of furniture depicted a swarm of coiled dragons locked in warfare with sky titans and behemoths. There were fragments of shattered glass embedded in the wood, hammered in place by clumsy artisans long ago. It stood between Ozoric’s chair and the empty vessel opposite.
A tinkle of cutlery and careless footfalls reminded Ozoric of home comforts. In the background, he could make out the verger’s heavy voice still working hard to drill his motley crew of servants into quicker and more efficient routines of work. As Jack pushed the plate right under the youth’s nose Ozoric could only chuckle at the youth’s insistence on making him happy. Hospitality was taken to be just as important as defence in the Drakengard, and the servants and chefs of the expansive kitchens were treated as culinary gods.
“There’s meat n’ tatties and gravy.” Jack recited the menu devoid of enthusiasm. He added a flourish of excitement as he continued, “and o’ course Mr Newalla, as it’s Tuesday, you got the delights o’ Virgil Pie!”
Ozoric dutifully licked his lips.
“That is excellent news Jack, excellent news!” he flinched inside; the sight of fat draped over his vegetables turned his stomach as he accepted the platter.
The stodgy meat pie was called Virgil Pie because the first chef of the Drakengard, Virgil Pore had instilled the meaty vestibule into the tradition of the castle’s kitchen. It tasted of cinnamon and pepper, lashing of black corns rising to the challenge of giving flavour to what was essentially dragon stomach gristle. The first time Ozoric had eaten one he had nearly fainted under the weight of the meat’s fat and gravy. He had taken too kindly to it out of respect for his host at the time, but on this occasion he meant every moan and groan of his enjoyment. He practically felt his stomach groan as it produced a strange noise.
Jack giggled before he stepped back towards the servant doors. As he bounced away he did not forget to bow.
“God bless the cook,” Ozoric prayed. “Thanks Jack!” he added a little too late for the boy to hear. He doubted the servant ever considered him rude for forgetting his manners; he was so deluded by respect he could’ve beaten him with cudgel and still have been godly in his estimations.
He stared at the tin plate longingly as he set it down on his lap. The scent of the gravy filled his nostrils, and he couldn’t help but groan with appreciation as he was stricken with fervour only found in men occupied with hearty meals. With careful and calculated movements he adjusted his position to keep it level, so the lake of gravy that covered his meal didn’t slop over the edges onto his newly cleaned clothes. For his duties in the Drakengard that didn’t involve manure, he always wore pristine cotton slacks and an embroidered tunic shirt with the motif of his station – a coiled Sundering Worm, a young dragon on the rise through the nest.
“God bless the cooks,” he corrected himself. In the catacomb like kitchens, there were too many hands turning the production of the food that sustained the fortress to place the praise on one soul alone. Though the verger was the commandant of the army of men and woman unseen in the shadows, Ozoric had no doubt that there were potentially hundreds of people keeping the guard and dragoon alive.
He picked out the carrots from beneath a smothering pile of mashed potatoes with agile fork thrusts. There were plenty of starch roots and meat, just as Jack had promised, though Ozoric wished the promise was unfulfilled. He moved the different components of his meal around on his plate gingerly whilst he tried to remember the name of the strange root vegetable that occupied most of his platter. It had been roasted in the same pan as the modest slab of mountain ox that covered half the plate, and somehow, the young dragoon knew the subtleties of the flavour of the vegetable would be lost under sludge of animal fat. Ozoric was the sort of man that couldn’t eat something he didn’t know the name of.
“Oh dammit,” he mumbled with frustration in between mouthfuls of potato.
They were cooked to perfection and each chomp mushed the starchy texture into a smooth, creamy delicacy. He vowed one day to find out how such an ugly food could produce such wondrous meals. “What’s it called…” he prodded the root with an elegant fork thrust whilst he continued to eat.
A clatter of plates, a smack cracking against supple skin and a childish cry broke the youth’s concentration.
“What in the blazes?” He looked back over his shoulder at the dinner preparations with a cautious curiosity. The verger was stooped over a servant who had, from the tell-tale signs of the bright green dots on the warm slabs in the distance dropped a tray of peas.
The homely noises turned his thoughts to the rest of the day that lay ahead. With a full moon soon to grace the battlements of the Drakengard, Ozoric knew he had many tasks to complete during that afternoon that were of the upmost importance. In two days’ time the north front marshal would return to the fortress. After days of preparing their replacements he would then have to give consul and company to the dragons that had flown and the thought of listening to the ancient drake’s woes subconsciously scared him.
“I best not eat too much,” he reminded himself.
He closed his book, finally growing tired of academic pursuits, of reading about lightning worms and fire dragons scoured by inferno cloak and incandescent aura. If he gorged himself on the food offered to him then the nausea he often experienced when communicating with his kin telepathically would waste the joy experienced consuming his fill.
