Still in shock from the bloodied soldiers and the wagons filled with dead, Holt didn’t react to the rider calling him over. Despite the morning sun, the chill presence of the ice dragon lingered in the air.
“I said, come here, boy,” the rider called.
Holt shook his head as though ridding his ears of water. His wits started to return to him. This was Mirk; Holt had known him his whole life. Well, he’d known him from afar as a servant. Mirk had just given him a command, and so he should follow. He hurried over to Mirk and inclined his head.
“What would you have of me, Honored Rider?”
Mirk looked him over imperiously. He had cold eyes – matching the color of his dragon’s scales – and a hardness about his mouth. Like the soldiers nearby, Mirk had gore stains on his armor; red, black and even shades of green.
“You work in the Crag’s kitchens,” Mirk said.
It wasn’t a question so much as an observation. Mirk recognized him but couldn’t summon his name. He’d probably never been told it, and of course he’d never asked.
“I have that privilege, Honored Rider. I attend mostly to the washing up.”
Mirk glanced to his dragon. “Run and fetch food for Biter. He’s ravenous after the skirmish.” His tone was one of irritation, as though Holt should have been awaiting their return with a basket of fish. It was a tone Holt was used to hearing. All riders came from noble stock after all.
Holt’s mind spun, formulating a calibrated reply. At length he said, “Forgive me, Honored Rider, but to run back up the hill, wait for Biter’s favorite dish to be prepared and then return will take a long time. Would it not be more prudent for you to fly to the tower and thus spare the time it takes for a small boy to make the journey?”
But Mirk was no longer looking at him. The rider’s gaze fixated over Holt’s shoulder.
“Ah, you there. Mr. Monger,” Mirk called.
Holt turned to find that the fishmonger was standing on the steps of his shop, no doubt trying to get a sense of what all the commotion was about.
“Bring out a basket of the day’s catch for Biter would you,” Mirk instructed. “Raw fish shall serve. Biter can wait until the feast for his favorite meal.”
Mr. Monger hesitated. Until recently, dragon riders could requisition virtually anything in the name of fighting the scourge. When King Leofric ascended to the throne a year ago, one of his first declarations was that the riders would now pay at least cost for all their wares. Older riders like Mirk were finding it hard to adjust.
Holt could sense the battle waging within Mr. Monger; whether to point this fact out or to let it slide and avoid a difficult situation with a respected rider. Mr. Monger opened his mouth, shut it quickly, opened it then closed it again.
“Aye,” Mr. Monger said at last. “I’ll be right out.”
“My thanks,” Mirk said. He turned his back upon Holt and strode off to speak to a group of soldiers.
Believing himself to be forgotten, Holt slinked back several paces and then made for the fishmonger’s shop. He entered to find the poor owner red faced and blustering.
“A moment please if you will, Master Cook. I have your order but—” “I know. If you’re wondering what to give Biter, he’ll like cod the best.” “What? Don’t you require that for this evening?”
“We can substitute the cod for hake. The cod is meatier and will probably satisfy the dragon better when raw.”
The fishmonger rubbed his sleeve across his sweaty brow. “You’re sure the dragon won’t notice the difference tonight?”
Holt smiled. “The way my father and his team prepare hake, Biter won’t care.”
“Very well,” Mr. Monger said. With wearied resignation he moved the cod from the prepared basket and placed it into a fresh one. Likely this choice of fish stung all the more for it wasn’t cheap.
Yet it was nowhere near as expensive as the second elk carcass would have been. Holt had an idea. He withdrew coins and placed them upon the counter.
“Here. This will cover Mirk’s request.” He counted out the gold owed to the fishmonger for the feast and laid that sum upon the counter as well.
Mr. Monger’s eyes widened. “Where did that come from?” he said, pointing to the elk money. “Don’t you need it?”
“It was spare. Don’t worry, I doubt it will be missed. Father is far too busy getting things ready for tonight. And if he does ask, I’ll tell him I insisted. I’m sure he’ll understand. He’s a working man too.”
“Aye. Aye, that he is.” The fishmonger licked his lips then pocketed the money. “Thank ye, Master Cook. Your basket is there, feel free to take it.” With that, Mr. Monger hurried outside with the basket of cod.
Feeling he had done some measure of good; Holt collected his basket in high spirits. Outside, soldiers streamed past him in droves. Some carried stretchers between them. Holt shivered but that might have been due to Biter.
