Champions of the Dragon: (Humorous Fantasy) (Epic Fallacy Book 1)

by Michael James Ploof

  “You will do your duty as my sole heir!” the king said, his nostrils flaring and eyes glaring dangerously. “Or by the gods, the kingdom shall be left in the hands of your sister!”

  “You wouldn’t,” Brannon gasped, clutching his chest.

  The king nodded. “Mark my words,” he told his son sternly. As he left the chamber, a small army of servants scuttled in to prepare them for the ceremony.

  Brannon fell to his knees, distraught, and was taken up by the many servants who then ferried him to the closest sofa. They began fussing over his hair and coloring, and hastily removed the paint from his nails to begin anew. Wardrobes were brought before the elf prince, but were nodded off one after another. Brannon couldn’t focus with so much commotion, so much pressure.

  “Calm down,” his sister sang. She snapped her fingers at the servant her brother had just sent away. “He’ll take that one.”

  “It’s hideous,” pouted Brannon.

  “It’s beautiful, my dear brother, as are you. Come now, get yourself together. No matter what happens at the temple—no matter if Kazimir chooses Val—your beloved will make his way back to you.”

  Brannon nodded his thanks to her and kissed her cheek. He allowed himself finally to be dressed in the brilliant white garments Annallia had selected. They did look good on him, the sleek knee-high boots with ten-inch heels and white straps winding up his thighs, the single white glove with diamond claws at the fingertips, the tight leather pants with a wide, pluming shock of blue feathers at the hips, and the white leather jerkin with its large upturned collar.

  The servants carefully added matching ivory nipple rings and strapped twin daggers to his thick, low-hanging belt, which was ornamented with the finest of jewels.

  He admired himself in the mirror, striking a variety of poses. The servants had added a long white wig of horsehair to match the outfit, and then braided it up into a thick bun. One of the long braids was left out, and it curled around his shoulder, resting on his bare chest. They had laid his crown upon his head, completing the look. Brannon turned this way and that, biting his long thumbnail—something was missing.

  He snapped his fingers at one of the handmaidens. “That there, bring it to me.”

  She presented him with his diamond-studded cup, and he held it in front of his groin, checking himself in the mirror.

  “Perfect,” he said after a moment.

  When they arrived at the tree temple by way of carriage, thousands of woodland elves had already gathered. The temple had been grown nearly a thousand years ago and consisted of fifty sequoia trees grown into each other to form a giant dome. From the outside, nary a branch could be seen beneath the thick vine covering and its multitude of blooming flowers.

  Brannon and his sister followed the king and queen as they led the procession into the gathering place.

  The crowd fell to a hush as soon as the royal family stepped through the hanging leaf curtains and took their respective thrones at the northern balcony overlooking the wide temple. No sunlight shone through, but the hollow was brightly lit both by the thousands of overgrown lightning bugs that covered the walls and the large crystal chandelier hanging from hundreds of snaking sequoia branches.

  Brannon took his seat, finding that Lady Claristra Fallingleaf was already seated beside him. She smiled at him haltingly, her eyes nervous and unsure.

  He ignored her and looked for Valkimir.

  The Knights of the Wood were gathered in number on the balcony just below the royal family, and Brannon quickly spotted Val among them. His beloved was facing away from him.

  All the while, waiting for the ceremony to commence, Brannon stared, waiting for Val to glance his way. He needed to see the strength that he was sure to find in those fierce green eyes.

  “Very exciting, isn’t it,” said Lady Claristra, using her left hand to tuck her golden locks beneath her extremely long ears. It was a gesture that was supposed to elicit intrigue he knew, for he had used it often.

  He scoffed. “Don’t make a fool of yourself. You know as well as I that your gestures are wasted on me. Do yourself a favor and find an easier target.”

  She was speechless, and glanced past him to King Rimon.

  Brannon followed her gaze, and his father leveled a steady scowl on him. Beside the king, Brannon’s mother smiled sheepishly at him. Her eyes were heavy with lack of sleep and dark with the telltale signs of poppy seed abuse.

  “I don’t like it any more than you do, you pretentious little bastard,” Claristra hissed at him suddenly.