Despite the raucous dressing down of the servant raging on and on at the back of the hall, Ozoric continued to eat his fill in relative silence. With each lash of the wooden spoon against soft skin he found himself flinching in half actualised sympathy. Ever since he had arrived at the Drakengard he had chosen to eat by himself more often than not. He remained diligent to not become too reclusive, though the balancing act between despondent and over familiar was a challenge unto itself
. He spent many of his evening meals in the libraries in the central halls in scholarly stupor, and many of his free daylight hours sat on the battlements, catching a verse or recital of dragon song with the howling winds rushing through his hair. Even though he was ever busy, pressed into service that bordered in slavery, there was plenty of time to explore the citadel and find oneself lost in its ever unfolding secrets. He relished the opportunity to spend a new day’s dawn discovering another corridor forgotten to the folds and turn of time’s hand.
Ozoric looked down at his plate, and with the potatoes devoured and the pools of gravy set free to smother the peas, the youth subconsciously began to cut into the roast meat with rugged slices and sharp jabs. Though it would no doubt taste heavenly and give him the energy and satisfaction he needed for his afternoon’s work, he cursed and mumbled insults at the chef under his breath. He finally set a piece free and brought it up to his lips on the prongs of his fork. With three gentle, ritualistic blows of his breath he cooled it, before he set it on the tip of his tongue.
“Good heavens Master Ozoric, do you ever rest?” A voice boomed from the north entrance.
The youth sighed and set down his pie crust.
With his dissatisfaction vented he looked up from his meal at the dancing glow of the firelight. There, awaiting his acceptance was the behemoth of a man that guided Ozoric through his career like a father did a son.
“Well, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Ozoric smiled with a welcoming grin.
In the arches that divided the great hall from the entrance, standing with an imposing grin on his face was the captain of the guard, Aelfric. Aelfric was a mammoth like man from Salvar who had come to the Drakengard many moons before Ozoric had been born. Behind the great plates of steel and rolls of fur around his neck there was, or at least Ozoric supposed a gentle and kind hearted man. As he strode over the cracked flagstones of the venerable hall he clinked and scraped his heavy boots over the stone. Wherever the Mammoth went, as he was mockingly called by his peers, there was fortunately fun and frolicking and conversation to be had at Aelfric’s expense, despite the lofty respect for his talent.
“Hello Captain. What can I do for you on this fine and most resplendent morning?” He raised his eyebrow inquisitively, chewing on the meat slowly between syllables.
“Don’t worry lad, I’m not after you and I don’t want you to run errands for me.” He lifted his bulk into the folds of his armour and sat with a heavy thud into the opposite chair. It creaked and groaned beneath his impressive size. “I’ve come down from the Storm Hold, and rather famished at that.”
“Why were you up there?” Ozoric’s croaky voice gave away his curiosity perhaps more than he might have liked.
The Storm Hold was the name given to the small chamber at the top of the Drakengard’s north tower. It royally served as the council chamber for war councils, a council that housed the mouth piece for the grand horn. Though the instrument’s length ran on the outside of the tower for almost several hundred feet before it opened out into its gaping maw, the seat of its power rested in the Storm Hold itself, the electrified chamber that enhanced the thunderous notes of the ancient instrument.
“Nothing more glamorous than lookout duty I am afraid,” he guffawed.
His moustache rolled as he played with it.
“Even a captain has to stand amongst his men and be counted.” From behind his titanic great helm Ozoric was certain that Aelfric smiled with the sort of pleasure reserved only for afterhours pursuits. He was legendary amongst the Drakengard populous for his dedication and enjoyment in his position. The ram’s horns that adorned his head gear were even more so, a daemonic visage that haunted the enemies of the bastion for decades long after it had been witnessed.
“That is quite true Aelfric. For a man to truly lead or at least for him to lead with conviction; he must lead from the front, not the behind.”
“You are always full of pearls of wisdom Ozoric. Aren’t you glad that I have appeared?” It was a rhetorical question that Ozoric only nodded in agreement to. It was not worth the time to pursue it further. Aelfric had always tried to get the boy to measure up to his own self-worth, but he was eternally too meek and humble to take praise well. “Will you be sounding the horn for lunch today too?”
“Yes sadly. I’m going to finish this page then rise to the Storm Hold.”
“Would you object young sir, if I accompanied you to the sounding of the horn?” The man had a pleading look in his eyes that suggested dreamy longing. Ozoric paused for a moment to try and work out how to proceed. He nodded as he shovelled in the last mouthful of gravy smothered peas. “Excellent my man, I would appreciate it more than words could ever summarise!” Ozoric did not question the man’s words, as he believed every syllable.
Though the captain was very much respected by the dragoons and by the elders of the fortress, Aelfric was no dragoon himself. This meant he could never sound the horn, and he seldom got the chance to see another perform the task.
“Before we continue to the spire, is there anything to report from the Drakengard’s garrison?”
