by C. L. Werner
Ulgrin looked up from his cooking, a fell look in his eyes.
‘Catch your own, tall-ear!’ Ulgrin spat. ‘This one is mine!’
‘I had thought it little improvement on your looks after you cleaned yourself,’ Ithilweil retorted. ‘But at least you might have cleaned your mouth when you bathed everything else.’ The elf’s words brought a fresh stream of half-articulate invective from the dwarf. Ithilweil did not linger to wait for Ulgrin to run out of curses but strode instead toward the other campfire.
Brunner was seated before the fire, still garbed in his shabby brigandine armour. His helmet and weapons lay nearby, arranged about the makeshift bed of blankets and saddlebags the bounty hunter had created for himself. Only the slender length of his sword, Drakesmalice, was still with the warrior, resting across his knees as he stared into the fire. Ithilweil stopped, fascinated for a moment by the harsh shadows the flickering flames threw upon the killer’s weathered features. There was something painful about that face, something that seemed to call out to her.
Such pain, such unspoken suffering. She could see it there, crushed beneath the scowling turn of his mouth, the jagged scars that creased his cheek and forehead. It was there in the eyes, frozen within the chill that had consumed the man’s soul. Something terrible had happened to this one, something that had devoured his world, taken from him everything that had made his life worth living and in one final cruelty denied him the sanctity of a decent death, abandoning him to a ghostly existence among the shadows and the darkness. Perhaps only Ithilweil had ever seen such things in the cold eyes of the killer, the piteous tragedy that fed the ruthless hunter. For his were eyes not unlike those of her own people—a phantom race lingering among the forlorn remains of a once glorious civilisation whose hour of glory had passed.
‘What do you see in the flames?’ Ithilweil dared to ask. The bounty hunter did not look up at her as he replied.
‘Things that never were,’ Brunner told her. His eyes rose to meet her own, the tragedy subdued once more, overcome by the fire of hate. ‘Things that will yet be.’
Ithilweil stepped closer, letting herself sink gracefully to the ground beside Brunner. ‘There is a fable among my people that if one looks too long into a night fire, one sees one’s own death in the flames,’ she told him.
The bounty hunter shook head, a grim smile on his face. ‘I see the death of other men, not my own,’ Brunner stated. ‘But death is too little to take from the man I see in the flames. He owes me much more.’ The bounty hunter’s hand clenched into a fist and his voice dropped into a low whisper. ‘From him, I will take everything.’
‘Those who give their lives to revenge are ultimately consumed by it,’ the elf cautioned. ‘I have seen what becomes of those who give themselves over to hatred. They are grim, wraith-like creatures, never knowing the solace of a soft touch or the warmth of a loving voice. You remind me of them, the lost people of Nagarythe.’ Ithilweil shook her head sadly. ‘We call them shadow warriors, but not because they dwell in the shadowy canyons of their broken homeland, nor because they strike their hated kinfolk from the cover of darkness. No, we call them shadows because that is all they are. They are not whole, for all the light and love has gone out of them, leaving behind only the hate, only the thirst for revenge.’
‘Sometimes,’ the bounty hunter cautioned, ‘hate is all the gods care to leave us with.’
Man and elf were silent for a long time then, each staring into the flames, as though mesmerised by the dancing tongues of fire. It was Ithilweil who at last tired of the sight, turning her back to the fire with a shudder. The bounty hunter reached out to her, placing his hand on her shoulder.
‘I know who he is,’ Ithilweil spoke, her voice hollow, as though she were gripped by fatigue.
‘Indeed,’ Brunner said. ‘Jean Pierre Gobineau, worth two thousand gold crowns, less five hundred crowns if he is brought back dead.’
‘Not the rogue,’ Ithilweil said, ‘the dragon. The beast the grave robbers in Mousillon described, it is known to me.’ The elf saw that she now had Brunner’s complete interest, the bounty hunter’s eyes gleaming with curiosity. ‘The blackened neck upon a body of crimson scales, the jagged scar running along its belly. Such were the marks spoken of long ago, by the refugees who left these lands when the eastern colonies were abandoned. They spoke of a great dragon, a horrible beast that brought fire and death upon those trying to make their way to the sea, hunting them as a wolf hunts a flock of sheep.’
