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

by Michael James Ploof

  “And one that he surely does not remember,” said Kazimir, shaking his head at the knight and raising a brow to Brannon.

  “I awoke to find myself seated before the one and only Queen Tittianya of Faeland…”

  When his story was finished, the companions sat there, enthralled. All but Willow.

  “Alright, see, now that just don’t make any sense. If you can whoosh Sir Eldrick from there to here, then surely you can whoosh us to Bad Mountain.”

  “If it were that easy to whoosh you to Bad Mountain,” said Kazimir, standing slowly and seemingly towering over the eight-foot-tall ogre somehow. “Don’t you think I would have done so by now!”

  His voice boomed and left her on her backside.

  “Why must you bother the High Wizard so?” Gibrig asked. “He has only ever helped us.”

  Sir Eldrick noticed how Brannon’s eyes fell then, and he tried to change the subject. “Murland,” he said with much enthusiasm. “What is this I hear of you performing magic? I wish I could have seen it.”

  Kazimir cocked a brow to that, and Murland gulped.

  “Ah...yeah, I grew my own wizard leaf, finally. With the help of Brannon. I can read the spell book now.”

  “Spell book?” said Kazimir. “What spell book?”

  “Uh, just one that Zorromon gave me.”

  “And who, might I ask, was the spell book’s author?”

  Murland remembered Zorromon’s warning about keeping the book a secret from Kazimir, but the old wizard’s glare was so intimidating that he was helpless but to tell the truth.

  “Allan Kazam.”

  “Allan Kazam?” said the wizard, seemingly dumbstruck. He shook his head, his white beard flapping, and quickly composed himself. “But of course, no less for the best wizard to come out of Abra Tower in two centuries.”

  Sir Eldrick glanced at Brannon and found that the elf seemed to be purposefully avoiding looking at him, for the knight stared for a full minute with no effect.

  Kazimir seemed not to miss the unspoken sentiment. “Well then,” he said, extending his arms at them all. “You are all together again, and not far from the Wide Wall. But I must warn you. The real journey has just begun. Where now you have traveled only a few hundred miles, the road beyond the Wall to Bad Mountain stretches more than a thousand. You must travel through the Forest of the Dead, beyond—”

  “Yeah, we know the route,” said Willow, picking her teeth with a twig and then eating it. “Ain’t there a boat or something that could just bring us around the western lands right to the base of Bad Mountain? I seen the maps before. The mountain sits right smack dab on the northwestern coast.”

  “Most of the land beyond the Wide Wall is inaccessible by boat,” said Kazimir with a fed-up glance at the ogre. “Why don’t you think of how you can help the group, rather than wondering about saving yourself some walking?”

  “Hey,” said Sir Eldrick. “She is trying to help.”

  The knight was surprised at his own anger toward the wizard, and Kazimir, always alert, did not miss the true sentiment of the statement.

  “Come, walk with me,” Kazimir told him, and he began walking toward the pines.

  “I’ll be right back,” Sir Eldrick told the group.

  ***

  Sir Eldrick followed Kazimir into the woods, but the wizard did not stop, even when they were well out of earshot. He continued on down an embankment, across a small stream, up a steep slope leading to a glen, and down again to where the stream snaked this way once more, emptying into a small pond, eddying in the shadows of the tall oaks.

  “Behold. The price of your failure,” said Kazimir. He pointed toward the pond.

  Sir Eldrick stood on the high bank and watched, mystified and fearful, as the swirling pond shimmered, and an aerial view of a dragon in flight shone there in the pristine waters. It was Drak’Noir, and she was marvelous, and beautiful, and just as terrible as he had always imagined. Her wings spread for miles, and her fire spared neither the women nor the children. Her liquid breath of death consumed whole cities. Fire Swamp was reduced to clay, Magestra became a burning beacon on the eastern shores of Fallacetine, Vhalovia was swallowed up by a pit of churning lava, and Halala and the Iron Mountains burned and crumbled, and nothing was safe from the wrath of the great dragon goddess.

