The Legend of Drak'Noir

by Ploof, Michael James

  “You know,” said Sir Eldrick, who had seen him react this way more than once. “It is high time you line those straps with fur.”

  “That is a fine idea,” said Murland, rubbing his shoulders. “Got any?”

  “I can do it,” Gibrig eagerly put in. “I got some scrap leather and such in me bag. I be a bit of a sewer, I be.”

  “Thanks,” said Murland.

  “Have you gotten anywhere with any magic that might be useful against Drak’Noir?” Sir Eldrick asked Murland.

  “It is hard to say what might be useful against her,” said Murland. “She is said to be immune to magic.”

  “Yes, but that is said by Kazimir and only repeated by others.”

  “The book is mostly wards, and I have been looking into those that offer fire protection, considering that we are dealing with a dragon.”

  “Smart,” said Sir Eldrick. “Have you found any that will ward us against Kazimir’s magic?”

  “That is harder, you see, because the assailing wizard will know how to unravel such spells, so it gets complicated, and not really worth doing.”

  “What is worth trying against Kazimir?”

  Murland shrugged. “In the book, Kazam talks a lot about outwitting and surprising your opponent. Being unpredictable. So instead of trying to ward against his magic, it might be more useful to drop a pile of poop on him, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, throw him off,” said Sir Eldrick.

  “You just keep him busy for a second,” said Willow, slapping her club against her palm. “I’ll show that Most High Shitbag what ogre revenge looks like.”

  “My floral magic can help,” said Brannon. “I could…excuse the pun…tie him up with my vines for a bit.”

  “Yes,” said Sir Eldrick. “Our moment of opportunity will be but a second. And when it occurs, there will be no warning. That is why these things are hard to plan. We haven’t gotten as far as we have because of planning, but through teamwork and, dare I say…dumb luck.”

  “It ain’t luck,” said Willow. “The Great Turtle has got our backs.”

  “And me ancestors,” said Gibrig.

  “That is good,” said Sir Eldrick. “Because we can use all the help we can get.”

  Chapter 29

  The Tribe of Stone

  The companions traveled west through the plains for two days without incident. For the mole men seemed to have given up, and Captain Ripps and his cronies never appeared out of the shadows. The plains remained silent and barren. Aside from the occasional purple buffalo, rodent, or slowly circling hawk, they saw little wildlife. There was said to be a tribe of humans that lived somewhere in the long stretch of green fields, but Sir Eldrick said that the tribesmen were peaceful enough, and the companions would have no trouble should they come across them.

  A few hours before sunrise on the third day, the Backbone Mountains came into view, hazy against the western horizon. The tallest of those peaks, Bad Mountain, loomed nearly twice as high as the others. But rather than a white-crowned peak like the others, the top of Bad Mountain was flat, as though its top had been sheared clean off by the blade of an angry god.

  “Look,” said Gibrig, pointing at the distant mountain. “That be Bad Mountain.”

  Everyone stopped and looked to the horizon, and Sir Eldrick nodded gravely. “You are correct, Master Hogstead. That is the dreaded mountain home of Drak’Noir.”

  “It looks smaller than I thought it would be,” said Willow, seemingly unimpressed as she chewed on her jerky.

  “Are you mad?” said Brannon, wide-eyed.

  Willow shrugged.

  “Caressa and the others are up there somewhere,” said Murland.

  “Aye, and so be Kazimir, the stinker,” said Gibrig.

  “Come on then,” said Sir Eldrick. “Might as well make camp here for the night.”

  They built a small fire with what deadwood they had come across and ate a meager dinner with what remained of their rations. The lady pirates had sent them off with enough food for a week, but since Dingleberry’s kidnapping, Willow had started binging again. No one gave her any grief, however. They were all worried, and they understood her feelings. Besides, Brannon could grow them corn easily enough, for in the grassy plains under the bright sun, floral magic was easy to perform.

  “Look there,” said Willow. “I bet them buffalo would be good eating.”

  The sun was just setting, but even in the twilight, it was easy to spot the lumbering beasts grazing in the shallow valley below.

  “I think they see us,” said Brannon, staring to see better. “It looks as though they have all stopped.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” said Sir Eldrick. He took a spyglass from his pack and zoomed in. A small laugh escaped him. “Well I’ll be damned.”

  “What it be?” Gibrig asked, squinting in the direction of the herd.

  “They’ve all…turned to stone,” said Sir Eldrick, glancing back at the smoldering sunset. “The legends are true. With the coming of night, some living things in the plains become petrified.”

  “What they so scared for?” said Gibrig, glancing around at the growing dark.

  Sir Eldrick gave a small laugh. “No, my friend. Petrified also means to change into a stone-like substance. You know, like petrified wood.”

  “Oh, well that be better. All this time I been thinkin’ that the place be so scary that everythin’ be frozen with fear,” he said, smiling.

  “If they be turned to stone, then they’ll be that much easier to hunt,” said Willow, growing excited. “We just tie one up, wait until morning when they turn back, and then bleed ‘em dry.”