He saw the dragon’s snout descend hungrily into the basket Mr. Monger had laid before him. Moments later the dragon gave a throaty rumble of satisfaction. The fishmonger sagged in relief; Lord Mirk actually smiled.
In that moment, Holt had a momentary daydream; of Mr. Monger crediting Holt with the choice of fish, of Lord Mirk remembering his name this time. Perhaps the rider would be friendlier from then on and remark to his fellow riders upon Holt’s quick thinking in getting Biter sustenance after a hard fight.
The daydream evaporated as the fishmonger bobbed a bow and Mirk shooed him away.
Now the situation had passed, Holt felt urgency take over him once more. He was definitely running late now and would have to make up for lost time. At speed he turned and crashed into something hard and metallic. A strong hand shoved his shoulder and he collapsed to the cobbles. Blunt pain coursed from his legs and rear; colors flashed across his vision.
“Watch where you’re stepping, pot boy.”
Laughter followed and the group of soldiers walked on. Holt didn’t recognize any of them. Soldiers rotated around the kingdom, but they would have known his station from the dirty apron he had on. None stopped nor offered to help Holt to his feet. He would have resented them were it not for the fact that they were the ones who faced the scourge. Fighting those menacing bugs earned you a lot of favor.
Half-dazed, Holt searched for his basket of fish. It was just out of his reach and had been turned upside down.
“No….”
Thankfully, most of the fish were whole and could be de-scaled and cleaned. Unfortunately, a few fillets of yellowed smoke haddock had fallen loose of their wrappings and were now coated in the dirt and dust of the road.
Groaning, Holt bent to pick them up. They would have to be thrown away of course but he couldn’t just leave them here. A soft mewling gave him pause.
From beneath the porch of the baker’s shop, a tawny cat missing most of its tail crept out. Across the road, another of the lazy cats had found a surge of energy now a basket of fish was being so openly paraded before them. This cat was a big black brute, yet the timid baker’s cat with the injured tail reached him first, sniffing anxiously at the haddock.
The baker’s cat had once been rather friendly, until a horse had stepped on its tail. After that it had taken to hiding. Holt felt a pang for the poor creature. He dusted the worst of the dirt off the fish then tore it into more manageable chunks. He also stood sentinel while the small cat ate, guarding it from the large black cat belonging to the apothecary. The black cat eyed him, decidedly unimpressed by his supervision.
Once the baker’s cat licked its lips and scurried off, Holt nodded to the black beast and left the remainder for him.
Walking back up the road, basket of fish in hand, the tower of the Crag dominated his view. It was a beacon on the landscape, a sign of the riders and their power. With all the dragons flying around it today, looping and circling in a rhythm of their own, the tower looked even more imposing.
Light reflected from their scales, sparkling spots of every color against the clear sky. Simply seeing them up there was enough to make him feel safe. Yet people like Mr. Smith thought of them as a burden.
Holt did not understand such sentiment. The very scene he’d witnessed today was proof that the riders were needed. Every child knew that. An old song played over in his mind: ‘Chaos comes, night shall fall, King or Farmer, it takes all, armies stand but cannot shoulder, only riders can bring order.’
He started his journey back up the hill. As he drew near the servants’ stairs, he heard a dragon roar from the town. It was Mirk and Biter, flying back to the Crag. Had Biter just waited a while longer they could have requested anything they liked from the kitchens. The pressure on Mr. Monger had been needless.
Moments like this did make Holt somewhat sympathetic to Mr. Smith’s grievances. The demands of the riders, their indifference to people like him. Yet were servants treated differently anywhere else? Holt imagined not.
A Cook was a cook for life. That was that. And he, the lowly pot scrubber in his father’s service, shouldn’t dare to dream beyond the life laid before him.
“Don’t break the order of things.” Such were the words of most folk. “Only order can defeat chaos.”
His breathing increased as he took the stairs, feeling tired before the real work of the day had even begun.
“Everyone must fulfill their role.” That’s what they said.
But Holt did dream. At night he didn’t just feed those dragons, he sat astride one, riding it into battle against the minions of the scourge. At night he was a rider. He was strong and noble and a hero. When he slept, no one called him pot boy.
He paused on his climb to catch his breath. His coarse britches itched, and his ragged shoes gave his feet little comfort. For now, he was meant to run errands for his father and wash up the mess. That was his life.
Until tonight when he would be allowed to sleep. To dream.