  “Stop! No more!” cried Sir Eldrick, flinging himself away from the swirling pool and falling into the ferns.

  “Now you understand the severity of this quest. Now you understand your role. Your heart might sing for these fools, but fools they are, and heroes in a way as well. For their sacrifice shall ensure that this vision does not come to pass.”

  “I understand,” said Sir Eldrick. “I understand.”

  When they returned, Murland was sitting with his spell book opened, debating with Brannon on the true meaning of a particularly strange-sounding spell that he had just read.

  Kazimir marched up to him and slapped the book shut. To his surprise, a spark issued from the tome and zapped his finger, only making him angrier.

  “Don’t you know that spell books are sacred, and not to be read aloud like some fruity elf’s diary entries?” said Kazimir all in a huff.

  “I’m sorry, Most High Wizard,” said Murland, wide eyed. “I just…I…I.”

  “Get your words in a row and meet me in my yurt,” said the wizard. He turned and waggled his fingers, and a circular tent covered in snow appeared on a raised platform beside the fire.

  ***

  Moments before, the Magestrian team of climbers had just popped the top on a fifty-year-old bottle of wine, a bottle that their order’s founding member, one Felix Hillman, had once promised he would pop at the summit of Mount Cold Finger, the highest and most treacherous of all mountains on the frozen continent known as the Eternal Ice. Standing just an hour’s hike from the summit, the team had decided to drink to their founder, who had died in this very spot, having frozen to death before reaching the top.

  They all raised their glasses in a cheer, and suddenly, inexplicably, their yurt, the only shelter from the bitter, deathly cold, disappeared.

  ***

  Murland followed the wizard into the yurt, pausing only momentarily to regard the map of the Eternal Ice.

  “I’m sorry if I—”

  “You say that you can read the tome. What else came to you when you smoked your wizard leaf for the first time?” said Kazimir, moving to the small stove burning at the center of the mysterious yurt.

  “Well…I don’t know,” said Murland, rubbing his hands together nervously. “I got all tingly, and I floated into the air.”

  “You floated?”

  “Yeah, but not too high. I came down eventually. Obviously,” he said with a nervous laugh.

  Kazimir regarded him over his thin spectacles, and Murland had the sudden understanding of what a beetle must feel like, being observed through a learned monk’s thick lens.

  “What did the tome say?”

  “Well, it says a lot, really. It is the collected works of Allan Kazam, with a foreword by—”

  “Erasmus Farsky?” said Kazimir, suddenly glowering at Murland with a look like regret.

  “Yes. Erasmus Farsky.”

  Kazimir visibly diminished, and Murland wondered if it were a trick of the light.

  “High Wizard?”

  “What? What?” said Kazimir, as if being awakened from a deep sleep, or perhaps a trance.

  “High Wizard, what did you bring me here to ask me? I have asked you to help me with the wand and the wizard leaf, but you offered none. And now that I have figured it out for myself…well, now you take an interest?”

  “Well, of course,” said Kazimir, annoyed. “Why do you think that the other high wizards never stopped Lance Lancer from poisoning your plants, and never even told you about it? The job of a wizard is a serious one. We delve in the shadows of mystery on a daily basis. The unknown IS our business. No one could tell you why your plants were dying, just like I couldn�
�t tell you how to fix the wand or grow wizard leaf.”

  “I understand,” said Murland. “Thank you for letting me learn on my own.”

  “Sure, kid,” said Kazimir with a sigh. “Just be careful. Take it slow. No need to dive right into a spell book such as that.”

  “But…I have only just begun to learn. Surely haste is in order. We will reach Bad Mountain in what…a month, two?”

  “Damn it, man, just do as I say!”

  Murland bowed his head, chastising himself for doubting Kazimir’s wisdom. “I’m sorry, High Wiz—”

  “Get out,” said Kazimir with a finger pointing to the door. “Just leave.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Murland. Bowing, he backed out of the yurt, not quite sure why he had incurred the High Wizard’s anger.