Ithilweil paused, recalling the horrifying firsthand accounts she had read in the libraries of Saphery. ‘I cannot doubt that this man’s foolishness has brought the same beast back into the world, the one they named Malok the destroyer!’
After centuries of slumber within the fiery heart of La Isla de Sangre, the dragon Malok was two things: angry and hungry. The merciless destruction of the Duc Marimund’s castle in Mousillon had temporarily sated the former of these two qualities, but the expenditure of energy and effort had fanned the fires of the second. The dull pang of appetite that had been clawing at the back of the dragon’s mind had become a desperate need, pulling him away from the prospect of laying waste to the already desolate city in order to silence the protests of his belly.
In the predawn that glowed above Bretonnia, Malok’s crimson scales seemed to catch flame, glowing like smouldering embers amid the ashes of an expired flame. The early-rising peasants, slinking through the waning darkness in order to tend their fields and herds, looked up in horror at the spectral visitation, their shrill cries of fright warning the countryside that a monster was abroad. For his part, the dragon paid the shouting, fleeing wretches little mind. He could crush them easily, but there was little meat on a man. Malok was interested in something that could satisfy his hunger, not simply tease it. The dragon had stirred often enough through the long centuries since the rise of the kingdoms of men to know that where men were to be found, so too would more satisfactory prey-animals.
After only a few moments since first sighting the fleeing peasants, Malok spied what he was looking for, his belly grumbling in anticipation. The dragon was not concerned that the large herd of cattle being led to pasture belonged to the Marquis Duvalier, nor that his herds produced the finest bulls in Bordeleaux and had done so for nearly a thousand years. He was not concerned with the men who tended the herds, loyal yeomen whose families had served that of the marquis for centuries and to whom the care of the prized herds was something dearer to them than their own households. All the dragon saw was meat, and that was enough.
Like a thunderbolt hurled by an angry storm god, Malok descended, jaws agape in a roar that could shake the roots of a mountain, fire and smoke flaring from his nostrils, black wings spread like the grim shroud of Morr himself. The terrified herdsmen stared at the mammoth shape of the dragon, faces turning pallid, mouths dropping open in horror. The herds around them began lowing in fright as soon as the acrid stink of the wyrm offended their noses, arousing ancient fears. To their credit, the herdsmen tried to contain the fright of the cattle even as they fought against the terror gnawing at their own hearts. But it was like trying to stand against a stormy tide. The huge herd of the Marquis Duvalier began to stampede, smashing the herdsmen beneath their hooves as they fled before the dragon.
Malok watched the herd stampede, swooping down low to intercept the cattle, to change their direction. Occasionally, the dragon would cast a quick gout of fire from his fanged jaws when the looming shadow of his form alone was not enough to turn the cattle, the fire repelling the bullocks instantly. There was a box canyon ahead, nestled between a cluster of small hills. The dragon was guiding his prey toward the natural, bowl-like depression. It would take more than a single bullock, more than any dozen, to fill the dragon’s belly. The reptile intended to gorge himself on the entire herd.
The leading cattle encountered the stone wall of the canyon, slamming into it as the weight and momentum of those running behind bowled into them. Slavishl
y following the example of the animals before them, the stampede continued to pack itself into the canyon, filling the declivity with a solid mass of lowing, frightened beef. Even as the rearmost animals began to turn around, to escape the trap into which they had fled, the enormous shape of Malok dove upon the entrance of the canyon, like a lion pouncing upon a jackal. The dragon’s gigantic bulk and evil scent turned the cattle yet again, crashing backwards into one another in their fruitless quest for another way out. Malok watched the animals for a moment, then drew his head back, allowing the fires within him to build and gather.