  Brannon felt his cheeks burning suddenly, and he glared at the elf with newfound curiosity.

  “This marriage will be good for my family,” she went on, more pleasantly. “You can polish Valkimir’s lance all you want, I don’t care. I only ask that you give me children. Give me an heir.”

  She glanced at him, and he must have looked disgusted, for she let out an indignant huff. “Please do try to hide your thoughts better.”

  Brannon checked himself and glanced around. Only his sister was paying any attention to them.

  “Don’t worry,” said Claristra. “I need only your seed. And that can be gotten from you by many means.” She glanced at Valkimir, following Brannon’s eyes.

  Brannon shifted uncomfortably, but his sister elbowed him in the arm, sobering him with a forced cough.

  “I accept your terms,” he said shakily. He took a wine glass from a servant and drank it down in one long pull.

  “Excellent,” she said with a grin.

  Finally, the king stood and addressed the gathering. “Elves of the Woodland Realm of Halala, I have called you all here today so that you may once again witness the naming of the Champion…”

  Brannon had heard it all before, twice actually. At sixty-nine years old, he was young for an elf, some of whom were at least six hundred, but he was as familiar as any with the legend of Drak’Noir.

  But never before had he cared so about the outcome. His worry for Val soon caused his head to swoon, and his father’s words became hopelessly muddled. He needed to see his lover’s face, needed to see him smile.

  Brannon was fighting to get ahold of himself when suddenly a hand touched his. He turned bleary eyes upon his smiling sister and found some strength.

  He cleared his mind, focusing on the living tree they had all gathered in, and caused the wooden floor beneath Val to bulge slightly, nudging him. Val looked down, then to the side.

  Look at me! Brannon urged with his mind.

  Val finally turned and glanced back. He smiled at Brannon and offered a wink.

  Brannon’s spirits soared, but then a pang of lovesickness tore again at his heart.

  An explosion of light suddenly flared in front of him, causing Brannon to give a high-pitched cry. The smoke cleared momentarily, and Kazimir the Most High Wizard stood facing the cheering gathering. Val turned around once more; his eyes shone with love upon Brannon, and his lips whispered three words. He turned bravely to face the wizard once more, and Brannon was left with a terrible thought—had he been saying goodbye? Did he know that he would be chosen?

  Brannon nearly fainted. Only the wizard’s riddled words kept him lucid:

  “Your champion shall travel to Bad Mountain,

  where Drak’Noir he will thwart.

  Elves of Halala, I name as your hero,

  Brannon Woodheart!”

  Brannon shot to his feet, even as Kazimir spoke his name. “No, not Val!”

  Annallia let out a shriek.

  Brannon blinked and regarded the wizard queerly. “Wait…what did you say?”

  The king regally rose to his feet and began a slow clap that was soon taken up by all in attendance. A thunderous applause then rose up in the temple, along with exuberant chants for Brannon, Prince of Halala, Champion of the Dragon.

  Val turned to regard his lover, and unbelieving eyes found Brannon’s through the commotion, and the elf prince turned to his father, who regarded his son with a satisfied
smirk.

  Chapter 5

  The Champion of the Iron Mountains

  If Gibrig Hogstead knew anything, it was hogs. And there was no way a six-hundred-pound beauty like Snorts was going to be traded for an unshaped gold nugget. He bluntly told the older dwarf just as much, and spit on the ground to show him just how serious he was.

  The old dwarf trader scoffed and spat as well. “That nugget be as big as that brain o’ yours, Gibrig, and that be sayin’ somethin’. Yer pap got his ear to the ground? He put ye up to this?”

  “Me pap ain’t got nothin’ to do with this here transaction,” said Gibrig proudly. “I raised this hog meself, I did—off me own scraps, even. Spy how smooth and firm them shanks be. Prime meat, that is. Like I said, Snorts here ain’t goin’ for no tiny nugget.”

  Gibrig crossed his long arms and nodded firmly.

  The trader, a very stubborn old dwarf by the name of Kegley Quartz, eyed Gibrig suspiciously. “Ye fool dwarf. Ye went and done gave him a name, didn’t ye.” He threw up his arms and shook his fists at the heavens. “By the stone god’s moss-covered beard! You ne’er give ‘em a name!”