  Chapter 32

  Hunters and the Hunted

  “Ye just follow the road east until ye get to King’s Crossin’, then ye take the northern road back to the Iron Mountains,” Hagus told the dwarf lass who had so suddenly appeared along with the other prostitutes.

  “But won’t ye come with me?” she asked, looking fearful.

  Hagus glanced over at the others, who were waiting by the road. “Nah, me road be leadin’ west. There be a dragon to kill. Go on then, the others be headin’ as far as King’s Crossin’ anyway. Ye won’t be alone. Farewell.”

  He mounted his ram and joined the others, and together they set out toward the Wide Wall.

  “This is crazy, you all know that, right?” Caressa told them all. “There is no turning back from this quest.”

  “I didn’t sign up for this,” said Wendel, walking behind them. “Once we get to the Forest of the Dead, I’m gone!”

  “Shut up, Wendel,” they all said in unison.

  “I for one ain’t afraid o’ no dragon,” said Hagus.

  “Not even a dragon with a mile-long wingspan?” said Caressa.

  “Bah, mile long. Ye been listinin’ to too many bedtime stories, lass. There ain’t no dragon that big. Besides, why would a dragon that big need food brought to her for her whelps, eh? Don’t make no sense. Why would a dragon need food brought to them at all?”

  “You have a point,” said Valkimir. “It makes no more sense than a group of champions ‘scaring her away’ every generation.”

  “There is definitely something going on with this Drak’Noir,” Caressa agreed. “And I intend to get to the bottom of it.”

  “What about the Blight-Blight?” said Dingleberry, flying beside them. “If Drak-Drak can do that, she must be big-BIG!”

  “We be findin’ out soon enough,” said Hagus. “Big or small, everythin’ that breathes can be killed. Everythin’.”

  They traveled hard through the day, intent on catching up to the champions before they could make it to the Wide Wall. A few hours after sundown, they came to a spot where Valkimir said he could make out old tracks leading into the hills, and he was sure that they belonged to the champions.

  “See here,” he said, pointing to a spot a dozen feet from where the tracks went in. “They came out about ten hours later, and they were heavier.” He scoured the hills beyond the copses of birch. “They must have met up with someone who gave them a large amount of supplies. Food perhaps.”

  “Ye can make all that out o’ them faint tracks, can ye?” said Hagus, sounding dubious.

  “Indeed, good dwarf.”

  “How old the tracks be?”

  “Five, six days.”

  “Then we best be gettin’ a bit o’ rest and head out again afore dawn.”

  They put in beside the road on a piece of flat land ringed by birches whose bark was peeling off in curled strands. The night was warm. It had proven to be a dry spring so far, which boded well for travelers, but not so well for the farmers.

  Hagus was surprised by the climate south of the mountains, for on his farm in the green valley nestled between the mountains, there was always a mist in the air. The mountain dew and low-hanging clouds kept the crops always quenched, which led to an excellent yield year after year.

  He lay there beneath the stars, unable to sleep, and thought of his farm. He knew that he could never return, not after what he had done. Gibrig would never be welcome there again either.

  Unless…

  If they faced Drak’Noir together and killed the beast, they would become heroes, renowned throughout all the lands. The king would have no choice but to pardon their indiscretions, and they could then return to the farm and be done with all this questing business.

  Hagus had had enough adventure for one lifetime already. He had lost an eye to adventure and warring, and had vowed never again to fight. He had never intended for his son to ever become a soldier. The lad didn’t have the stones for violence.

  Just like his brother, Hagus thought, not a mean bone in his body, bless him.

  Sniffling, he rolled over, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy ground.

  “Hagus!” Wendel suddenly croaked.

  The dwarf shot straight up with a start and Wendel scuttled over to him, his two floating eyes quivering. “Something is out there, something rotten, something evil, something…dead.”

  “What is he yammering about?” Valkimir asked sleepily from his spot a few feet away.

  “Speak plainly,” said Hagus.

  Wendel’s jaw chattered. “Plainly? Plainly! What is more plain? Something is out there. This way, a great evil comes.”

