A Keeper’s Tale: The Story of Tomkin and the Dragon Read online

  “That is truly amazing,” Tomkin said, picking up one of the pieces.

  A little smile softened Wink’s face.

  “Really, you should leave Mags and come somewhere you could be useful.” Tomkin looked around the tower. “There’s no point in fixing up this place just for crazy old Mags.”

  Wink’s smile vanished and his mouth pressed into a small, thin line.

  “Anyway, did Mags make you come here to get me out?” Tomkin asked.

  His lips drew even thinner. “I make my own decisions.”

  “You do?” Tomkin studied the kobold. “I thought you had to do whatever she said.”

  “I think it’s safe to assume you know nothing about me. I choose to serve her because she is good and honorable. I am not her slave, and she does not treat me like one.”

  Tomkin decided not to say anything about that. “You offered to help me. Were you serious?”

  Wink paused. “I was.”

  Tomkin looked at him for a long moment. Wink stared back at him, eyebrows raised and a benign smile on his face.

  “Can you open the door?”

  “I can. I’m just not sure I want to.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “You do know there’s a dragon out there, right?”

  “Of course I know there’s a dragon out there. That’s the whole reason I’m here.”

  “Do you intend to kill it?”

  Tomkin paused. That was the question. If the opportunity arose, of course, but those scales and the sheer size of it… “No.”

  Wink cocked his head slightly. “Why not?”

  Tomkin paused again. He wasn’t going to kill the dragon because there was no way on earth he could even injure it, much less kill it. But Wink wouldn’t want to hear about going back home to get reinforcements. Because there was no way Tomkin was going to let a dragon get cozy in Marshwell, especially in a fortified castle.

  “I…,” Tomkin began. “I admit I hadn’t considered the dragon wouldn’t just eat everyone it saw.” That was true. “Maybe Mags is right about it.” Except she wasn’t. “Maybe the dragon isn’t what I expected it to be.” Except it was.

  Wink narrowed his enormous brown eyes.

  Tomkin tried not to squirm. Kobolds couldn’t read minds, could they? Tomkin gave the little creature a weak smile.

  A crack of thunder shook the tower at the same moment a flash of lightning lit the windows above them. Tomkin jumped, but Wink didn’t move.

  “My mistress is always right,” Wink said. “But I’ve decided to help you, even if you can’t quite see that she is.” He smiled a wide smile. “Here you go.”

  There was a shifting noise outside the door and Wink began to fade until all Tomkin could see was a long pointy nose and an eerie smile. Then the kobold was gone. Uneasiness pricked Tomkin’s gut. That had been too easy.

  Behind him, the door swung open.

  9

  The door creaked, nudged by a blustery wind.

  “Thank you,” Tomkin said to the empty tower behind him. “I think.”

  He leaned out and peered in awe at the world outside. The sun had fallen behind the cliff soaring up next to the castle, which should have filled the courtyard with shadows. But the front edge of the storm, rolling westward and gobbling up the blue sky before it, blazed with reds and yellows. The reflected light bathed the castle in a warm orange glow.

  Tomkin pulled his eyes from the mesmerizing sight. Wind blustered this way and that, sending leaves and dust scuttling about. Across the bailey, as Mags would call it, which was not large enough to deserve such a name, a squat, square tower stood. It was a little shorter than the round tower he was standing in, but much wider.

  To his left, an opening in the ground led to the stairway below, to where he had first encountered the dragon. The bailey and the two towers were encircled by a wall twice Tomkin’s height. To his right, the barred castle gate stood between him and the stairs to his little boat. Except for the swirling wind, the courtyard was still. Cautiously, he took a few steps out of the doorway, toward the gate.

  Something white plummeted out of the sky and landed in front of him with a sickening thud. It took Tomkin’s mind one long, horrified moment to realize it was the broken body of a lamb. He jumped back against the wall just as a rush of orange scales, searingly bright against the darkening skies, streaked down and landed, curling neatly into the bailey.