  Gibrig slumped beneath the weight of the glare.

  Kegley looked over the hog again, shaking his head. “Snorts. What kind o’ fool name that be for a hog? It be like namin’ a cow Moos.”

  He frowned, glancing back at Gibrig. His face became kind after a moment, and he patted Snorts’s hind end.

  “He be a fine specimen, there be no mistakin’ that claim. Tell ye what, I been doin’ business and such with yer pap some fifty-odd years. ‘Side from that, his stock always be treated right—the best meat, year after year, season to season.

  “But this here nugget weighs near five stone, lad. Could be melted to ten coins and a pendent to boot! An’ though I can see the beast means a lot to ye, a dwarf can’t be livin’ on love alone…else me wives an’ I’d never leave the bedroom.”

  Gibrig couldn’t help a small chuckle and was forced to abandon the pathetic look he was trying to convey. He knew Kegley was right. He should have never named the hog. His father had told him as much since he was old enough to understand the slaughter. Hogs weren’t pets, they were fruits of labor, a means to trade for things that one could not make or grow oneself.

  “I’ll throw in five silver and not a shiny turd more,” said Kegley. “Already I’m payin’ more than he’s worth.”

  “I just can’t,” Gibrig said with a shuddering breath.

  “Now ye’re just bein’ ridic’lous! You know ye can’t be goin’ back to yer pap with no gold.”

  Gibrig began to whimper, and he angrily wiped his face with the end of his long shirt. Others around the market glanced their way.

  “Get ahold of yerself,” said Kegley with a darting glance around. His face suddenly went stark white.

  Gibrig followed his eyes and froze.

  Dranlar Ironfist, king of the Iron Mountains, sat upon a large ram five feet away, looking down on them. Behind him was a procession of twenty dwarven guards. “Excuse me, human,” said the king, and all eyes turned to Gibrig. “That is perhaps the best-looking hog I’ve ever seen. There be a banquet coming up, and I would have yer hog’s head be me centerpiece and main course. I’ll give ye triple what the merchant offered.”

  Gibrig could only stare, shock-jawed and blinking.

  “He’s not a human, er, Sire,” said Kegley as he fiddled with his hat and tried to stay in one spot. “He’s a dwarf to be sure, but he gots that humanism they speak of.”

  The king frowned at Gibrig. “Ye don’t be sayin’. Humanism, eh?” He leaned closer and eyed the strange dwarf closely, taking note of his long legs, skinny torso, and arms that nearly reached his knees.

  Looking like a human was humiliating enough. But having the king eyeballing him was another thing altogether. Worse yet, a large crowd of human, elf, dwarf, and ogre traders and merchants had begun to form around them.

  The king laughed and shook his head, tossing a bag of coins at Gibrig’s feet. “Ye’re invited to me dinner as well. Do ye juggle?”

  “Juggle, S-Sire?” said Gibrig.

  The king regarded Gibrig and stroked his beard as he leaned in to talk to Kegley. “Is the lad slow in the head too?”

  Kegley offered Gibrig a warning glance. “Nah, he’s a smart lad. Knows when to recognize a good thing at least.”

  “Consider my offer, human…d-dwarf,” said the king. “Me hall be sure to pay more handsomely than hog farmin’.” He pointed at Snorts and told one of his soldiers to take the lead rope. Kegley huffed for his loss, and seeing this, the king threw to him a small sack. “For yer troubles.”

  “Thank ye, thank ye, Sire,” Kegley said with many bows.

  The king kicked the sides of his ram, and the procession began off toward the mountains again.

  The guard led Snorts past Gibrig, who imagined the poor hog being led to the king’s halls deep within the Iron Mountains. He saw the fat nobles dining on ham and bacon and pork chops, hocks and side pork…

  “NO!” he yelled suddenly and grabbed ahold of the rope, yanking it out of the armored dwarf’s hands.

  The guard squared on him. “Ye out yer head, boy?”

  “What are ye doin’, Gib?” Kegley hissed.

  “This h-h-hog…ain’t for sale,” Gibrig dared to say.

