The Story of Owen Read online

  Text copyright © 2014 by E. K. Johnston

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  Cover and interior images: © Todd Strand/Independent Picture Service (dragon slayer); © Hemera/Thinkstock (dragon with giant teeth); © Nikkytok/Dreamstime.com (smoke); © Badabumm/Dreamstime.com (dragon with large wings); © Laures/Dreamstime.com (french horn).

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 10/14.

  Typeface provided by Linotype AG.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Johnston, E. K.

  The story of Owen : dragon slayer of Trondheim / E. K. Johnston.

  pages cm

  Summary: In an alternate world where industrialization has caused many species of carbon-eating dragons to thrive, Owen, a slayer being trained by his famous father and aunt, and Siobahn, his bard, face a dragon infestation near their small town in Canada.

  ISBN 978–1–4677–1066–4 (trade hard cover : alk. paper)

  ISBN 978–1–4677–2406–7 (eBook)

  [1. Adventure and adventurers—Fiction. 2. Dragons—Fiction. 3. Bards and bardism—Fiction. 4. Fame—Fiction. 5. High schools—Fiction. 6. Schools—Fiction. 7. Family life—Canada—Fiction. 8. Canada—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.J64052Sto 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013020492

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – SB – 12/31/13

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-2406-7 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-3999-3 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-4000-5 (mobi)

  TO EJ, WHO HAS ALWAYS

  BEEN MY FAVOURITE JEDI;

  TO THE F-LIST, THE

  GREATEST SUPPORT GROUP

  I HAVE (N)EVER MET;

  AND TO THE G.O.D.S.,

  BECAUSE I PROMISED.

  THE STORY OF LOTTIE

  Before the Thorskards came to Trondheim, we didn’t have a permanent dragon slayer. When a dragon attacked, you had to petition town hall (assuming it wasn’t on fire), and they would send to Toronto (assuming the phone lines weren’t on fire), and Queen’s Park would send out one of the government dragon slayers (assuming nothing in Toronto was on fire). By the time the dragon slayer arrived, anything not already lit on fire in the original attack would be, and whether the dragon was eventually slayed or not, we’d be stuck with reconstruction. Again.

  Needless to say, when it was announced that Lottie Thorskard was moving to town permanently, it was like freaking Mardi Gras.

  Everyone knew the story of Lottie Thorskard. She had been one of the most famous up-and-coming dragon slayers of the late eighties, and she’d celebrated the end of her mandatory tour with the Pearson Oil Watch by signing the largest contract on record with the Hamilton Consortium of Steel Mills. It was the dawn of a new era in corporate dragon slaying. For eighteen years, Lottie defended The Hammer against an onslaught of dragons, none of which ever seemed to understand that all the fire and smoke stacks in the region weren’t actually an invitation to an all-you-can-eat buffet. Lottie Thorskard was a living legend.

  Every morning, Lottie would go up to the top of the CN Tower and look out over the Greater Toronto Area, watching for dragons. Sometimes, they’d come in from over the lake, concealing their size and species in voluminous billows of black smoke that laid a trail of soot across the water in their wake. Other times, they’d come from the north, from the hatching grounds in Muskoka or the Kawarthas. When Lottie saw a dragon coming toward her beloved Hamilton, she would rush to her designated elevator, and once she was on the ground, she would make for battle with all haste.

  Very little of that is true, obviously. There’s no reason Lottie would watch Hamilton from the CN Tower. And if the Steel Mills had to hope for clear traffic on the QEW for the prompt arrival of their very highly paid dragon slayer, they’d never see another dragon slayed. But it makes a good story, those pictures of Lottie in the tower, watching over the city with a fond expression on her face, and without a story, there’s not much to dragon slaying.

  The truth was very nearly as fascinating, if somewhat less picturesque. Lottie spent her mornings on the Burlington Skyway, defending the commuters who drove back and forth across the bridge every morning. She cut an impressive figure, a high, clear note against the smoggy sky as she held her sword aloft in both hands, protecting those below her on the road or in the harbor, but it was difficult for cameras to get a clear picture of her through the girders and beams. As far as most of the people in Hamilton knew, Lottie defended them from on high, and from far away.

  Everyone knew the end of Lottie’s story. It had been dramatic and terrifying, everything a good dragon-slaying disaster should be, and even though we in Trondheim didn’t know it at the time, it would change our lives forever. Lottie was alone on top of the bridge, as always, the last bastion of defense between the morning rush hour below and a fiery end. She had, as she often did, forgone a safety harness in order to maintain maximum mobility, and everyone with an iPhone was able to record her leaping back and forth between the girders as the dragon flew down to harry the bridge from above.

  It was nearly impossible to stop people from watching a dragon slaying, even though it was exceptionally dangerous and only made Lottie’s job more difficult. The bridge was quickly closed after the dragon was sighted, but that didn’t prevent the drivers already crossing from stopping to watch, and it certainly didn’t stop the media from showing up. Accordingly, the whole event was exceptionally well televised, even by the standards of Lottie’s usual following, and nearly everyone in the Greater Toronto Area and Hamilton saw it live over breakfast.