  The sheep lay twisted and still on the stones. Tomkin’s gaze flicked between the viciousness of the dragon and the brokenness of the lamb. The bailey had felt small before the dragon filled it, but now it was a prison cell surrounded by stone and storm and filled with death.

  Tomkin didn’t breathe, the dragon didn’t stir.

  Vorath’s lazy gaze ran across Tomkin before pointing his snout toward the sheep and blowing out a stream of fire. The wool lit and burned. It sizzled and curled back from the flame, shrinking into dark, brittle-looking beads. The wind caught tendrils of smoke and Tomkin gagged at the stench of burning hair.

  When the sheep was covered with nothing but ashes and pellets of burned wool, the dragon picked it up and shook it until it was bare.

  Vorath dropped the sheep in front of Tomkin, pinning its back legs with long black claws. Tomkin looked away from the sheep to find Vorath staring at him. His horrible orange snout drew closer, stretched open to reveal a gaping maw, then snapped shut on the front of the sheep and ripped it in two.

  Tomkin squeezed his eyes shut against the torn sheep and the dragon’s flat gaze. He pushed back tighter against the wall, waiting to feel the claws, the teeth, tear into his own body. The air smelled again of hot metal and stone. Of fire and destruction. And now there was the tang of blood.

  Please don’t eat me, please don’t eat me. The words spun through his mind over and over.

  I’m not going to eat you. Vorath’s voice sounded inside Tomkin’s head.

  Tomkin froze. Vorath could read his mind! He paused. No, maybe not. Anyone in Tomkin’s position would be thinking about being eaten. The dragon had turned back to the sheep. Tomkin focused on the dragon and thought as loud as he could, CAN YOU READ MY MIND?

  The dragon flinched. Do not shout. His voice cracked like a whip.

  Sorry. Tomkin’s mind felt clunky. Can you hear all my thoughts?

  The ones you shout.

  Stuffing his thoughts very low, he whisper-thought, I don’t know how to think quietly.

  Vorath snorted. Not many humans do.

  The dragon grabbed the last shred of sheep, tossed it into the air, and snapped his jaws closed around it with a crunch. Then Vorath turned back to Tomkin.

  The scent of the burned wool blew past again and Tomkin coughed. It smelled terrible. Why would Vorath want to eat near that smell?

  Unburned wool tastes worse.

  Tomkin grimaced at the idea of a mouthful of wool.

  Who are you? Vorath asked. I do not think the sword is yours. Did you steal the livery of Marshwell as well? Are you a common thief?

  Tomkin shoved himself off the wall. “My father is the Duke of Marshwell and these are my colors. I wear them every day.”

  Ahh, the Dukeling has a spine. Maybe he deserves the colors, even if he does not deserve the sword.

  “And that sword belongs to my family. I have as much right to wield it as anyone.”

  But not as much skill. The dragon regarded Tomkin for a long moment.

  Tomkin watched the dragon’s nostrils expand and contract with each breath. Its yellow eyes watched him, intelligent and emotionless. He didn’t attack, didn’t threaten, just looked at Tomkin as though weighing him.

  Maybe Mags was right. Maybe this dragon wasn’t as bad as he’d thought.

  “Why haven’t you eaten me?” Tomkin whispered.

  Vorath’s head cocked ever so slightly. Why would I waste your death here? Where no one would witness it?

  Tomkin’s heart sank. Maybe this dragon was worse. “And the girl? What have you done with h
er?”

  You do understand that dragons feel differently about maidens than they do about…The dragon took in and dismissed all of Tomkin in a tiny shifting of expression. …knights.

  “Dragons eat maidens. Everyone knows this.”

  Vorath snorted out a shot of smoke. What I do with the girl is none of your concern.

  Tomkin’s pulse quickened. Mags was still alive.

  Vorath dropped his head until it skimmed the ground in front of Tomkin. He moved closer until Tomkin could see each tiny scale overlapping its neighbor, forming an impenetrable armor wrapped around the dragon’s face. The orange scales rippled as he moved. The dark nostrils breathed out forge-hot air. But the yellow eyes were the worst—torrid and poisonous.

