When Ildarg woke up, however, its fears came back in their entireness. His breath was heavy, his skin covered in sweat. The strings of the lute next to him seemed to be more than six: it was as if they were impossible to count. The dragon next to him felt as tall as the clouds in the sky.
“It is time, human. Are you ready?” The rumbling voice of the monster thundered.
“I...I...”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
The human barely noticed the talons closing on his body and taking him out of the lair, into the long, dark corridor and finally onto the outside world. Panic had paralyzed his own body. Only when he felt his body being lifted, did he realize what was happening.
“AAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!”
“Don’t scream too much, you need to save your voice for the battle!”
Ildarg stopped screaming immediately, but his feet kept swinging, suffering the lack of ground. They wanted to kick the dragon’s scales, but all they could reach was the air, which was strong and unbearably cold: as the dragon beat his wings, it hit Ildarg’s face violently, so much that his eyes watered.
Then suddenly, the soles of his feet touched something. The wind had ceased. Ildarg dried his tears: they were back on land.
“Never again!” He shouted. “Never again!”
“How else did you want me to bring you to Lavidar?” Kirja replied, next to him.
“I don’t know...maybe on your back? At least I could sit on-”
“That is out of question,” the dragon cut out, “being ridden by humans risks making them think they can rule over dragons, and by extension, the world.”
“I had barely waken up! I-oh, are we in Lavidar?”
“Yes.”
Only now did Ildarg pay attention to the location they had just landed in. It was a village, not dissimilar to his - but there were people everywhere. They occupied the whole road they were in, making their way by shoving others. And they were all looking at him and Kirja.
Suddenly, he heard a bell noise. “The mighty Kirja has arrived with his bard!” A male voice proclaimed. It came from an elderly man, shaking a big cowbell and wearing on his head something similar to a big purple pillow. Ildarg suffocated a laugh. Not even Rikastil could ever wear such a ridiculous-
Rikastil. He didn’t appear among the crowd yet. Although that crowd was so wide, Ildarg wouldn’t likely find him whatsoever. On the other hand, though, he had to be accompanied by a dragon too, so if there was no dragon, then his ex-teacher hadn’t arrived yet.
He tried to look for Silvane, but it was impossible: the crowd was now bowing to Kirja. The masses of hair above the ground could belong to anyone.
“Do I have to bow too...?” He asked the dragon.
“You’re not obliged,” his master replied, in a tone that suggested the other way around. So Ildarg too got himself against the ground, paying homage to the massive ruler of those lands. As he got up again, he looked at the crowd again. And here they were. How could he not think about it? All he needed to do was looking for a woman’s hair with a baby next to her.
“Silvane!” He ran towards her, as everyone else around him got back to their feet, uncaring of Kirja calling him back. His wife turned her head, their baby in her arms.
“What...oh, Ildarg!” She exclaimed, and the couple tightened themselves in a long hug. As their bodies separated, Silvane thundered her lament.
“What happened? You didn’t get back last night! Rikastil came to my house and said you were gone to the dragon again!”
“Silvane...” Ildarg took breath. “I had to. Only the dragon could really make me have a chance.” Meanwhile, their daughter coughed violently. Her skin was pale, and her eyes were half-closed. “Elise...” he trembled, giving her a kiss on her front. “Dad’s going to do what he can. Silvane, how has she...she...”
“It’s getting worse,” she said, and her eyes became humid. “When you weren’t there...she got worse...much more than usual...the healer said she won’t get through the next two days!”
And she cried copiously. Ildarg’s world felt like falling apart. He hoped, in case he’d lose, that she could get some time between losing her husband and her baby. Instead, it looked like they were destined to happen at the same time.
“What did the dragon tell you this time?” Silvane asked, wiping her tears off.
“We...found something that could help me,” he said, “some good lute technique. But the problem is another...did Rikastil mention you? Who my adversary is?”
“What?”
He hadn’t. That coward hadn’t told her. Ildarg’s anger towards him doubled.