  My favorite account came from a little girl named Amelia who saw the whole thing through bird-watching binoculars from her house on top of the escarpment in Burlington, miles away from the actual fight. Though she was too far away to see the individual exchange of blows, she wasn’t hampered by the noise and chaos that muddied the perceptions of everyone on the bridge that morning. The journalists on the Skyway were too close to the action, too terrified for their own lives to really appreciate the final act of heroism Lottie showed, taking a risky jump to bury her sword in the dragon’s chest before being swatted off the girder by its tail. Amelia saw it all. So far removed from the action, she had a nearly unobstructed view of Lottie’s terrible fall, which she was able to describe in tearful detail on nearly every major news channel in the following weeks.

  Lottie Thorskard slayed her last officially recorded dragon on my sixteenth birthday. I didn’t see it live. I was in my parents’ bedroom, opening presents, and we didn’t turn on the radio until we went downstairs for the one surprise my parents couldn’t giftwrap, and breakfast before school. When Lottie plummeted off that girder, an entire city screamed as one choir and then held its breath for three days while she fought her injuries at the University of McMaster Hospital. Doctors from across the country were flown in to consult. The Prime Minister himself visited her in the hospital, even though she was unconscious. All he could really do was stand awkwardly by her bedside for photos and hope that no one m
entioned how he’d done his level best to block the legislation that had allowed Lottie to get married. Lottie survived, but after her bones knit she was too stiff and too slow to fight dragons professionally anymore.

  For a whole week, even the playoffs were a footnote in the news. Speculation of what Lottie would do next took up almost all the air time. There were rumors that the Steel Mills weren’t going to let her out of her contract—that they were going to find her another job somewhere in their organization. There were theories that she would go back to the Pearson Oil Watch and run logistics for their overseas campaigns. There was even talk of outright retirement, and retirement with honors for a stellar career cut short. There was never so much as a whisper of a town in southwestern Ontario called Trondheim.

  She could have stayed in Hamilton, lived out her life as a hero there and done the motivational speaking circuit, but she didn’t. Instead, she announced that her brother Aodhan would be taking over her duties until a permanent replacement could be found. Aodhan was a fair dragon slayer, in the tradition of his family. He’d done his time in the Oil Watch and served as faithfully as Lottie had, if not to such renown. He was still on the official roles, but he held no contract and seemed content to live unnoticed in his sister’s shadow, raising his son to follow in her footsteps. Lottie’s accident thrust him into the limelight.

  It soon became apparent that Aodhan couldn’t cope with the pressures of slaying dragons in an urban environment, particularly not one so hard-fought as Hamilton. He could handle the dragons well enough, but the constant audience, the way the media watched him and criticized his every move like he was a goalie for the Leafs, was something he had trouble with. Still, he might have learned to deal with it. What he really couldn’t handle was protecting actual people, the stupid ones with camera phones and no survival instincts. So Lottie made another announcement: After much consideration and research into local areas that needed help, the family had decided to move to the countryside. There, she said, her brother would be able to protect barns and chickens, and perhaps as her physical therapy progressed, she might even be able to help him.

  The nation reacted in shock. Never before had such a high-profile dragon slayer moved to the middle of nowhere and set up shop. Cities were always the focus of government-mandated and independently contracted protection, and with good reason. Centers of industry attracted dragons by the score. In the country, a town might get one dragon attack a week, and even then, only a single farm or one residential block of some town no one had ever heard of would be lost. But Lottie was determined, and she refused to let anyone gainsay her decision. Neither she nor Aodhan had contracts, she pointed out, which was true, as she had been released from hers and Aodhan still didn’t have any official paperwork, so they were free to move wherever they liked.

  As the country watched, the Thorskards put their house up for sale and began, as quietly as they could, to organize their move. The coverage lessened after a few days, as the media moved on to other topics. There were plenty of other dragons in the sky, after all, and it was the playoffs. By the time all the Canadian teams were eliminated, it was almost like everyone had forgotten—or at least stopped thinking about—Lottie’s sacrifice. And, in the city, they mostly had.

  The countryside was different, though. Small towns across the province waited on edge for the announcement of which of them would be profiting from this unexpected piece of luck, as morbid as it was. No one cared that Lottie’s career was over, that she would probably never slay a dragon again. The idea of her being close, choosing one of our own towns, was enough. We all clung to that hope as the Thorskards put their affairs in order in the city and loaded up their lives into a fireproof moving van.

  And then she moved to Trondheim, with her family in tow, and we got our very own dragon slayer.

  OWEN THE WEEDY

  When he’s older, I’m sure, they’ll sing songs of his bravery and his heroic deeds. Once he’s filled out enough to merit a name like “Owen the Broad” or “Owen the Football-Shouldered,” he’ll be a legend. Right now, though, on top of being Lottie Thorskard’s nephew and de facto town hero, he’s reed-thin, weighs 150 pounds soaking wet, and I have to tutor him in algebra. And English. It would be embarrassing if it weren’t so funny.