For several days now, the peasantry of Bordeleaux had been reporting that a dragon was despoiling the dukedom, slaughtering entire villages, and laying waste to crops and fields. Such reports had travelled far, taking on a life of their own, the awful aspect of the creature growing with each retelling, the record of atrocities laid at its feet increasing with every league the stories travelled. The lords of Bretonnia understood their humble people, knowing that they were a superstitious and simple folk, given to flights of fancy and populating their imaginings with all manner of dread beings. But they knew also that for such stories to have become so widespread that there must be some grain of truth behind them. Though no dragon worthy of the name had been seen in Bretonnia for centuries, such creatures had once been a common enough menace before their breed was all but exterminated by the valiant knights who bent their knee before king and Lady. Was it possible that one such monster had perhaps escaped the fate that had befallen all its kin? The very possibility ignited the ambitions of young knights wherever the stories spread. It was not long before isolated bands of bold Knights Errant eager to earn their name and stalwart knights of the realm intent on proving their mettle against a beast of legend found themselves on the ill-tended roads of Bordeleaux, journeying toward the lands from whence the tales had originated.
Among these knights was one who had taken up the quest, searching for the holy chalice of the Lady. When first he heard of the dragon, Sir Fulkric knew that this was the mighty quest the Lady had set him, the task he must undertake to prove himself worthy of drinking from the grail.
As Sir Fulkric rode southward, toward the region where it was said the dragon could be found, he encountered the small bands of knights who were likewise intent on smiting the wyrm. Once again, inspiration took its hold upon Sir Fulkric, and as he encountered these small bands of dragonslayers, he invited them to make their journey with him. Fulkric knew that it was just possible that he might prove unworthy, that it might be the beast and not himself to emerge triumphant in their contest. If such were to come to pass, it must fall to another to end the monsters rampage.
Many of the knights he encountered agreed with Fulkric’s point of view, understanding that more than their own honour and prestige, the death of the dragon must be achieved for the good of the land. It was decided that they would take turns in attempting to smite the vile beast, the most valiant and noble of their company being allowed to make the first attack upon the monster. If that worthy should fall, then the next most heroic of their gathering should be allowed the chance of avenging his fallen companion and vanquishing the horrible monster.
Sir Fulkric’s squire took down the names of each knight who joined the ever growing company, recording their deeds and honours and ranking them by these accomplishments, determining their place in the roster that would challenge what they had taken to calling the Beast of Bordeleaux. As a knight who had taken up the quest, and as the warrior who had organised the growing crusade, Sir Fulkric humbly allowed his own name to appear at the top of the list.
By the time the force of knights and their attendants reached the burned out cinders of a small village on the road to Mousillon, they numbered over a hundred men, including knights from as far away as Aquitaine and Lyonesse.
Early in the morning hours, as the knights began to stir from the tented pavilions their servants had erected some small distance from the ashes of the village, the sharp-eyed squire of a knight from Gisoreaux announced that there was smoke on the horizon. Thick and black, roiling like some sea-borne tempest, it was clear to every man in the company that what they saw was no simple peasant cook-fire. The call to arms was shouted and squires hastened to help their masters into their gleaming suits of steel plate and colourful tabards. Warhorses were dressed and armoured, lances and swords sharpened in anticipation of the coming battle. It was little different from the eve of war, save that the light of ambition shone a bit more clearly in the eyes of each knight.
The armoured warriors spurred away from their camp at speed, leaving their retainers and many of the squires behind. The pillar of black smoke danced and writhed in the sky before them, as though calling out to them, beckoning them. At the fore of the knights, Sir Fulkric murmured a prayer to the Lady that his heart would hold true, that his courage would strengthen his arm, that his sword would strike cleanly. There was no question of the beast’s doom, not with so great a company riding forth to smite him. Even if the dragon were able to slay some of them, each knight would take his toll on the monster. Once, a visiting dignitary from Estalia had described the bullfights of his homeland, how the fighters would attack the bull in waves, each man not seeking to kill the powerful animal, only to injure it and draw off more of its strength, until the time came when the matador would step forward to finish the animal. The dragon could fare no better than the bull, not with so many knights opposing it.
