by Alec Silva
Nest of Dracogriffons
Alec Silva
Translated by Mike Brandish
“Nest of Dracogriffons”
Written By Alec Silva
Copyright © 2016 ©Blender Foundation | durian.blender.org
All rights reserved
Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.
www.babelcube.com
Translated by Mike Brandish
Cover Design © 2016 Samuel Cardeal
“Babelcube Books” and “Babelcube” are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Nest of Dracogriffons
Preface
Among Giants
Nest of Dracogriffons
I
II
III
IV
V
ȹ
To Veronica, for without her friendship none of this would have been written.
Preface
Vannora was born from a casual conversation in 2012 with a writer friend, Veronica, who let out a half angry comment. In a jocular tone, I said that speaking like that she reminded me of Red Sonja, the redhead warrior created by Robert E. Howard; being blonde, she would be the "Golden Sonja". On the same day, a little later, I wrote Among Giants.
In his debut, the character was not yet fully formed, the magic sword that she bears did not have a bloodthirst mind and her past was not clear to me. But the physical and emotional characteristics were well defined, as they mirrored Veronica, the muse; with some differences, of course.
In the second story, Nest of Dracogriffons, more extensive, the motivations have become firm, the story of the blonde warrior made sense: I know where she came from, where she passed and would pass, as far as it should go. And other tales came and novelettes, establishing the role of setting it as a uchronic world, between ancient and medieval, or with a story line different from ours, an alternate reality.
The two stories gathered in this small issue, are, therefore, the starting points of the saga of Lady of the Victorious Sword, the Nykh, a weapon that provides victories at any cost, including the slow death of its bearer, whose blade is like a vampire ever-thirsty for blood. The first is short and shows the character's combat skills against Nephilims, the giants sons of men and devils; the second, a novella, shows the fragile facet of Vannora when she finds herself responsible for a rare and peculiar creature.
Finally, I wish everyone a good read, and that we can meet again soon in other stories of the warrior of golden hair and a great thirst for revenge.
Alec Silva
Among Giants
The brown eyes stared at the opponent. It was an analytical look, enough to deduce the weak and strong points, height, weight, and strength. Next, she moved nimbly to the side, away from the club that slammed into the ground, raising dust; she seized the momentum and drew her sword, brushing the tip in the sandy soil, and using the weapon as a support. She recovered immediately from the evasive maneuver and struck a blow on the left thigh of the opponent, forcing him to bend his body. Another precise movement had the blade across the throat of the enemy, ending the confrontation.
While the giant was struggling, trying to stop the bleeding, and vomiting blood, the warrior looked up, thanking the gods for the victory obtained. The metal still glistened and dripped the precious red liquid of the victim. She walked quietly close to the horse, her guard a bit low. It wasn't a very tough fight, but fighting with giants was always tiring because it forced her to handle the Nykh with more energy than commonly required.
That dawn had a mild wind and strangely dense air, typical of impending dangers.
The lonely traveler took a rag to wipe her sword when a loud roar cut through the air, echoing through the canyon. She turned to her back and saw a creature of gigantic stature emerging from the darkness of a cave, carrying two huge rusty sickles, sometimes brushing the tip of one of them on the ground, as it advanced in large and steady steps, without haste.
The new opponent ran its red eyes through its dead relative, lain in a pool of blood, mumbling. It turned to the killer and barked:
"How dare you kill my brother, my only brother? You will pay the same amount, bitch!"
The warrior gasped, moving away from the horse. She did not want to put it at risk in combat. She was starting to regret having decided to follow that path.
"He attacked me first!", she cried, aware of the ineffectiveness of justifications. "I just defended myself!"
"Screw you! No one hurts a brother of a Nephilim and gets away with it!"
The giant struck one sickle onto the other, producing annoying sounds and some feeble sparks. He gritted his teeth and growled, staring at the human with blond, wavy hair, white skin, in contrast to the blackened armor he wore, and looked so serene. He couldd not believe that his brother had succumbed under the blade of someone so inferior as a human being — and even more being a female! It was unacceptable to his pride.
He increased the pace of his steps, lunging the arms forward and wreaking havoc at the point where the woman was a moment ago. He did not let himself be overcome by the same trick that ousted his brother; whirling one of the ancient weapons, he spun around quickly and dealt a blow that hit the left shoulder of the warrior, hurtling her into the air.
The fall was violent, making the traveler moan in pain. She tried to get up, but felt an unbearably painful weight on the shoulder and fell. She heard the quiet and powerful steps of the Nephilim approaching, rusty metal rustling. She had to think quickly or be shattered by an individual of a despicable white skin giant race and human and demonic ascendancy. At least she had the powerful Nykh in hand...
When the colossal enemy tried to punch her head, she turned away as she could and managed to cut off the right hand of the damned, who cursed and stumbled away instinctively, containing the bleeding that flowed in great abundance of the fresh wound.
