Do Dragons dream of sheep at night?

There weren't always dragons in the valley. That's what Nan used to tell me when I was a child. She used to lull me off to sleep with great tales of derring-do. They were tales of knights errant, and the princesses they saved, and yes, of dragons. I must admit, there were nights when I couldn't sleep because of the visions that played in my head. I'd lay under my furs, peering out at the shadows leaping against the walls because Nan forgot to blow out the candle. I'd look out of the narrow casements, the shutters blown loose by incessant winds blowing up from the valley below, beating against the castle walls, knowing I could never slip out of bed to cross the room and blow the candle out, or shut the shutters. Of course, there's no such thing as dragons. Not in this day and Age.

Or so I was led to believe.

I grew up the youngest of six boys and three girls, in a castle high atop a hill overlooking my father's lands--lands that were under his command for as far as the eye could see. Castle Grey it was called, and it had been the family's stronghold for seven generations. Its great walls were forty feet thick, the massive keep home to a thousand knights and three thousand foot soldiers. The walls were a hundred feet tall on three sides, the south wall shorter because it was mounted on a rocky cliff of dizzying height, with the valley below where the river Urge meandered. There were five thousand farmsteads in the valley, with forty thousand able bodies citizens, all subject to my Lord father. The fields were a patchwork of colours, each separated by hedgerows and trees, with thin ribbons of water cut into the landscape where the river had been diverted to help irrigate the fields.

My father, Lord Grandon, swore aliegance to the Red Queen. He'd journey to the Red Keep once a year and swear fealty to the Queen, just as his father had done before him, his father's father, and so on for seven generations. He'd make the journey with his one thousand knights to take part in the Grand Tournament, the prize being a pearl garter and the title Knight of the Garter going to the victor. As the Lord of the castle, my father was not permitted to partake in the jousting. Mother forbad it.

I'd served as a squire to my brother Walther from the time I was fourteen. The oldest son, Walther was thirteen years my elder and twice my size. He was a hard taskmaster, as ruthless on the field as he was to me from what I understand. He'd won the title Knight of the Garter three times in as many years. And he rode Wraith, a beast of a horse that stood taller than any horse I've ever seen. A draft horse, Wraith was as black as the night, with white socks and a feathered crown. A horse trained for battle, the armour that he he wore was made of beaten metal and hard leather spikes on a breastplate that would fit an ox. The breastplate often caught the light when Wraith stood up on two legs. His hooves were shod in iron, with huge barbs and nails that would take a man's head off whenever Walther gave him free reign. As I said, a beast of a horse.

I was one of three squires that served my brother's needs. When I was first assigned as my brother's squire, it was my job to clean and polish his armour. His broad sword was equal to me in height, its width at its greatest span as wide as my hand from fingertip to wrist. I was what you'd call a small lad. I was barely able to wield its great weight. His shield, with our house's sigil of the Quartered Hind, embossed with lacquer and colours of red and gold, was constantly in need of repainting. It was as tall as myself, and took great effort for me to lift and carry it. I was determined to prove myself worthy.

As his squire, it was my brother's duty to teach me the finer points of being a knight. I would never expect that he'd teach me the finer points of being a gentleman, having never spent time at court himself, or been much of a gentleman. He was my father's eldest, while I was his youngest. Walther would be sent off to squire with Sir Greeslie Hardcourse by the time of my first name day. He was twenty-three when he returned home, but not until first becoming a knight and proving himself in foreign wars.

At fourteen, I was expected to square off against Radamont and Davis, the other squires to my brother and both two years my senior. In three years time, they'd probably be recognized as knights of the realm, both of them swearing fealty to queen with a promise to fight under my father's banner if ever the need arose. Until then, they'd make my life a living hell, bashing me into submission until I cried out for mercy. After two years, I no longer submitted to them; after three, they were forced to yield and cry for mercy.

The year I became a knight and took part in the Grand Tournament, I unhorsed my brother and took the Prize as the Knight of the Garter. I'd grown in size over the five years I spent squiring for Walther; I was the equal to my all brothers. As the Knight of the Garter I was feted by the Red Queeen and all her court. I was praised by both my father and my brothers, as well as all the knights of the realm. All that remained for me was to prove myself in battle.