Aelfric shifted his weight in his chair. He paused momentarily to catch a servant’s eye with a wave of his hand. The plate work of his gauntlet caught the flames of the fire and lit up like a flaming torch, trailing the need for attention. His beacon of summon cried out the need for food, and for a larger helping of what Ozoric had been given to satisfy his ravishing hunger.
“I’m afraid to say that there isn’t really anything to speak of. The north marshal will return soon, as you know all too well. When you sound the Storm Hold you’ll be changing the guard for the hundredth time this year. There have been no reports of attacks, spies, rampant dragons or deaths amongst the dragoons. There has been no danger on patrol for over a month.” Aelfric spoke with a solemnity that came only from a man who was on edge. Though peace meant pleasure for many, for the martial members of society, it meant a slow, languishing decline into nothingness.
This was instantly something Ozoric feared.
They had never witnessed so quiet a winter, let alone one which had been as uneventful as to make to make the dragoons sleepy. He had already had to raise several of the elder beasts loyal to the Drakengard from stupors in their dark caves, bartering and riddling with their ancient minds in a mental duel. On the other hand this silence meant that many of the dragoons could return safely to their families at night, and the crypt of the Dragon Kin and the unknown graves around the foot of the fortress would not be added too for another cycle of the moon.
For that at least, Ozoric was most grateful.
“I suppose, as the provost marshal himself would say, that no news is good news.” Ozoric spoke drearily, as if he were speaking out of convention, and not of love or meaning.
The captain tugged at his helmet with grubby fingers before he found the leverage to lift it from his head. His long hair, which was unnaturally flaxen and clean for a man with such a rugged beard, fell down over his shoulders. It seemed to fall for an age, relishing every moment of its new found sobriety as it was freed from its cage. With a careless toss he dropped the helm over the arm of his chair. It crashed against the stone noisily. Ozoric flinched, a scholarly twitch indicating his annoyance at any unnecessary noise.
Though Aelfric was a battle hardened veteran, with many dragon deaths on his roster, his face was somehow untouched. Despite the many scars brandished like war paint by the younger guards and the dragoons themselves the captain had somehow, through prowess or luck remained unscathed by war. Aelfric had recounted many tales of brave battles on the ramparts and those illustrious days before he had come to the Drakengard. He had been a guardsman in Radasanth as a young adult, so it always puzzled Ozoric how he managed to remain so flawless in his physical health.
“No news is good news for some, but don’t let the silence fool you. War and conflict and trouble are the meat and mead of this place.” Aelfric couldn’t help but take on a condescending tone, which Ozoric could only frown at.
“I know that,” he mumbled.
“If something doesn’t happen soon I can picture the guards fighting each other out of frustration. Though of course that would mean making a few extra coin would be possible.” He smiled as he dropped his blade in a similar fashion to his helmet. It crashed and rattled on the stone, rocking on the hilt’s gem for several seconds before it came to a stop.
“You’d bet against the indemnity your own men?” Ozoric raised his right eyebrow with bewilderment, chewing the last hunk of roast meat slowly as if it were literally the last in all the mountains. “That seems crude, even for you captain.”
Aelfric smiled; he had forgotten that Ozoric was what the guardsmen would have called a soft touch.
“What’s wrong?” Ozoric caught his gaze and peered out from behind the wings of the chair. He realised the captain’s sudden joy was not because of the prospect of earning a year’s wages on a sword’s swing. It was at the sight of a young servant teetering towards them with a plate twice the size of his own.
“Hungry are we?” He chuckled. With a soft rush of air he fell back into his chair. From Ozoric’s estimate the plate was filled twice as high and covered in twice as much gravy and dripping as his own. He caught a waft of thick, stodgy stock as the servant walked past and set the plate clumsily onto the table. He fought his own hunger pangs, quashing the realisation he perhaps hadn’t eaten enough with thoughts of the headaches and vomiting that would follow in the aerie if he did.
“Thank you very much lad. Off you goes now back to the kitchen,” the captain palmed a copper coin into the child’s greedy maw and ruffled his hair before he pushed him politely back towards the serving doors.
Ozoric rolled his eyes.
“It always amazes me to see everyone in the Drakengard go out of their way to make sure you are pleased. They go the full extent of their efforts to make sure you are gratified and thankful, even above all the others. Even the Knight Commander herself doesn’t get the same quality of care you do.” Though that may have been because she had a foul temper and lived only to serve.
“What does that mean?” Aelfric snapped. He scooped the plate onto his lap, his eyes widening at the vast array of food on offer as well as with disgust at the intention he misinterpreted from his charge.
“It means the people of the Drakengard respect the captain of the guard for the job he does, and for the security of their lives and their homes.”