“My adversary is-”
But he didn’t make in time to reveal it to her, that the people around her shouted. A strong wind came out all of a sudden. All three of them turned their heads back.
Towards the village was flying a second dragon. It had blue scales, and was carrying a male human on its talons, who held a lute in its hands. Ildarg didn’t need any hint to figure out the human’s identity, but his black and scarlet clothes, his green cloak and his cylinder-shaped hat were unmistakable.
“Rikastil?” Silvane shouted. “You’re going to face Rikastil?”
Ildarg sighed and lowered his head. “Yes.”
“He never told you?”
“Only by accident. When I discovered it, we departed. That’s why I didn’t come back home, that night.”
In her eyes, Ildarg could read the harsh truth. They were eyes of hopelessness. The student couldn’t pass the master. Not after a handful of days of teaching.
“Ildarg...” she said, feebly.
“I know.”
As they talked, the blue dragon landed. The crowd gave space for the newcomers, while the announcer shouted their names.
“The challenger Boken has arrived with her bard!”
Rikastil was getting up, cleaning his clothes from the dust caused by the dragon’s landing. Their eyes met for a moment. Both the challengers took them away instantly, without recognizing they had shared the same roof for a short time. Meanwhile, Kirja approached his rival.
“Ah, here you are,” Boken acknowledged his presence. Ildarg drew a gasp: knowing it was a female dragon, he expected a female voice. Boken’s, instead, sounded even deeper than Kirja. “Is that your bard? Please, don’t tell me you rushed out at the last moment once again. I don’t remember the last time I felt satisfaction in defeating you.”
“You’re going to get surprised,” Kirja replied. “Your bards are all virtuosity and no heart. My bard has plenty of heart to sing.”
“The heart is useless without technique,” Boken replied, moving her tail sinuously. “How long has your bard played music?”
Ildarg bit his fingers. Even Rikastil looked uneasy in that situation, and his head was determined in studying the crowd around them.
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“That doesn’t matter,” Kirja said.
“Your refusal to answer speaks for itself,” the blue dragoness replied, scornful. “Thank you for giving me so generously another piece of land to control. Also, I can’t wait to put my claws on your Salmon Poem.”
Kirja rubbed his snout in embarrassment. Ildarg would almost feel sorry for him if he wasn’t battling to save his offspring. For a short moment, Rikastil seemed to desire to tell him something, but one eye blink later, his sight was directed to the crowd, his lips sealed.
“Well, enough with these sad formalities,” Boken said, “the battle is about to begin. Speaking of which, where is your bard’s lute?”
The lute. Only now did Ildarg realize it. He hadn’t seen it since they had left the cave!
“Did we...” he asked Kirja, trembling. “Did you take it?”
But the dragon didn’t say anything. He was looking at his own paws in nervousness.
“It’s alright,” Rikastil finally took speech, “he can use mine.”
“Thank your rival, you both,” Boken said, tasting their shame with gusto by taking her tongue out. The dragon and the human simultaneously bowed their heads, saying a low, quick ‘thank you’ that was barely audible. Before the dragon rival could express her satisfaction or lack of it, the announcer took the word again.
“Attention! The battle is about to begin! The first to play its song, as per tradition, will be the last loser’s bard!”
“Give him the lute, my bard,” Boken said, before flying behind the crowd gathering around the center of the road.
Rikastil walked towards Ildarg. He extracted the lute from his back as his feet proceeded. Ildarg didn’t move at all; in fact, he felt like he couldn’t even think at all. None of them made an effort to look at each other. As Rikastil offered him the instrument, his mouth slightly opened.
“M...may the best win.”
“Let’s hope not.”
How Ildarg could find the force to make a joke like that, it was a mystery for him. Fortunately, Rikastil didn’t add anything else.
Everyone was now around them. The figures of the two dragons stood above the humans, looking at their bards with severe eyes. To Ildarg’s left, Silvane was looking at him, with Elise in her arms, coughing violently on her face. In front of him, Rikastil had finally decided to look at him, but the rest of his face was inexpressive.