I knew little of the politics at Court. It doesn't take much to imagine it was the same for my brother after he'd been gifted as the Knight of the Garter for a third time. The old gods clearly state that if any lady should come into Court during the Grand Tournament, it's the sworn duty of the Knight of the Garter to ride out in her defense. The first of my brother's tournament victories went unsung as the bards like to say, as did his second. But, as I learned, politics at Court can be beneficial to the right man, or a death sentence to someone who doesn't understand life's more subtle advantages. Walther didn't understand the finer points of living at Court. He'd made the mistake of thinking that his life was his own. He made the even bigger mistake of bedding the Queen's niece. It was some years later that I was informed my brother had chosen not to wed the Red Queen's niece; that, of course, coming during the time between his second and third victory as the Knight of the Garter.

I can not for the life of me understand what he was thinking of when he put his family in danger of the Queen's wrath. Because it was after my brother's third victory as the Knight of the Garter, that an envoy from some foreign land arrived to negotiate a treaty. My brother, as the Queen's Champion, was sent out, only to find himself embroiled in a five years long war. My mother was of the belief that her son had been sent off to die because of his refusal to wed the Queen's niece.

My brothers and I were certain it was his bedding of the Queen's niece that had done it for us all.

It would be nice to say Elise had been sent by supporters of the Queen to beg a boon of me, but that would be a lie. Whether I was to be refused the title of the Knight of the Garter was at that very point being debated. I would've been more than happy to accept whatever decision was about to be offered. What I can say is that Elise appeared at Court knowing full well there'd been a champion sworn to defend the honour of the Queen. If I was to be that Champion--the Queen's Champion--I would have no choice other than following the woman out to battle. I wouldn't be allowed to question the matter, and to be honest, what knight would?

She entered the Keep with a retinue of twenty standing knights--all of them women--along with their squires, and fifty men at arms. Sixteen men were carrying a large gold banded chest hanging from two sets of poles under a banner no man recognized. They placed the chest on the floor, drew the poles out of the golden loops, and stood at attention behind the chest.

A tall, stately woman, Elise had long, raven black hair, with a shock of white the width of a child's hand braided through its length, and tied up with gold filigree. Her almond shaped eyes were a deep violet, a colour one would see in an evening sunset. They looked out from under thin arching brows, with high cheekbones, ruby red lips, and a cleft chin. She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, dressed in a red leather jerkin, a skirt of mail, with thigh-high boots and a brilliant yellow cape that swept the floor as she walked.

The silence of the hall was broken by the echo of her boots.

"Your Grace," she said with a low sweeping bow, "I am Elise of Targh. I have come in search of a Champion to help us rid our Kingdom of the scourge known as Morgaunt."

"And who, pray tell, is Morgaunt?" the Queen asked.

"A dragon of the First Order," she replied.

"There are no dragons left," Sir Belic said with a scoff that seemed draw the lady's ire. "And certainly no dragons of the First Order."

"They told me you'd say that," she replied, and nodded at the chest. Two of the beearers dragged the chest forward. She waited as the men placed the chest at her feet. She put her hand on the pommel of the sword she wore. A handsome weapon, she looked up at the Queen.

"If I may?" she asked, and drew the weapon as the Queen nodded, slicing the seals and kicking the box on its side. Inside, several dragon scales the size of dinner plates slid out across the floor, their sheen catching the light coming in through the stained glass windows high up in the Keep.

"Dragon scales," she said. "From a dragon of the First Order," she added, looking directly at Sir Belic.

The Queen sat forward, looking intrigued, and nodded at Sir Belic who strode forward to examine the scales, picking one up and bringing it to the Queen.

"Dragon scales, you say?" the Queen asked, looking up with a smile. "And how is this possible? I was also led to believe the last dragon was slain over three hundred years ago. We all were led to believe that. Were we wrong?"

"Ours is a country of hot springs and volcanoes your Grace, with mountainous crags, caves and fissures," she explained. "Last year, one of the smaller crags erupted. From it, Morgaunt was born."

"Are you saying that somewhere inside one of those rocks was, in reality, a dragon's egg?"

"It would appear so, your Grace."

"And what is it that you are prepared to do should there be an infestation of dragons in our lands?"

"The very reason we have come to ask for your Grace's assisstance," Elise stated firmly. "You have a Champion--the Queen's Champion--with this week being the Grand Tournament of Champions, no less? We would request that your Champion accompany us as a witness to these events--"

"And what events would that be?" the Queen was quick to ask.

"The slaying of this dragon as well as the search for any, and all, possible hatchlings."

"And will there be others?"

"I can not say one way, or the other, my Grace, not without the Queen's own Champion. But the Queen's Champion should be able to protect the realm, no matter what the threat."