Aelfric contemplated Ozoric’s stifled response over a languishing amount of chewing. He tore through the gristle of his meat with his monstrous and much stained teeth, which had been worn into jagged peaks by long years of manly disservice. It took him a while, but he eventually nodded with humble agreement.
“Respect doesn’t always come with titles, nor is it given without contemplation to those who hold them. You, Aelfric Athelstan, are respected because of the job you do and the person you are.” Ozoric set his fork down onto his plate at an angle and then scooped the last of the gravy into the centre. There was still plenty of food on his plate but he had eaten his fill. He set it onto the table with a lazy stretch of his arms.
“You’re a good lad Ozoric, a good lad indeed. Things have been different in the Drakengard since you arrived, very different.”
“What does that mean,” he replied with a smile, mocking Aelfric’s tone.
“We don’t get many young novitiates through our gates anymore. In the old days, there were countless, but they’ve all become Dragoons now, lost to experience. With the civil war stealing most of the able bodied young men from their homes to fight the rangers, there is little left for us to keep the northern frontier safe and stable.”
Ozoric could only swallow his words and his pride. Aelfric’s praise and commentary was true enough. Ever since he had arrived in the Drakengard people had seemed to act differently around him. The women and the men alike all coddled him like a younger brother, somehow brought to life out of long stale years by the presence of a novitiate. Their invigoration was exemplary, especially more so with a young novitiate amongst their number.
“I’m perhaps not quite the breath of fresh air you think I am, Aelfric.” Ozoric lolled his head to one side and sighed.
He was a scholar, and though praise for his academic pursuits pleased him no end he had not yet mastered the art of taking a compliment for being nothing more than whom he was. “I am sure younger people will continue to come to the Drakengard once the revelry of the civil war is finished.” He sat upright when he finally realised that they were no longer alone. Pre-emptive and ever hungry people had started rifling through the entrance at the far end of the hall.
“I hope they do son, I hope they do.” The captain continued to plough through his meal, oblivious to Ozoric’s abandonment of his own food.
“Now hurry yourself up with that, we have to leave soon if you want to see the Storm Hold’s Call.” The young dragoon took on a mantle of diplomacy to encourage the grizzled captain to do his bidding.
Ozoric was dutiful and incredibly attentive to his responsibilities, no matter what he was called to do during his training. Not once in the cycle of calling the changing of the guard had he been even a second late. His lips had rested on the brass ring of the Storm Hold in plenty of time, and he did not plan on changing that for anyone.
“Right you are lad, right you are.” Aelfric scooped up the last of a collapsed pie. Its filling abandoned the soggy gravy stained pastry as he piled it into his mouth. With a noisy, satisfying and wet burp the captain showed his appreciated for his sustenance and set the plate down onto the table next to Ozoric’s with a heavy bang.
“I can only assume from that elegant display that you are ready to depart?” He raised an eyebrow sarcastically. He scooped up his book. The feel of the leather in his grasp comforted him.
Aelfric nodded as he attempted to flick away the spilt food from the polished recesses of his breastplate. He gave up without much effort, letting it dry alongside blood, lamp oil and sweat sodden fur.
“Good then, if you’re ready please follow me to the horn.” The youth rose from his seat slowly, uncertain of the effect his meal would have on his balance. His pallid skin and glowing eyes carried a malice that was only rivalled by the harshest of the flames. His slow movement told Aelfric that the boy was overworking. “It will soon be time and it’s quite the climb.” Ozoric was never good at metaphors; quite the climb meant several thousand steps.
Ozoric did not wait for the captain to don his helmet and adjust his scabbard so that he could walk without impaling himself on the furniture. Before Aelfric had crossed the threshold out into the cold hall Ozoric was already at the foot of the spiral stairwell that rose up through the barracks and store rooms. It turned in twelve rotations before it broke out onto the aerie’s first dragon pens and then rose up the inside wall of the Storm Hold’s tower.
“Hurry up captain, we haven’t got all day!” he roared over his shoulder, stopping to turn with one foot on the first stair and one on the polished floor of the grand entrance hall. Several onlookers, casually strolling into the hall stopped to chuckle.
Charging like a bull in a crockery larder, Aelfric cleared the gap between them in short order. He stopped just in front of Ozoric, face red, cheeks wheezing. Though the captain was a large man, well versed in combat and military tactics he had allowed his physical condition to slip. He slapped his thighs and bent forwards to recover. “That is easy enough for you to say young ‘un!”
Ozoric rolled his eyes.
“Right,” he pushed himself upright. He tugged his helmet on pushing his hair into the folds of the neck guard. “Lead on.”
“Gladly,” the youth leapt up three stairs before kicking into a gentle pace. “How is Lady Hyson?” His voice carried up the wide stairs, bouncing and echoing off the cold stone walls. From above, flickering torchlight illuminated both men with a wave of golden light. Though it was sunny and bright out in the open air, so deep in the castle there was no natural light. Even the meagre windows and light holes that carried twilight shades into the hollows could not bring the sun’s touch into the Drakengard’s inner sanctum.