  I have not eaten you yet, he said, his voice quiet and impassive, because it is more useful to wait. But do not worry, little Dukeling, I will not make you wait past tomorrow morning.

  The words sent a chill into Tomkin’s chest. He stepped away from the dragon and felt the cold wall against his back.

  The dragon glanced around the courtyard. You are freed from the tower, he said, as though granting permission instead of stating the obvious. That is acceptable. There is no way out of this fortress. Do not kill yourself trying to escape before I have the pleasure of killing you myself.

  The dragon turned its head away from him and slithered smoothly, serpentinely, to the stairs leading below the bailey. With a motion as fluid as blazing orange water, the dragon slipped down the stairs to return to the great hall where it slept.

  Mags was wrong. The dragon was evil. Tomkin had to find her and get them both away from here.

  10

  Tomkin slid along the wall until something caught at his sleeve and the shoulder ripped open. Startled, he jerked away from the wall, expecting to see fangs, but finding only a broken nail. With a glance around the empty bailey, he ran to the gate. A thin set of stairs set into the wall next to him led to the top. He ran up them and looked over.

  The rain was getting closer, marching across the hills toward him. The most distant were already lost behind a grey veil. A crack of lightning split the air. Thunder shook the wall and Tomkin felt it vibrate in his chest.

  He tore his eyes away from the storm and looked below him. From the gate, ragged, broken steps wound down the cliff face to the river. He could just see the half-submerged dock at the base of them.

  But no boat.

  Where was it? Something shifted near the next bend of the Great River. Against the far side, his little rowboat floated—burning. As he watched, the last of the blackened wood slid down under the water.

  He stared at the spot for a long moment, as though the boat was going to bob up and paddle itself upstream to the dock. Of course Vorath would have destroyed the boat. The river was the only way out of here.

  The water blurred, and it took him a moment to realize the rain had arrived at last. One fat drop landed on the wall next to his hand, splashing a tiny spray of cold water against him.

  Then the real rain hit. Except rain was too feeble a word for it. Torrent. Deluge. It was a water giant climbing up, in one easy step, from the river to the castle, and flooding it.

  In the time it took him to race back down the stairs to the small shelter of the recessed gate, Tomkin was soaked through. He pressed himself into the space under the wall. The wind arrived with a howl. More than a howl—a battle cry. Water and wind yanked Tomkin forward, then shoved him back against the gate.

  He made a mad dash across the bailey back to the doorway of the keep. It was terrifically loud inside the tower, the downpour thrumming on the roof like a drum.

  Tomkin strained to see across the courtyard. The rain formed a solid grey wall between him and the other tower, as if the water giant was stomping its rain-feet, trying to knock the castle off the cliff. Through a window of the square tower, a faint golden light flickered.

  Mags—and she had a fire.

  Lightning cracked, hitting the cliff behind the castle. The thunder wasn’t a sound as much as a sundering of the skies. Tomkin ducked, half expecting a portion of the cliff to split off and crush him.

  He had to get to Mags. He hurried along, staying close to the tower wall. Along the back of the castle, he ducked into a recess with an arrow-slit window. Peering through it he could see a bit of the lake behind the castle. The waterfall feeding it was sending down torrents of water. A half-submerged dock sat at the edge of the lake, and the thinnest line of a trail led away from it. Tomkin ran to the next window.

  Lightning flashed again and an image was seared into his eyes: the path continued, scratching its way up the cliff face.

  There was a way out besides the river!

  Without another thought, he rushed across the bailey to the square tower and to Mags. It took twenty steps to reach the doorway. He darted through into safety.

  Except inside the tower was just as rainy as outside. He jumped back into the shelter of the doorway. The roof of the square tower was almost completely missing, only the far corner was still intact. Huddled in that far corner, the roof above her being rebuilt by Wink, sat Mags, curled up before a feeble fire.

  Tomkin paused in the thick doorway, where he was protected from the rain. Behind him the courtyard was still deluged. Ahead of him the interior of the tower was the same. There was a stretch along the far wall, where Mags was huddled, where the rain fell less. The bit of ceiling above her provided a sliver of dryness, but there wasn’t enough room for Tomkin to fit.