"I think that's being rather eliptical," I said, stepping forward. "Certainly open to another interpretation."

"Silence!" the Queen called out. She rounded her gaze on me and I bowed my head, praying that she'd free me from this impossible boon. Even if it was possible that there were real dragons, I had no pervading desire to go out in search of one.

"Sir Baerenston Grandon?" the Queen called out.

"I serve your Grace's command!" I said, falling to one knee, the words coming out before I even heard the echo in the cavernous hall.

"It seems the traditions of age old knights falls on you."

"You Grace," I mumbled.

"You leave upon the morrow."

I took leave of my mother and father at first light, having spent my night in the chapel and asking the old gods for their help in leading me to victory. The chapel was made of ancient wood and varigated stone, rough-hewn and weathered, pentagonal in shape with stained glass and mirrors set high in the ceilings so that the light formed a perfect circle on the floor as the sun breeched the horizon. I was here to absorb the praise of our gods at first light. Was this how my brother felt knowing he was being sent off to war? I could only think it was, telling myself I'd stand a far better chance of going off to war than I would fighting dragons.

I was a newly made knight in accordance to the law of the old gods, but I couldn't leave on a proper quest without the employ of a proper squire. I found him waiting for me outside my father's tent. The tent my father owned was large and ostentatious. He said if we were being blamed for the lusty misdeeds of one son, he'd show the nobles at court that we were more noble than they, and then said he had five more sons.

I was met by a tall, thin boy of fourteen, with a mop of unruly red hair; he'd be mine to arm and train for the next five years. My father would provide him with a horse of course, and what spare arms we had--which was also in accordance to the old gods. As well, I could hear my father telling him what was expected of him in his new rôle as my squire at arms--not at all in accordance to the old gods.

Roget le Ceour d'Or he said his name was, from an old, noble family I'd never heard of. But he sat a horse well, carried my lance and shield adequately, and followed at a respectful distance. He was everything I'd been taught to be when I was a boy that age. It was up to me to feed him, which meant that I would have to pay for food and lodging to wherever our quest would lead us.

We said our good-byes amid tears and set off to find Elise of Targh. All I knew was that her tent was somewhere in the campsite her followers had set up on the far side of the Keep. Most of the Queen's Bannermen were camped beyond the walls during the Grand Tournament, the Keep being unable to house so many. Elise of Targh's camp was to the east, where the white walls of the Keep gleamed in the morning light.

It was the only redeeming quality of the Keep as far as I was concerned. I was unimpressed by its singular spire and the bold boasts of its citizens declaring the Keep an architectural marvel. There was no spectacular scenery, not such as there was surrounding Elvenmuir--that was the ancient name of our home--not when the lands surrounding the Keep were made up of low rolling hills and verdant riverlands. While Elvenmuir sat atop a cliff overlooking a fertile valley, the keep had but a single moat and a single bridge crossing it. The bridge was made up of four stone arches that spanned the water, the bridge itself wide enough to ride four abreast. At both ends of the bridge--and only present during times of war--were four large iron pillars, preventing invading armies anymore than two men through the opening at a time. Thirty men could defend the bridge agaisnt an army of thousands. The entire center of the bridge dropped five feet at a moment's notice, so that any siege weapons being brought forward were stopped and unable to move. The sides of the moat were smooth stone, slick with centuries of slime and forty feet tall. Inside what was known as the Embankment were small cells with narrow casements where a man might stand and slip a sword through an enemy. Or an arrow.

Hers was naturally the largest tent.

I enjoyed the finery of the Bannermen and their lofty pavillions. They all had flags that bore their sigils, all of them floating lazily on the light breeze. Shields hung on posts set in front of knights' tents, some of which were nothing more than a lean-to. Smoke drifted like a haze over the tent city, and it brought with it the smell of breakfast.

"Have you eaten, my Lord?" Roget asked.

"And when would I have found the time to do that?" I laughed. "Or didn't you know that part of a knight's ritual was a twenty-four hour fast? I broke my fast, but my father seemed to forget that the Queen said I was to set out at first light."

"If it's worth anything your father forgot to feed me as well."

"With any luck, Elise of Targh will feed us," I said under my breath, hoping the boy didn't hear me.