“Lady Hyson is as boisterous and,” Aelfric minced his words carefully. Lady Hyson, his wife of thirty years was a powerful woman in the Drakengard. She had a way about her, a bark, Aelfric had jested that brought even the strongest willed Dragoons to their knees. “She has taken to the silent treatment instead of violence when I do not return home to her in time.” She was also the sort of woman that kept her husband to a strict timetable, on a tight leash, and gave no quarter when he broke her rules.
“She’s well then?” Ozoric said sarcastically, folding his arms over his chest with his book nestled in his grasp. Away from the fire he was swiftly growing cold. He did not possess the natural insulation of his colleague.
Aelfric chuckled.
For the next three hundred or so steps they walked in silence side by side. Ozoric’s lithe advance stood in contrast to Aelfric’s heavy footfalls and boisterous wheezing. If the captain could have had his way, he would have stopped to take a rest between each of the well-worn stairs. “As well as she can be being married to the Athelstan.”
Over the long centuries the centre of the stone had curved and become polished beneath innumerable feet. It was so smooth and perfectly aligned that if you wanted, you could literally slide down the entirety of the Storm Hold’s lofty heights on a tea tray or kite shield. Ozoric had only ever watched other foolhardy novitiates attempt this task; he would never risk his life to follow in that particular set of footsteps.
The Storm Hold had been installed many centuries ago into the tallest tower of the aerie. It’s central chamber was a long, empty hollow, with nothing more than a spiral staircase twenty or so feet wide rising up its inside. Every hundred feet there was a small window, and every five hundred, a small half-moon balcony that a guard could watch the mountains from in a silent vigil. On any of those balconies, you could see the entirety of the fortress and its many spires, barracks and maze like webs of needle thin bridges and skywalks. Given Ozoric hated the cold, and hated the monotony of guard duty, he was very thankful he was not amongst the ranks of Aelfric’s brotherhood.
At the top of the tower the spiral staircase rounded out into a small hole in the floor that served as the ante chamber to the Storm Hold. There were four stairs leading up to a circular platform which covered the central hole that ran down the tower. Atop the platform, there was a small dais from which the musician on duty could sound the horn. A dome covered the tower which was missing four of its compass facing walls. When the weather was bad, the open structure threw the blower of the horn to the whims of the elements.
Luckily for Ozoric, there had never been any fatalities or long descents from the tower’s peak. On the framework overhead, between the gold veins and the etched depictions of dragon kin there were four weathervanes, and a tall, hair line fracture through which rain often dripped; sometimes, water drops made it all the way to the great hall’s entrance hall almost a mile below.
Ozoric sometimes watched them fall. He peered over the edge of the platform into the abyss for several minutes as they vanished into the shadows. He pictured them descending like comets to the ground, exploding violently on the flagstones far below. According to legend, the great black dragon Amuck had landed on the Storm Hold thirty years ago in a violent rage, and its claws had made short work of the enchantments that supported the structure.
“It’s an impressive sight isn’t it?” Ozoric waved his right arm over the dais and gestured up at the suspended mechanism of the horn.
“Without equal I’d say, except perhaps for Lady Hilson in her best ball gown.” Though Aelfric might have enjoyed that mental image, the bright salmon pink folds and crème ribbon were not something Ozoric wished to picture.
The mouthpiece was small and wrought of silver. It curved up in a bend before descending down out of the north facing exposed balcony. It descended two hundred feet in a slowly widening tube until it broke into two. Then it went down two hundred more feet before it gathered into a long, wide trumpet and vented from its gaping maw it’s thunderous peals and call to arms.
“When the sun rises, they say you can see the Storm Hold catch the sun and explode into gold light, like a beacon of hope for all dragons to return home to roost to. I think impressive is doing it an injustice,” Aelfric replied in earnest. He slapped his knees as a sign he was fatigued, but advanced behind Ozoric as they crossed the platform to the mouthpiece.
“I have never seen that, but I would very much like to.”
“Do they not let you out after dark boy?” The captain chuckled, his beard whipping with his guffaws.
“Oh you are so very funny Aelfric. I’m glad you’re so eternally humbled before something so poignant!” he hopped up onto the dais and ran his finger down the end of the horn. It was cold to the touch because the brass and silver bound instrument conducted the zenith of the cool wind as it came in over the eastern peaks and carried away sound to the west.
“You need to lighten up Ozoric. I’m only jesting.” His dry sardonic tone worked well to bring a smile to the novitiate’s face. “That’s better,” he added.
“When the sun rises over the peaks high enough we will know it’s time. The light catches the enchantment on the rim of the horn. It illuminates the etching all along its length, exploding into bright blue light as if the two dragons coiled about the horn were being brought to life right off the metalwork.” The youth started hopping from one foot to the other, trying to loosen the lethargy in his muscles so that he could put all of his being into his duty. As he moved, he took several deep breaths.