  “Where is the sport in that?” said Sir Eldrick.

  “I ain’t looking for sport. I’m looking for food.”

  Brannon offered Willow a withering glance and got up. “Come on,” he said, waving them all on. “Let’s get a closer look.”

  The others looked to Sir Eldrick, who shrugged and got to his feet with a groan. “Can’t hurt to have a look.”

  They left the fire burning low and cautiously made their way to the edge of the herd. There were dozens of purple buffalo, some in the middle of grazing, with their lips still around the grass, and others frozen in mid-stride. To Gibrig, they looked like amethyst statues, and their beauty brought a tear to his eye. He reached out slowly and stroked the smooth side of one of them.

  “What about the tribesmen you spoke of?” said Brannon. “They turn to stone like this?”

  “I suppose so,” said Sir Eldrick.

  “That must be scary,” said Gibrig.

  “Gives new meaning to the phrase, ‘sleeping like a rock,’” said Willow with a belly-laugh. She spit in her hands, took aim at one of the stone buffalos, and cocked back her club.

  “No!” said Gibrig.

  “Awe, come on, I’m hungry.”

  “Gibrig is right,” said Sir Eldrick. “Let them be, we will find something else to eat.”

  Willow offered the dwarf a thumbs up, before buddying up to Brannon and asking him about his seeds.

  They awoke before daylight and watched, mystified, as the sun rose, bringing to life the herd of purple buffalo once more. The herd moved on, and the companions set out west. The day was bright and sunny, a stark contrast to the looming shadow of Bad Mountain growing in the west. A strong wind blew across the plains, sending ripples through the tall grass, like waves upon a jade sea.

  Murland was flying high in the sky and scanning for danger. There was not much to see aside from the occasional hill or dipping valley and the lone river snaking through the land. Shortly after noon, he saw a large village suddenly come into view. He tried to make out the creatures walking about far below and thought that they were humans, but he couldn’t be sure from so high up. He thought to take a closer look but changed his mind, fearing that he might be spotted. Instead, he circled back to report his findings to Sir Eldrick.

  He landed among the companions and pointed west, telling them w
hat he had found.

  “They look like humans, you say?” said Sir Eldrick.

  “I think so, can’t be sure though,” said Murland.

  Sir Eldrick thought about it for a moment and looked northwest. “I think it is better we go around. We don’t need any more hold-ups.”

  “They might have some fresh food,” said Willow hopefully.

  “Indeed, they will, but we do not need it. Come on,” said Sir Eldrick as he headed off to the north. “Keep an eye out ahead, Murland.”

  Murland took to the sky once more, but they hadn’t made it two miles before he spotted a large party of horsemen racing toward them. “Oh boy,” he said with a sigh, and he steered back toward the group.

  “What is it now?” said Sir Eldrick upon seeing the look of worry on Murland’s face.

  “A group of horsemen, at least fifty strong. And they’re headed this way.”

  “Of course they are,” said Sir Eldrick, more to himself than to Murland.

  “Want me to slow them down?” Murland asked.

  “No, we cannot outrun horses for long, and the sun will not be setting for seven or eight hours. Perhaps they will let us pass through. I have known a plainsman or two in my day, I’ll talk to them.”

  The companions continued on their way, glancing west all the while. Ten minutes later, the horseman crested a ridge leading down into the valley, and to everyone’s surprise, they saw that they were not horsemen at all, but centaurs. The creatures, both male and female, had long flowing hair and large round eyes with bright rings of blue or green. Their human hair was the same color as their lower, horse half, consisting of browns and blacks, brilliant white, and even some that were spotted. Their skin was deeply tanned, and like a horse, their lips were dark. They carried beautifully crafted wooden weapons, mostly spears and bows, but there were a few with metal swords.

  “How did you mistake centaurs for horsemen?” said Brannon as he followed Sir Eldrick’s lead and put up his empty hands.

  “Shut up!” said Sir Eldrick out of the corner of his mouth. “Prepare yourselves, and if we must fight, we will do so on my word.”

  The companions stood back to back as the centaurs circled them, pointing their spears and arrows and making strange, high-pitched calls in a foreign tongue. They kicked up choking dust and closed in on the companions, spear wielders leading the way.

  “We come in peace!” said Sir Eldrick, holding up his empty hands.

  “Yeah, but don’t piss us off,” said Willow, still holding her club.

  Sir Eldrick looked to her with alarm. “Put down your club!”

  She rolled her eyes, but did as she was told. “You know, I’m getting tired of us always getting pushed around. We are the damned Champions of the Dragon, after all. People should start showing a little respect.”

  “Dragon Champions?” said one of the centaurs. He gave a whistle, and the advancing spearmen stopped in their slow approach.

  Sir Eldrick glanced at the other companions, telling them with his eyes that he would do the talking. But Willow wasn’t looking at him.

  “Yeah, you heard me right. We’re the Champions of the Dragon,” she said, daring a step forward.