As I said, the camp the followers of Targh set up was at the eastmost part of the Great White Wall, backed up along the width of the castle's moat. There were no more than a dozen hide tents set up for the footmen--four to a tent I thought--and twenty pavillions. One per knight along with their squires, I noted. The pavillions all had shields hung beside their entrances, as well as suits of armour crafted with hardened leather and burnished metal, heavy breastplates, and their now familiar mail skirts. A small lane ran down the centre of the encampment with Elise of Targh's pavillion standing at the end. It loomed large in the distance. Nearby was a large wagon being pulled by a pair of aurochs, each of whom stood taller than any man, with horns wide-spread and gilded, hobbled and tethered to a large stake driven into the soft loam. I looked at the pavillion again. There were three peaked cones at least twenty feet in height, and a dome that looked to be made of stained glass.

Her squire was quick to meet us in front of the pavillion. A tall, slender man, he appeared much older than I. His bright silver hair hung down the length of his back, tied off with an amber ring; his violet eyes looked our from under hooded lids, appearing sharp and focused. He eyed me critcally before stepping forward and taking the reins of my destrier while I dismounted.

"You do not ride in armour?" he asked, handing the reins to Roget who was quick to dismount.

"No need for it. It's too hot to ride around in armour all day," I said with a smile. "I've always thought it was more for show." I looked at the pavillion entrance and turned to look at the squire. "Am I supposed to just enter?"

"Let me announce you. How do I introduce you? The Queen's Champion? Or by your name?"

"I never thought of it before," I confessed. "Sir Baerenston, the Queen's Champion, I suppose. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

He nodded and went inside. I could hear him announcing me, and a moment later four of her knights left, each one eyeing me up and coming to their own conclusions, while I was guided inside. I'd like to think I came across as confident, or at least competent, which would probably be better, but I dismissed them the moment I entered the tent.

For me to say the pavillion was large would be wrong; I already knew it was large when I approached. But it was. It was also well-lit with glass lanterns hanging near the roof, as well as the stained glass dome under which was a large table still warm with the remains of the morning meal. Several braziers made the space warm and inviting. There were maps spread across the table, the rolled up corners held in place with several half-eaten plates of food and empty goblets of wine.

"Can I offer you some wine?" she asked, pouring two goblets as full as she dared. She held it out to me and I took it with a nod, thanking her. She pointed to a nearby stool and I sat down, my elbows on my knees as I looked about. The ground was covered with fine carpets and I noticed she walked the ground barefoot. The rugs looked Eastern, probably from Kohl, I thought. I noticed several smaller tables on which other lanterns glowed, as well as a large dressing mirror. It was a wonder everything fit in the pavillion. And in the farthest corner was her bed, a large, sturdy framed monster that made me think of the two aurochs outside.

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble," I asked, "could I bother you to send some food out to my Squire? Today's his first day and I'm afraid in all the excitement, nobody's thought to offer him anything to eat."

"No trouble at all," she smiled. "I'll get Vale to see to his needs," she added, clapping her hands and calling out to him. The Squire stepped inside and bowed slightly; she told him what she wanted and he left.

"Is he really your Squire?"

"What kind of question is that?" she asked with a laugh.

"Because he looks older than my oldest brother. My Squire's a lad of fourteen. It falls on me to train him to be a good knight, as well as how to fight. When he's nineteen, he can take part in the Grand Tournament if he wants."

"Is that what you are?"

"I'm sorry?" I was confused by the question. "What do you mean? I don't understand."

"Wasn't this your fist tournament as a knight? I mean, basically, you're a nineteen year old boy who's first taste of battle has been the Great Melee, is that not correct?"

"When you put it like that, it certainly doesn't sound very inspiring," I said, "but what's that have to do with how old your Squire is?"

"In our country, a Squire teaches a knight how to fight; he also teaches him how to be a knight."

"That makes no sense."

"It does if the Squire was once a knight. It's also customary in my country that you only be a knight for a fixed amount of time, after that, you have to give back to the next generation. You must take on a young knight before the knight reaches their twenty-fifth name day. The Squire promises to mentor the knight for the next ten years. After that, a Squire may decide if he wishes to retire--to Court as a full knight--or remain a Squire and train another knight. I am Sir Elgar's third protégée."

"That makes little or no sense to me. The man must be close to his sixtieth year."

"Vale is in his fifty-seventh year. You see a Squire teaches a knight more than just sword-play. Arms and battle are for the younger generation. A Squire must also teach a knght about ettiquette, and courtly manners, as well as writing--a great many knights fail when it comes to reading. There are many knights who are accomplished as artists. What knight do you know who is also a dancer? A poet? A singer?"

"I find that hard to believe."

"Then perhaps the next ten days will help convince you?"

"Is it a ten day trek to your lands?"