The woman took the opportunity, crept a little and stood up with difficulty, using the sword as aid. Her shoulder ached terribly, warning of a dislocated bone — or several. She should not have dared to repeat the same feat in the same day.
The Nephilim attacked again, with the weapon he had left, in a movement aimed at her head again; the other arm was bleeding abundantly, splashing everywhere, wetting the soil and his opponent.
The warrior bent a little, getting rid of decapitation, but felt the blade of the weapon make a move in the air a few feet above her hair. She tried to deliver an attack on the enemy's wrist, but was unsuccessful and almost fell.
The monster kicked the air, aiming for the body of the human that humiliated him so much. However, he didn't get a positive result; only a mortal wound that severed knee ligaments, forcing him to kneel, almost crawling.
Gathering strength, but pleased with the successful blows, the woman climbed onto the monster, getting on his back, and plunged Nykh's blade into his neck, burying her almost to the handle, reaching the brain, defeating him. She wasn't in a hurry to get out, after all, the energy used in the fight had worsened the situation shoulder; she felt her whole body ache and was unable to move.
She sat on the beaten opponent for hours, enduring the scorching sun, the foul odour exhaled by the body, thirst, hunger and sweat burning on her wounds... Those things wouldn't defeat her.
She remembered the years of training, in distant lands, suffering punishment to learn to have discipline. Never having what was known as childhood or adolescence, all in the name of reasons in which she was little proud of. She had learned the art of killing with a great remark. Becoming a perfect assassin, a warrior endowed with beauty and agility.
When she realized that he could move, she stood up, removing Ny
kh's blade from the corpse's skull; Sweat trickled down her face and bust; in fact, her whole body was wet and sticky. The shoulder still hurt, but a good healer could fix that for a generous amount. She could ride normally provided that the horse went on a slow step.
She walked to the mount, which sat back in the shade, waiting for the rider. She took the canteen and took a long drink; then took an old cloth and wiped the sword, using some water and sand to help remove the traces of blood and brains. When finished, she slipped it into the sheath strapped to her back and rode the animal, which was ready for the return trip.
The rest of the day was quiet.
She stopped only when she passed near a river of crystal clear water. She dismounted and undressed, taking care to keep some daggers and a sword near the bank, at her reach. Washed with no hurry, getting rid of blood and sweat, the impurities of that intense morning. The left shoulder was swollen and purplish, but it was just a bruise like so many others she had and still would have.
Dressed in a light and flowing robe, she sat on a huge stone on the shore and ate some fruit, bread and cake from brought the last village she went. She drank some wine diluted with water, without haste. She gave some fruit to the horse, which was grazing nearby. Finally, she filled the empty canteens.
She Contemplated her reflection on the water: a woman still young, serene, with a glistening, yet saddened look, bulky lips, which sometimes bore an enigmatic smile, and white skin. She would be easily mistaken for a daughter of a noble — perhaps even a princess — though she was an outsider, a wanderer in search of justice and revenge, a beautiful assassin of golden hair.
She was, for those who knew her reputation, the lady of the sword with the blade forged from metal from the sky, dragon's blood and tears of elves. Or simply Vannora.
Nest of Dracogriffons
"Fairy tales are more than true; not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten."
G. K. Chesterton
I
Her brown eyes widened in shock while men shouted in despair. Her hand gripped the handle of Nykh just when something crashed violently on the ship, shaking it and throwing her violently on the floor.
"Kill it!", shouted the captain up there.
More screams, and the monstrous roar of the creature, which attacked without fear, killing many sailors. The small spears hadn't much effect, but they were the only hope of those men.
Vannora ran up the stairs and was temporarily blinded by the bright light of the morning. Returning to glimpse the forms, she saw the torn bodies, scattered entrails, the bloodshed and everything else on fire.
"Dragon?!"
She looked up, trying to catch sight of a sign of the beast that caused so much damage and death. She wasn't able to see nothing but smoke and clouds, which mingled in a macabre harmony. Could it have gone away, giving up of its deadly attack against those terrified men? Or was it mocking, somewhere nearby, waiting for them to feel carefree, to launch another attack, now definitive?
The killer turned her attention around, realizing that the vessel was doomed to sink; water penetrated through the cracked hull — probably caused by the shock of the powerful monster's tail — inundating everything, up to the deck and causing great tumult. Who could afford to swim, to fight for his mediocre life before the gods, would have a chance to escape and survive — or not, after all, the waters were infested with sharks and stingrays, animals perhaps equivalent to the dragon that attacked them.
Luckily, she never carried much in her travels. Just Nykh, the most efficient instrument of vengeance ever created, a few clothes, a map made of leather, coins, and precious stones, and some small, however, invaluable objects. It was enough to go around the world if need be.