He set Carmella’s Almanac down on the floor beside him after his tenth hop.
The sight was spectacular and in Ozoric’s mind, it was without equal. You could see the horn’s flame from anywhere in the Drakengard, no matter the weather. Long after the sounding of the horn faded from earshot, the metal, warmed by the vibration and the flickering blue flames glowed with an inner potency and lingering life. On many an occasion Ozoric watched it burn with this volition for hours after he had called Storm Hold. It could be early evening before he finally descended back into the depths of the Drakengard, skirting around his superiors to avoid their chastising shouts for his absence.
With rising anticipation that bordered on zeal, Ozoric waited in silence, eyes fixated on the northern horizon. The wind swept both men’s hair into a fluster; a cold twang bridled their nerves, their lips both chattered with patience. A deep violet purple rose over the jagged peaks of the barren mountains, intermittently breaking into rolling clouds and violet explosions. If both men hadn’t have known the glory to come, they might have commented on the beauty of the mountains that the Drakengard was swaddled by.
Slowly at first, but then with a sudden rush of colour, the sun crested over the peak named Machu by the old explorers who mapped Corone before it even had a name.
“It’s time Aelfric.” Ozoric stepped towards the mouthpiece. His erratic footwork came to an abrupt halt, as if the sun’s presence had called him dutifully to attention. “Hold on to something.”
Aelfric panicked, remembering the last time he had witnessed the Storm Hold’s call. Ironically, there was nothing to hold on to, save the mouthpiece of the horn itself. The captain grumbled, but spread his legs and bent his knees, to take most of the brunt of the minor earthquake that was about to rock the tower.
With a single breath, Ozoric called the Dragons home.
At first, he thought he had struck a bum note to the cold lips of the Storm Hold. He had made the very same mistake the first few times the duty had fallen to him, with each reprisal of the role not correcting his presumptions. The breath rolled down the first length of the instrument, until it burst into life as the pipe split into two and reformed a hundred feet down into the larger length. It burst out of the end of the horn with such a thunderous eruption of life and sonic boom Aelfric was knocked to his feet and all the joy was drained from the dragoon’s soul.
Everything, for a brief and calamitous moment was wonderful, illuminated, and excellent.
Ozoric stepped away from the Storm Hold as it continued to announce its bass note to the entirety of the fortress and the vast expanse of the valley that surrounded it. His bones reverberated, his blood started to boil, his heart ached, the mountains shook. It was a sound that warbled and bounced and broke reality, each vibration shaking the rigidity and cold from his ribcage.
“Isn’t it fantastic?” He roared, a childish smile plastered on his face.
So close to the source of the sound his words were swollen quickly into the melee. Aelfric pushed himself upright, even though the tallest reaches of the highest of the Drakengard’s towers still rocked to and fro perilously in the midday sun. He roared his contempt for the boy, though like the boy’s proclamations of joy, they fell on deaf ears. His shook the dust from his woollen tabard and cloak hem and waited, legs splayed, arms wide, face curled into a grimace of contempt.
For almost ten minutes the vestiges of the Storm Hold’s call continued to vibrate through every inch of every chunk of stone for a thousand miles. Even where his call had not been heard, the earth works shook in its wake. Althanas itself responded with a reprise, though it was beyond the hearing of the people who had begun the chorus.
“Was that not worth the climb, Aelfric?” Ozoric repeated, finally able to shout loud enough to be heard over the echoes.
The captain did not look impressed.
“I guess, if you’re into that sort of thing.” The last time Aelfric had heard the Storm Hold’s Call, it had not been proclaimed with quite the same perfection. Jonas of the Aerie had shattered the northern wall with his clumsiness, and killed a young green Fae buck with a misspent and miscalculated high pitched note.
Ozoric jumped off the dais, and turned back to pick up his almanac with a chuckle. “Come now good Captain, how can you deny that was a glory to behold? Did you not feel it in your soul, your body, and your effervescent remnants?” The dragoon bit his tongue and tasted flesh and sweat with regret, he had let himself get carried away, and when he turned to face the captain’s stern glare, he knew that his verbosity had gotten the better of him.
Aelfric sighed. The blue glow of the enchantments which held the horn together descended over Ozoric, and he presumed himself. The ageing man stared at his young charge with the sort of expression that fathers gave forlorn sons. “It rocked me to the very core of my soul, though I wish I had been able to see it” which was a literal and metaphorical answer even Ozoric had trouble deciphering.
“You don’t seem too impressed, so perhaps you should look to the peaks of the northern sky…” Ozoric all knows smile seemed to carry a hidden sense of bemusement, as if he knew something was about to happen that would sully any superiority or reasoning the captain could muster. Aelfric, swallowing his pride, walked to the edge of the platform and leant against the north easterly column. With the wind kissing his cheeks and the midday sun, cresting over the solemnities of the Corone Mountains, he looked aloft to the peaks of the rocky outcrops and waited to see what Ozoric meant.