For much of the morning they rode. Fulkric had to curb the eagerness that filled each knight’s breast, that they might not fatigue their horses before they drew within sight of their quarry. It was nearing noon when the knights finally reached the source of the smoke. They reined in their horses at the base of a hill, beyond which the thick clouds boiled. Clearly the dragon had set fire to whatever lay beyond the hill, indulging its malevolent desire for wanton destruction and wickedness. The horses shied, clearly disliking the smell of the smoke, though the only odour the knights could detect was that of cooked beef. Fulkric, however, was inclined to trust the instincts of his charger. The smell of dragon was said to upset animals, and if that was the case, then the reptile might yet be near.
Sir Fulkric called out to his squire, who dutifully rode forward. The knight ordered his servant to read out the roster, that all in the company might know their position and take up his place should his turn arise. The squire had called out only a dozen names when the horses began to whinny in fright. Now there was no mistaking the thick, acrid stink, the reptilian musk of a great wyrm, overpowering even the reek of three hundred charred cattle. The knights, almost as a man, looked away from the squire’s recitation, lifting their eyes to stare at the top of the hill.
A head slowly rose above the brambles and stones, an enormous wedge-shaped head, coated in scales of crimson. The knights stared in awe at the sight, for it was as large as a carriage, and the blackened object hanging from its jaws was, they realised, the entire carcass of a full grown bullock. For a long moment, the dragon did not move, gazing off into the distance, its head framed by the black smoke billowing behind him. Then the monster’s gaze shifted, its yellow, snake-like eyes transfixing the warriors arrayed at the base of the hill. The mammoth jaws opened, freeing the carcass to tumble down the face of the hill. A roar like the splitting of the earth itself bellowed from the dragon’s maw, a shriek that rippled across the valley.
Sir Fulkric looked upon the awful sight, dumbfounded by the enormity of it. It was bigger than anything he’d ever seen, bigger than even the largest river barge or merchant ship he’d heard of, if the rest of the creature’s titanic size matched that of its head. The idea of a single man trying his sword against such a beast seemed utter lunacy. He looked aside at the knights around him. He could almost feel their pride and courage withering beneath the dragon’s gaze, and could almost see their noble hearts shuddering beneath their breastplates of steel. Nor was he alone in his imaginings. After its first wrathful stare, the dragon uttered a
low snort of contempt, then the awful countenance withdrew behind the hill once more.
Fulkric fought to steady his steed as he drew his sword. If he did not act now, then the entire company might break apart, scattering as their fear devoured their honour. This, then, was why the Lady had led him here. Not to slay this terrible creature on his own, but to lead these worthy and valiant warriors in ridding the kingdom of this rampaging horror. This was his test, and Fulkric was determined that he would be worthy of it.
The knight raised his sword high above his head, lifting his voice in a great shout that drew the attention of his fellows, even those struggling to maintain control of their steeds. In a voice filled with the courage that had led him to victory in battle against the beastmen of Chalons and mercenary soldiers in the hinterlands of Couronne, Fulkric called upon the other knights not to allow their fear to unman them, not to cast aside their honour in the face of some malevolent beast. He extolled them to place their hearts and their faith in the Lady, to trust in her grace to see them through this mighty deed. Many of them might perish in the coming battle, but it was the manner of a knight’s death that was the final testament to the worthiness of his name. And what more noble death could there be than sparing their beloved kingdom from the rapacious pillaging of this monster?
There was no cheer of approval, no mighty shout of support for Fulkric’s impassioned words. But as the knight turned his horse about, facing the mouth of the little valley behind the hill, the little canyon that was now choked with a virtual wall of smoke, he found that he was not alone. To a man, the other knights reined their horses beside him, lances at the ready. There was no longer any thought of personal honour or prestige. This battle would be one they would share, one that would be fought for the glory of Bretonnia, not that of any one man. Fulkric held up his hand, and looked over at his waiting squire.