  Valkimir and Hagus got up and scoured the nearby land, which was bright with the moon’s silver glow.

  Caressa entered camp from the east, looking ashen. “Something is out there.”

  “So says Wendel,” said Valkimir. “Did you see what it was?”

  “No, just a feeling. Terror like I have not felt since I was a child. We must leave. Now.”

  “Very we—” Valkimir’s voice suddenly caught in his throat, for a dread had suddenly crept over them all like a blanket of frigid air. Terror pure and cold took over their minds, consuming them and telling them to flee.

  “They be here,” said Hagus, taking up his shovel in two strong hands and moving slowly in a circle, eyeing the dark.

  “Ride! All of you. Ride!” Valkimir suddenly yelled, and a hellish shriek answered him.

  Caressa, Hagus, and Wendel leapt on their mounts and sped down the road as though an army of demons followed. Valkimir’s mount caught up and passed them easily as more shrieks now issued from all directions.

  Hagus felt as though something was attacking his mind, trying to dig in and devour his soul. He fought to put up a kind of mental wall as waves of depression and despair crashed against his mind. The wall held firm for a time. The mounts, however, had no such protection. They flew wildly down the road, spurred by primal terror.

  “What in the hells that be?” Hagus demanded.

  “Darklings!” said Valkimir as Dingleberry flew to catch up and landed on his shoulder.

  Caressa screamed, and to Hagus’s horror, she and her mount were lifted from the ground by a great winged beast that carried her high into the sky.

  He looked to Valkimir and Dingleberry riding beside him, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw darkness descend upon them. Dingleberry, Valkimir, and the horse were taken up in black talons and shot into the air.

  Hagus swung his shovel upward as the shadow of a beast blocked out the moonlight and scooped up the mountain ram.

  Chapter 33

  Bad Tidings from Worse Company

  Murland awoke in a cold sweat, as though he had been caught in the throes of a terrible nightmare. His eyes shot open and he gasped for air. Heart thumping in his chest, he stared up at the sky. It was dawn, and the deep blues and purples were being replaced by oranges and pinks. He stared at the morning sky, wanting nothing more than to see the sun, for in the corner of his eyes he could see the dark figures standing at the edge of camp, watching. A deep, haunting cold swept over him, and a dark, hateful song like chanting filled his mind.

  Darklings…<
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  He dared not look at them, for to do so would make them real. Instead he squeezed his eyes shut and tried desperately to fall back asleep, or wake up, anything to make them go away.

  Muuurlaaand.

  The voices were whispers in his mind, cold against his soul. He shivered, fighting the urge to look, just look and be done with it. He felt so alone. Where were the others? Had he been carried off by the foul beasts in the night?

  He didn’t want to know.

  Murland remembered his wand and carefully reached for it beneath his blanket. When his fingers wrapped around the smooth hard wood, he felt a sense of calm wash over him, and courage found its way into his spine once more.

  He opened his eyes…

  And a darkling was standing over him, body crooked and bent beneath the black shroud. The faceless creature was staring at him. Though it had no eyes, he could feel that penetrating gaze boring into his core, down to his very soul.

  Murland screamed. The darklings shrieked.

  The camp came alive then with that chorus of terrible cries and the alarmed exclamations of his companions.

  “Back to the hells with you, foul beasts!” Sir Eldrick demanded, leaping over Murland and swinging his translucent fae blade.

  Murland scrambled to his feet as Willow, Brannon, and Gibrig did the same.

  Just when Murland remembered Kazimir and looked desperately toward the yurt, the leather door flaps were blasted outward by an explosion of light. The darklings shrieked and hissed, and the light became brighter and brighter still, forcing them back to the shadows at the edge of the forest.

  The light disappeared, and Kazimir strode out of the yurt, looking angrily determined. Murland rushed to Gibrig’s side, glancing at his friend. Gibrig was ashen, and dark circles hung like half-moons beneath his eyes.

  They waited for the darklings to retaliate, but no such attack came; they simply stood there, watching with those dark, eyeless faces as the wizard slowly stalked them.