He had imagined they would start glowing, or perhaps, in the basque of the horn’s blue light, they would respond in kind with a musical medley.
He had imagined in his small mind a million possibilities, but not that the mountains themselves would move, take flight, and ascend to the heavens.
“The Dragon’s Will…what is this?” He said with the sort of religious fervour that had caused wars through the ages of man. His jaw dropped, and Ozoric felt the swell of satisfaction that came only with being right.
The mountains themselves moved. Where once there were peaks and pinnacles, there was movement. Jagged edges broke away from the cliff tops of Corone’s northern mountains, and with distant wing beats, the shadows ascended into the azure sky. Ozoric counted thirty or so shadows before he gave up, each new discovery riling his senses into a zealous swirl of anxiety and excitement. Aelfric could only stare, jaw agog, heart racing.
When he had last witnessed the Storm Hold’s Call, it’s cold, blue caress had thundered its note, but he had not seen this.
“Ozoric, what have you done?” The disbelief mingled with the man’s shock, and gave the youth the impression that he had somehow misbehaved.
“Nothing…Aelfric…I’ve done all I was asked to. What…what do you mean?” His exuberance died as quickly as the winged hellions on the horizon plummeted, starting their descent into the centre of the valley and welcoming embrace of the aerie.
The gale, a biting, bitter wind that descended with the grand flock stole away the vestiges of the beauty the two men were witnessing.
“I’ve never seen anyone call so many dragons in my life.” With the whispered, hush tones of the captain, came a realisation and swell of pride in Ozoric’s chest that he was being commended, not chastised for his actions.
The youth could only blush.
“This is how it’s always been whenever I’ve called the horn to bring in the guard…” which was as close to the truth as he could get. Every time he sounded the horn, the dragons in the valley woke from their slumber and came, harrowing and terrifying as the sight would be to the slumbering guards along each length of ancient wall towards the Drakengard.
A wail and a roar washed over the tower, followed by a chorus of reprise cries from the dragons as they started to land on tower croft and wall battlement. Ozoric and Aelfric both ran to the edge of the tower to look out across the maze like expanse of the fortress, each man holding on to the support struts to avoid being dragged forcibly over the edge to a quick death by the midday wind. Ozoric silently named each of the dragons he knew personally and by species if he did not.
“Look over there boy!” Aelfric’s cloak and tabard wavered in the breeze as he splayed his arms wide with joy. He pointed enthusiastically at a great black shadow, much bigger and much more imposing than the rest of its kin. If Ozoric had thought it appropriate to wet himself with excitement in front of a superior member of the order, he would have done so without reservation. Instead, he could only let out a shrill cry of wonderment.
Chalazae, the Black Emperor Dragon that had sired many of the current dragoon’s mounts landed with an almighty crash in the central courtyard. Even from their great height, the two men could imagine the cobblestones and pavements cracking under her diamond hide, and the mutters of fear from the guards who knew her, but still felt dangerously close to death amidst the swell of the creature’s terrifying aura.
Many dragons continued to descend in a similar fashion onto the Drakengard, coming to land wherever they could without falling through rooftops and crushing guards underfoot. Most of them were loyal to the dragoons, or had served as mounts for long dead heroes of unsung wars. As Ozoric continued to mouth their names, detailing in a subconscious classroom in his mind the breath traits, food preferences and habitats alongside their monikers, Aelfric could only swear, quite profusely at the sight he was witnessing.
“Come on boy, it’s time we made a man of you!”
Ozoric looked up at the gruff features of the mountain worn captain cautiously, uncertain as to his intent.
“What…what do you mean?” The cold blue glow of the horn cast a silvery light over his hair, which continued to flap non-chalant in the wind. “Is it going to hurt?”
He referred to the last time Aelfric had tried to show Ozoric the ways of adulthood. It had been a long evening, and the youth had been unable to walk, or indeed see straight for nearly a week afterwards. His headache had been worse than even the most strenuous of links with a dragon’s mind, and twice as nauseating.
“Nothing as bad as last time, don’t fret. From this sight, I think it’s time we took you to see Jacamar, and saw to binding you to a mount!”
All the many long days cleaning manure and feeding hatchlings with singed fingers suddenly came to a head. Amongst the novitiates, Ozoric had always felt that he would be next to be taken to the Temple of the Drake to take consul with the Grand Magister. He never thought Aelfric would be the one to tell him it was that time. There was more to the old fool than Ozoric gave him credit for.
“Do you mean that, captain, truly?” A fire flickered in the lethargic youth’s eyes, one that scoured away the vestiges of the Storm Hold’s magic. Even as the dragons fought, jostled and frolicked far below, and even as his world came crumbling down, his enthusiasm and inquisitive nature did not falter for even a second.