She returned to the room in which she slept before, almost plunging into the cold water at waist height, walking the difficulty in a hurry, reaching out to catch the carefully tied backpack left at the table, which now swung from side to side; as soon as she managed to get it, she was thrown hard against the wall by the impact of something against the ship. It was painful, but there was no time to complain, as the ship began to turn and fill with water, forcing her to hold her breath.
It was clear that was the end of the ship.
Vannora jabbed the heavenly blade on wood, breaking it with ease, opening the way to another compartment, where some sailors struggled to open a door, almost breathless. She moved there, pulling two or three who were on the way and threatening them with the weapon, without a word, limiting herself to just face one or another with a cold stare; then she struck the exit a few times. When she broke the barrier, she threw herself to the side, escaping the barrels and boxes that went down and killed some hapless sailors. She was the first to get rid of that marine hell, pushing her body up and reaching the surface, gasping.
Wasting no time, with the help of the weapon, she climbed a structure she could not identify and jumped away from the ship, still gripping Nykh. She held it in the backpack, tying it as was possible and began to swim away from there. There was no time to waste trying to save anyone; it was not her duty, nor her concern.
She had ventured a bit less far than a mile when she heard the roars of the monster. She turned, seeing a huge winged creature catch a wretched sailor with its big mouth, in a perfect flyby, while the tip of its tail brushed the water, creating ripples. Because of the distance, she was not sure if it was a dragon or a Roc, after all, she was almost in Eastern lands, in a strait known to harbor both kinds.
She contracted her body, still, avoiding being an easy target for the beast.
She waited for a long time, feeling the signs of hypothermia. When she was sure she could follow in the direction believed to be the shore, she began to swim with urgency, shivering. She swam with every strength that she had, in a fight against the lethargy that dominated her body. She knew it was not good to feel drowsy in the sea when the threats could come from both below as from above.
Probably she had moved almost a dozen miles away from the wreck site when her arms and legs began to ache terribly. Her eyelids were heavy. With no more strength to continue in the task; she needed some rest; not much, but enough to recover and continue. Without realizing it, her body was sinking, as if embraced by the tentacles of the God of dreams and death that South folks worshiped.
In her mind came images from previous years, when she was younger and had started her quest for revenge only a few months ago. She had committed to do something that forced her to deviate from her personal mission, her real goals. Yes, a good amount of time was lost on that...
"Althair."
It was all that her mind could think. So her brown eyes closed, accepting the darkness that already embraced her body.
II
Vannora adjusted her bag, making sure that the object inside was kept intact. She continued walking through the crowd, the brown eyes looking at everything. accustomed to the unforeseen that always happen. She had to be constantly vigilant, after all, if it were not so, she would've been killed a long time ago, even in the hard training for which she went to become both a warrior and an assassin.
The crowd hustled at the market, from one side to another, without giving truce, she eschewed as was possible, avoiding dangerous shocks at her shoulder belt bag; she did not want to jeopardize the valuable content she was carrying and that made her go to that town center, so busy, dangerous and far from her purpose. It would be, even more than it was, a waste of effort and resources.
The powerful Nykh was stuck in the sheath at her back, still fed with the blood of the last victims. Mercenaries. All in search of what was hidden from the people who looked at the blond warrior. Now the blade was clean, but the heat of battle fanned the mystical properties; the ethereal metal was as bright as if it had just been polished; the dragon blood that was used in its composition boiled, mixed with the tears of elves that forged it.
Although possessing a weapon so imposing, able to cut the tough
est object, Vannora had never shown pride to have it. She knew the risks of bearing the legendary sword wielded before by gods, given to her by merit, even though it cost her more than she could bear. If it was not the impetus that motivated her to live, she would have refused to pay the price you paid to have it with her, becoming, therefore, the Lady of the Victorious Sword, as Nykh was known, especially among Northern priests.
The looks were cast time or another to the foreign, who disregarded them, following straight to where she would get some answers. She did not intend to waste time on something as insignificant as curious and gossiping people, always ready to spread rumors and lies, causing problems in most cases.
She had already caught the attention of the sentries, in the tower's entrance. It would not take much for a small troop to arrive and arrest her under some accusation or stupid justification. The assassin's fame anticipated her footsteps, making it harder than it already was.
She entered an establishment whose entry showed enormous stuffed animal carcasses, some of barbarian lands, like the powerful multi-horned beings with resistance worthy of ten or fifteen horses. She ignored a boy that ran past her, dedicating herself to stare at one tired-looking man, of old age, that was fiddling some bottles containing powders and flakes of exotic woods, probably used in potions of the magi or necromancers.
"I need your help, Gahren, now!", she said, without wasting time, approaching the counter.
"Did you forget the manners taught by your Master?", asked the merchant, hoarsely, yet firm and admonitory.
"No time for good manners when my life is at risk."
"Your life is always at risk, Vannora."
He finished straightening the bottles on a shelf.
"But what is it this time?", he added, turning to the warrior, with a barely toothless grin.