  The king had turned his ram around, and the entire market was now watching the exchange. Dranlar offered a slow scowl and dismounted with purpose. A page quickly attached his gold cloak to his shoulders, and another handed him the biggest and shiniest double-headed axe Gibrig had ever seen.

  Kegley bowed deeply and pulled down Gibrig, forcing him to take a knee.

  “Please, Yer Long Beardedness, he’s not for sale…for any price,” said Gibrig, wringing the rope with his hands.

  Staring at the ground, he watched the king’s steel boots settle before him. “You would dare refuse your liege?”

  “I’m sorry, Y-Yer A-Awesomeness. I ain’t meanin’ to offend. It’s just…he’s…he’s me friend. I can’t sell me friend to be killed for nothin’.”

  The hog gave a snort, as if to accentuate the point.

  “Hand over the hog, lad,” said the king.

  Gibrig shuddered. A voice in his head screamed that he was being an imbecile. The king had paid thrice Snorts’s worth. A dwarf would have to be a fool to refuse such an offer—especially from the king. He turned to regard Snorts once more, who was busy eating a tuft of grass growing in between the stone.

  “Boy…” said the king, meaning it as a final warning.

  “Run, Snorts!” Gibrig yelled, and he smacked the hog on the rump. One of the guards reached for Snorts, and Gibrig socked him on the helmet with a closed fist before giving him a shove.

  “Get that hog!” the king cried.

  Gibrig leapt to his feet, backpedaled, and tripped over Kegley as two more guards lunged for him. He went head over heels but landed on his feet. Before the guards could get their hands on him, the odd dwarf turned and ran after the hog as fast as he could.

  ***

  Many hours later, King Dranlar stormed into his chamber deep within the Iron Mountains and found Kazimir waiting for him.

  “Good King,” said the wizard with a bow that left his long beard grazing the floor. “I am prepared to announce the dwarven champion. Have you made a final decision?”

  Dranlar waved off the guards and moved to the bar to pour himself a drink. “I have,” said Dranlar before shooting back three fingers of rum. He wiped his mouth with his black beard. “I had thought to send that bumbling idiot Drexle, but I have changed my mind. You will announce the champion to be one Gibrig Hogstead. The little shyte embarrassed me today in the market. I hope Drak’Noir makes him watch while she feeds that damned hog to her whelps.”

  “Very well, Good King,” said Kazimir with a small bow. “As you wish, so shall it be.”

  Chapter 6

  All Roads Lead to Bad Mountain

 
Murland Kadabra followed the ancient wizard down the road and out of the city. He’d expected a horse, or at least a mule. How was a hero supposed to get all the way to Bad Mountain on foot?

  He had asked Kazimir just that, but the wizard never answered any of his questions. Murland struggled to catch up to Kazimir, but the old wizard’s apparent age said nothing of his stamina, and he always seemed to be five strides ahead of Murland, saying every now and then, “Hurry along then, no time to dilly-dally.”

  A few hours into the journey, a rider came upon them from the road out of Magestra. To Murland’s delight, the rider proved to be his closest childhood friend, the princess.

  “Caressa?” he said happily as she reined in her horse.

  The princess dismounted deftly, ran to him, and gave him a big hug. “Murland, I’m so glad I caught you,” she said, looking him over after they had parted. “I can’t believe it. A Champion of the Dragon?”

  “I can’t believe it either,” said Murland.

  Caressa laughed musically.

  “No,” said Murland, leaning in and glancing back at Kazimir. “I mean, I really can’t believe it. Me, a champion?”

  Caressa put a hand to his cheek and smiled up at him, her bright red hair blowing in the breeze. “I believe in you, Murland. I always have. You’ve a magic all your own, and some day you will be a great wizard.”

  “You really mean that?” Murland asked, for she knew exactly how inept he was in the wizardly arts. Since he had always failed to grow wizard leaf, he basically worked as a groundskeeper for Abra Tower.

  “Of course I do,” said Caressa.

  “Best to make hay while the sun is shining,” Kazimir called from behind them.

  Murland glanced back at him worriedly. “I wish you were coming with me,” he said, turning back to Caressa.

  “I’ll be right here waiting when you get back. You hear me? And you will come back.” A single tear dripped from one long lash and slowly spilled down her freckled cheek.