“You have heard the Storm Hold’s Call, Ozoric of the Empire. Today, it shall answer, and you shall know true communion with the dragons of the Drakengard!” the words burnt into his mind, and they strolled, after a modest congratulatory embrace down the staircase into the cold catacombs of the Drakengard.
Sagequeen
02-24-12, 10:12 AM
Plot Construction ~ 18/30
Story ~ 5/10 - Not every story needs killing. But every story needs some real significance to intrigue the reader. I think this story fell short of that, and I found myself waiting for something to happen. I try to identify the real conflict here that tells me why the story is important and taking place; is it that Ozoric is overworked? Is he still terribly unhappy in this place? Is the stress of dealing with dragons getting to him? While I can see a storyline, with the climax being the sounding of the horn, there just isn't a lot here in the way of a story. You need an antagonist, or to pick one from among the possibilities presented in your story and give it more significance.
Strategy ~ 5/10 - Unfortunately, I couldn't get a clear enough sense of Ozoric to truly see his drive moving the story along, until the very end, where he sounds the horn. I'll discuss this more in Character. Additionally, since there never really was a conflict, I never got to see him either rise to the challenge and overcome it, or to fall flat on his face. His abilities are vaguely explained but needed additional information to make them more relevant and driving in the story.
Setting ~ 8/10 - You were strong in setting; your descriptive abilities are wonderful. However, you focused so much on the food, that a lot was lost in what was around it. One high point was the stairs that led up the tower, that they had been there so long they were worn smooth. Using that to spark a memory within Ozoric, and also to show his character, was masterful.
Characterisation ~ 19/30
Continuity ~ 6/10 – There wasn't a lot to go on here for canon – except the very aptly done use of the civil war to explain why Ozoric was so liked and respected. Otherwise, you were able to develop a culture around the Drakengard, one I didn't get to explore fully due to the focus on the main character.
Interaction ~ 7/10 – You established from the very beginning that Ozoric has a passion for dragons. While you described his experience in working with them, I wish you would have shown him doing so. But mostly it was him interacting with his food and books, which, for what it was, was good. The exchanges between Ozoric and Aelfric were decent, though for the main source of dialog, it could have been richer, more like the ending. There were some important pearls of wisdom, like the Drakengard becoming restless in times of peace.
Character ~ 6/10 – I saw some wonderful flashes of brilliance here in Ozoric's character, but they were disconnected, and sometimes contradicting. Even something as simple as his age, which I would never have guessed without looking at the sidebar, especially with that unexpected time-warp. Additionally, his abilities were never explained or demonstrated in a satisfying manner. Since this is an introduction to the character, I would have liked something dealing with his being a dragon born. As I recall, the only reference in the story was that Ozoric spoke of his 'kin,' referring to the dragons.
On another note, I found the character 'the verger' rather interesting. I think you revealed just enough of him to enrich the story without taking it over.
As for Aelfric, your description of him was very good, though at times it seemed his more eloquent speech did not match the man.
Writing Style ~ 22/30
Creativity ~ 8/10 – You really have an admirable grasp on the English language and an ability to use it well. High marks here for you, and especially in posts 11 to the end... your description of the sounding of the horn I could see in my mind's eye, and the resulting flight of dragons I experienced, especially in your description of them, as if they were pieces of the mountains themselves, breaking away. The main reason I enjoy reading your work is because of this ability. The score would have been higher if your foreshadowing had been more focused within the story instead of on what would come in later stories.
Mechanics ~ 8/10 – Here, I only found the type of errors that aren't indicative of a lack of knowledge on your part, only a lack of proofreading. You don't have an issue with the higher mechanics; the words from one to the next, in most cases, like a well-written symphony, the word choices an internal harmony.
Clarity ~ 6/10 – I had some major issues here. From the third to the fourth post, the transition in time left me thinking for a good while I was reading about another character. After a few posts later, I actually had to go back and read the entire thing again. Part of this was due to a lack of character cohesiveness. Additionally, I would have liked some more information on the rankings within the Drakengard so that I could better understand Ozoric's position within it, and his relationship with Aelfric.
Another big issue with clarity is dealing with mostly male characters and the use of 'he' and 'him.' I found myself having to stop reading and pick apart the sentences so I could figure out to whom the pronouns were referring.
Wildcard: 7/10 - You're an excellent writer. I look forward to Ozoric's journeys as he finds himself as a character and trains dragons! Additionally, your overall style is one that sets you apart from all others and is very enjoyable. Well done in your attention to detail!
Total ~ 66/100
Ozoric earns 858 EXP and 180 gold.
Powered by vBulletin® Version 4.2.5 Copyright © 2025 vBulletin Solutions Inc. All rights reserved.