  It’s a family thing—the dragon slaying, I mean, not the bit where he’s rubbish at school. His father slays dragons and his aunt used to, before that dragon’s tail ended her career. His grandmother slayed them as one of the first members of the Pearson Oil Watch before that, and all the way back through the line. There’s Viking in Owen somewhere, a broad euphonium and rolling drums and something else I haven’t pinpointed yet, all buried underneath the crap life throws at adolescents. Before that day, though, I’d only ever seen it in hints and flashes. Usually he hid it so well you’d think he was just any other kid, trying to survive high school long enough to fill out his growth spurt.

  It was a sunny day in early December when I first saw the Viking shine clear through in Owen. I was at his house and we were reading Heart of Darkness, which is a valid piece of literature, I’ll admit, but still not exactly relevant to the interests of a small-town Canadian teenage girl, and I was trying to explain that European imperialism was not the answer to everything when the phone rang.

  He answered it with a brief and businesslike “Hi, Dad,” and squared his shoulders. He was still narrow and thin, more “Owen the Weedy” than anything else, but I could imagine him in his armor, with trumpets heralding his entrance, as he carried his shield in one hand and his broadsword in the other and didn’t collapse under their weight.

  There must have been a dragon close by for his father to call the house. The number of attacks had been steadily increasing ever since the family had moved to Trondheim, but usually they were concentrated more toward the lake. Owen lived with his dad and his aunts in a big old house outside of town. His mother had duties of her own that I wasn’t comfortable asking about, so his aunts trained him in swordsmanship while his father traversed the countryside defending livestock and farmsteads. I sat at the kitchen table, worrying my pencil between my finger and thumb, and tried not to look like I was more interested in the phone conversation than I was in the book, but it was very nearly impossible.

  When Owen came back to the table, he had a reluctant smile on his face. He looked different than he had before he’d picked up the phone. His skin was flushed with excitement, and his eyes sparkled with anticipation. His smile widened as he sat down, and he seemed somehow to take up more space. The overture to some kind of Nordic saga began to hum in my head.

  “Dragon?” I said, no longer even pretending that I was paying attention to the homework.

  “Just a small one,” he said. “Dad thinks it’s about the size of a bus, plus the wings.”

  “That seems big enough to me,” I said.

  “He’s engaged the adult dragon,” Owen said. “The little one flew off toward town. I’m supposed to go intercept it.”

  We had an algebra test tomorrow that he hadn’t studied for. We were supposed to work on that after we finished the homework for Heart of Darkness. On the other hand, in the face of an inbound dragon, math was probably the least of our worries. One of the fringe benefits of tutoring a dragon slayer was that it occasionally got you excused from your homework altogether.

  Most teenagers only ran afoul of dragons as a result of their own carelessness or inattention. It was not uncommon for a new driver to be stranded on a gravel road with a flat tire and an engine belching carbon. There were also stories of field parties ending badly when a dragon came out of the corn and closed in on the bonfire in the dark. Dragons didn’t get much from carbon in terms of nutrition, but they came after it like candy whenever it was in the air, and since humans were usually located close by, they didn’t exactly want for nourishment.

  Owen, of course, was not most teenagers. He never had been. He didn’t precisely chase dragons—that was his father’s job—but he didn’t r
un away from them either, and that made him unusual. And if Owen was unusual, then so was I. That’s why I was sitting at his kitchen table, genuinely hoping he’d ask me to drive him to meet whatever kind of dragon was headed our way. I didn’t let myself think about what my parents would say. They were nervous enough that I was hanging out at Owen’s house. I was pretty sure they would not be at all sanguine if I arrived home with even slightly scorched tires. Maybe I had overestimated my use on a dragon slaying expedition, anyway. It wasn’t like I was doing this professionally.

  I wasn’t sure how much longer I could cling to that excuse, though. I was hardly an amateur anymore. I’d been there when Owen’s family slayed a couple of dragons, but his aunt Hannah usually insisted that I hide in the dragon shelter until after it was done, which, for the record, was fine with me. But I couldn’t stay underground forever, not if I wanted to do my job.

  I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to face any of them, but I was hardly going to let Owen go off on his bicycle when my car was parked in the driveway. Still, I didn’t want to push my luck. It was entirely likely that Owen would rather face this dragon by himself. I did my best to sound as neutral as possible, a steady chord waiting for the composer to push it to minor.

  “I can lock up, if you need to go,” I said.

  Owen looked at me for a few moments, and when I didn’t meet his gaze, he looked down at the pencil I still held in my hands. I could almost hear his mind putting things in place, shuffling his sense of duty with his sense of adventure. I was in and out of the house more and more now that Owen was training harder, even though he was doing better at school than he had been when classes had started in those first few weeks of September. Practically one of the family, Hannah liked to say.

  When he looked up at me again, his smile was even wider, almost incandescent on his face. There were tightly wound strings shivering in the air as the overture began in full. We were definitely getting out of that math test.