  He felt a pang of pity for the girl hunched in the corner. Couldn’t she see that if the dragon was kind, he’d have invited her into the great hall? It was warm and dry and enormous. There was more than enough room for Mags and her imaginary court.

  Instead, she had squeezed into a tiny ball, with her side pressed against the wall, next to a fire so small it was more like a candle sputtering in the corner. Wink stood beside her, peering at the roof.

  The beam of wood above Mags straightened and grew.

  The jagged shards of wood along its edge aligned themselves with each other and spread like a ripple across the surface of a pond, out and out until they reached the next beam, which was doing the same. The sheltered area around Mags grew until it covered most of the far corner of the tower. Wink sagged back against the wall. Mags stood and went to him, putting her arm around his shoulder and bringing him near the fire.

  Tomkin looked at her in surprise. She was clean. Wink must have made her a new dress from the strands he’d taken from the rug. Her filthy clothes were gone and she wore a dark, warm-looking dress. Her face, cleaned of the dirt, was prettier than he’d expected. It might be because she was looking kindly at Wink instead of glaring at Tomkin, but she had a nice face.

  Mags was a mystery. What on earth had made her come here? What had made her think a truce with a dragon was better than wherever she had come from? She clearly loved her father and sister. And her mother…

  Tomkin's mind skirted away from the idea of losing his own mother. His parents were the steadiest people in the world. If his mother had been home when the news of the dragon came this morning, she would have come up with some rational plan that would have worked. Vorath would be taken care of by now, with Tomkin safely at home. In fact, by now his mother would have taken care of the dragon, drafted a plan to restore Colbreth Castle to its original grandeur, and planned Tomkin’s wedding.

  Mags and Wink settled down side by side with their backs to him, facing the small fire. Wink must have done something more, because within a few seconds the fire grew larger, lighting the corner and casting large, flickering shadows toward Tomkin. The homey smell of smoke drifted over to him.

  The world around him was sliding into night, moving from grey to darker grey. Wink had fixed enough of the ceiling that there was room for Tomkin in their corner, but he paused in the doorway, shivering in his wet clothes. The rain fell behind him and in front of him, separating him from Mags and Wink by a moving, living mass of water and
wind.

  He held back, feeling strangely uninvited into the small circle of Mags, Wink, and the cheery fire. Mags laughed, the sound breaking through the rain just enough for him to hear. She was gesturing to the walls and ceiling.

  The rain slowed from downpour to heavy rain, and still Tomkin lingered. It would take a matter of seconds to dash across the square tower and reach the warmth of Mags’ fire. Mags voice was audible over the rain now, and Tomkin shifted. Standing here any longer would turn him to an eavesdropper. The thought of her turning to find him, listening from the darkness, was enough to break his stillness.

  Tomkin stepped into the tower, staying against the wall to his right were the rain was lighter, and scooted towards Mags.

  “You think this is a mistake?” she asked.

  “No,” Wink answered, “I’m saying the dragon is clever. You need to be more so if you’re going to make this work. The dragon will keep you as long as it needs me to complete the castle. But after that….”

  “So you don’t think it means to be…friends.” She had tried to make the question sound flippant, but it was tinged with disappointment. A deeper disappointment than Tomkin expected.

  He paused, feeling intrusive. He’d expected to find them discussing castle renovations. He should cough, or scuff his foot, or make his presence known.

  “I think he is more dragon than you want him to be,” Wink said matter-of-factly, but not unkindly. “I’m afraid in this one instance, the boy is right.”

  “Argh!” Mags dropped her head into her hands. “Him! Of all the knights or warriors who could have shown up to fight Vorath, why did it have to be Tomkin Thornhewn, youngest son of the Duke of Marshwell?”

  Tomkin shrank back against the wall, indignance and embarrassment warring inside him.

  “Why can’t they just go away?” she asked. “We could make this castle great. I could be happy here in a place I choose, instead of being forced into a place the world chooses for me.’