“May the loser’s bard begin!” The announcer shouted.
Here it comes, Ildarg sighed as his right hand moved above the lute’s strings. For one week, one week that had felt like years, he had prepared himself for this moment.
Quickly, his mind forgot everything else. It entered into a state of trance, a state that was neither pleasant nor painful, as if Ildarg himself had just become a sleepwalker. The crowd, Silvane, the dragons, Rikastil, the village...they all disappeared within his mind. There was only himself, the lute and the song.
Mechanically, his fingers plucked the strings, while his uvula vibrated.
ICANNOTSINGVERYWELLBUTMYHEARTISTRUEANDPURE!
SOTODAYMYTHROATPROCLAIMSMIGHTYKIRJAILOVEYOU!
YOURBENEVOLENCESSOTOUCHINGYOURCONDITIONSARESOGOOD!
HUNDREDBOOKSEVERYFIVEYEARSANDYOUDONTTAKEUSASFOOD!
He played his song using the new technique he learned in the cave, singing as fast as he could, repeating the verses no less than three times while the notes came from the lute with the speed of a galloping horse. Whether he was playing the right notes or not, he wasn’t caring. He would see it from the audience’s reaction later, in any case.
Finally, he concluded his performance with a last, strong chord. Panting, he studied the crowd. They didn’t look pleased. Quite baffled. Behind him, Kirja was scratching his neck nervously; Boken, instead, looked at him with an air of superiority. Rikastil’s attention was diverted to the clouds. But what really made him understand he didn’t stand a chance was Silvane’s face, mortified as she tried to calm down Elise, weeping loudly, bothered by her father’s music. Only another stream of coughs interrupted her cry.
‘I’m sorry,’ he desperately wanted to shout at them, ‘I’m so sorry’. But the announcer spoke once again before he could take any initiative. But Rikastil was already in front of him, ready to take back his lute and make it play some actual good music. With shaking hands, he returned the instrument to him, and with death in his heart, he watched him as he embraced it with the elegance of a real bard, of someone who had spent years, and not some days, on that.
“Ahem...may the champion’s bard begin!”
Rikastil began to sing, and the first notes were enough to put an enormous distance between the two performances. Ildarg’s master and adversary was harmonious and elegant, his notes were inspired and as he started, Elise instantly calmed down. Ildarg’s mind collapsed. It was over.
He let himself think of the words of Rikastil’s song.
From the great Sida lowlands, hear!
There comes a creature great to see,
A dragon fierce with scales of blue,
Whose grandiose wisdom’s here for you.
Amidst her lair of ancient stone,
Great Boken hoards old books alone,
Vast tomes of knowledge, old and new,
That few have seen, and fewer knew.
Her territory, vast and grand,
Is filled with bumpkins on the land,
But they fear not great Boken’s might,
For she rules with wisdom and light...
As Rikastil ended the third stanza, though, the crowd started being noisy. First some whispered among themselves, then, as the word passed from mouth to mouth, the voices increased, becoming as loud as the song, then overcoming it, and then roaring as one voice, in anger and dismay. Some booed the bard, some others waved their arms in vulgar gestures.
Ildarg didn’t understand. What was happening? His rival’s performance was perfect. What was causing their wrath? Yet Rikastil didn’t flinch and kept going on, until from the crowd flew rotten vegetables. His song was left in half as Boken herself planed on the road’s center and roared, while using her wings as a shield for her bard. Only then did Ildarg realize what had angered the people.
Wait...he said ‘bumpkins’? He really called them ‘bumpkins’?
That did make no sense. Why would a professional bard use a word like that? It was one of the most offensive terms for peasants, if not the most offensive! Kings could be lynched if they dared pronounce it!
More astounding was Rikastil’s reaction. In the middle of that chaos, he looked perfectly serene, almost smiling. For a short moment their eyes met, and Ildarg could almost swear he had winked at him. It was at that moment that the reality hit on him.
Could he actually have...a chance?
After the dragoness’ roar, no one dared say or throw anything else. Boken, once making sure the situation was calm again, got back to her original position. The announcer took the word.
“So, hem, hem...well, it is now time for the voting! If you want to vote for the champion’s bard, raise your hand now or be silent forever!”
No one raised her hand. They were all looking at Rikastil with eyes that were not much different from Kirja after being interrupted.
“Now, if you want to vote, instead, for the loser’s bard, raise your hand now or be silent forever!”
Ildarg almost felt like there would be an ocean of arms raised to the sky. But he was wrong. The crowd remained motionless as before, and the atmosphere was as dense as mud, immersed in a silence that was interrupted only by Elise’s coughs.
But here she was: Silvane’s hand was up. Slowly but steadily, more moved their arm up. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the outcome.
“The vote is over! The loser wins!”
There were some mild, sparse claps from the crowd, which were instantly dwarfed by Ildarg’s shout of joy. Forgetting about any sense of dignity, or the fact everyone was watching him, including Kirja, he ran towards his wife and gave her the longest hug they ever had.
“Silvane! I’ve made it! I’ve made it!”
She released tears of joy as she kissed him on his lips. Meanwhile, Elise laughed content.
They may have stayed like that for centuries, but there was something urgent to do. Now that he had gained the right, he would go to Kirja and ask him.
With difficulty, he took off his arms from the two loves of his life and walked towards the dragon, whose tail was wagging like a dog.
“Now it is time for our pact,” Ildarg proclaimed. “The book. The book to cure my daughter.”
The dragon’s tail stopped moving. He looked at his bard with decision and said:
“Once you three come to my cave, I will fulfill my promise.”
“Very well. Now, I need to ask something to my rival, then I will tell them.”
“What do you have to tell him?”
“Some personal stuff.”
“If you must.”
Ildarg was about to move away when the dragon spoke again.
“You have won only because of mere luck. If your barding activities don’t become decent in one year, starting from today, I will reclaim my right to eat you.”
Ildarg smiled. “Fine. As long as you leave my daughter in peace.”
The villagers were leaving the road while Ildarg reached Rikastil. He was standing there, doing nothing but petting his lute, while the dragoness, behind, seemed to be waiting for everyone to leave. Her teeth, however, were bared.
“Hey Boken!” Kirja shouted as Ildarg kept walking. “I’ll wait for you in my cave to give me your whole Honor and Scales saga!”
“I...will,” the dragoness murmured.
The two men were now face to face.
“Rikastil,” Ildarg said.
“Hello,” he replied.
“I have a gut feeling. You said that word on purpose, didn’t you?”
The face of the bard exhibited a new smile. “I did.”
“But...but why?”
“You needed this victory much more,” he explained, “you have come here to save your daughter. After hiding you the fact we’d be rivals, I had to pay my debt to you.”
Ildarg’s heart raced. Bewilderment and gratitude flowed his mind like a tempest. However, a third feeling made its way; the kind of feeling one has towards someone they care about. Worry.
“What’s going to happen now? What will your dragon do to you?”
“I’m not worried,” he answered, although his arms were now swinging in an unnatural way, “I am my own man. I don’t have anyone in my life like you. Even in the worst case, I am pretty much content of the life I’ve had.”
“I...see.” He was having a hard time understanding that kind of reasoning. But there was no need to think about it too much. One thing was clear: he owed the man in front of him his daughter’s life. “Well...thank you.”
The two bards hugged each other, under the sights of the two dragons that had put them in competition. As if it came from another life, Ildarg remembered the words of Kirja when he came to his cave the first time, when he described his relationship with Boken: a sane, plentiful bloody rivalry. He couldn’t help wondering what they could achieve if they learned to cooperate instead of competing, like Rikastil had done to save Elise.
But maybe, being dragons, they would achieve too much power for the world’s safety. So it was definitely better for them to keep being rivals.