  Sir Eldrick shouldered by her and faced the old- and wise-looking male centaur, presumably the lead warrior of the tribe. He wore his black and silver hair in thickly braided locks, which hung all the way to the forelegs of his horse half, just below his human waist.

  “Like we said, we come in peace, and are just passing through. We want no troub—”

  “You are the Champions of the Dragon?” said the old centaur, with hard, ominous eyes.

  “Aye, we are the champions,” said Sir Eldrick.

  The centaurs all glanced at each other, looking surprised.

  “Prove it,” said the leader.

  Sir Eldrick chuckled. “Well, there are five of us, a knight, an elf, an ogre, a dwarf, and a wizard. And, we are all heading west, toward Bad Mountain.”

  “We were all chosen by Kazimir,” said Willow. “Say, now that we are acquainted, ye got any foods?”

  The leader glared at Willow with wide eyes of indignation, but then his face softened, and he smiled, though none of them would have thought him capable of doing so.

  “If you are the Champions of the Dragon,” he said, raising his arms wide. “Then you are among friends!”

  The centaurs raised their weapons into the sky and gave a collective cheer.

  “Haha!” said Willow, clapping and sticking out her tongue at Sir Eldrick.

  “Oh, boy, that be a breath o’ fresh air,” said Gibrig, and he took a knee, holding a hand over his heart.

  “You hear that, Packy?” said Murland, ecstatic. “We’re amongst friends!”

  “Oh, thank the gods,” said Brannon, leaning on Gibrig for support.

  “Indeed, if you seek to defeat Drak’Noir, then you are among friends,” said the leader. “I am Artax Shadowfell, chieftain of the centaurs of the west. Please, come with us to our village, for we do indeed have food, and we can also offer safe passage to the mountain, as we have done for the champions for centuries.”

  “Lead the way, good Artax,” said Sir Eldrick with a smile.

  The companions followed Artax and Sir Eldrick, grinning at each other and considering their luck. They were escorted to the gates of a large village of grass huts with rooftops intricately woven and made to blend into the surrounding fields of green. The snaking river that Murland had seen from on high cut through the village and was crossed by three bridges.

  Word had spread through the village of the champions long before the five walked through the gates, and they were greeted like heroes and adorned with crowns made of flowers by the centaurs. Gibrig blushed at Murland, and the wizard nudged him playfully and pointed at one of the bare-chested centaur females staring at the dwarf with adoration.

  “But Murland,” said Gibrig, glancing around. “They be like…like half horse, and it be the half that counts.”

  Murland laughed boisterously, and the centaurs around them laughed as well. By the time they reached the long house of wood and grass, they were a right merry lot. Hundreds of centaurs crowded the long house, and to Murland, it smelled a bit like a barn. Not quite unpleasant, but pungent all the same.

  Artax leapt right up onto the long table that cut through the middle of the room and reared up on his hind legs. “The rumors are true,” he bellowed, slamming his hooves on the table and causing drinks, plates, bowls, and wooden dinnerware to bounce. “For once again the Champions of the Dragon have arrived, and once again they shall do battle with Drak’Noir. Three cheers for the Champions of the Dragon!”

  Sir Eldrick gave a small bow as the crowd cheered them all. Gibrig blushed and waved with Murland, Brannon curtsied, and Willow snagged a pheasant thigh off the table and popped it in her mouth. “’Bout time we get some respect around here,” she said, chewing and grinning.

  “Please,” said Artax, getting down from atop the table. “Join us. We were about to have our midday feast.”

  The companions sat on one side of the table, shoulder to shoulder, and happily accepted plates of food as they were offered. To their dismay, many plates of grass were set before them, which caused Artax to stomp a hoof and point at the server. “They do not eat grass like us. Give them food befitting their races!”

  To their relief, plates of root vegetables, fish, and fowl were set before them. They dug in, especially Willow, who had cleaned a plate into her mouth with one sweeping scoop. But she chewed slowly and purposefully when she saw all the eyes on her.

  “Before we eat,” said Sir Eldrick, rising from his seat and straightening. “I believe that it would be proper for us to introduce ourselves. I am Sir Eldrick van Albright of Vhalovia.”

  He extended his hand to Murland, who sat to his immediate left, and the wizard rose as well.

  “I am Murland Kadabra of Abra Tower.”

  “I be Gibrig Hogstead o’ the Iron Mountains…er…goo
d to be meetin’ ye.”

  “I’m,” said Willow, and stifled a burp, “Willow Muckmuck of Fire Swamp.”

  “And I,” said Brannon, rising with a flourish, “am Brannon Woodheart, Prince of Halala.”

  ‘Harara?” said one of the centaurs, eyeing Brannon suspiciously.

  “Halala,” Brannon corrected him.

  “Never heard of it,” said the centaur.

  “Whoever you are, and from wherever you hail, welcome, and thank you for taking this quest upon yourselves,” said Artax. “For if it were not for brave souls such as yourselves, Drak’Noir would have finished us off years ago.”

  The companions sat to eat. Sir Eldrick sniffed his drink, checking that it contained no spirits, and raised his glass. “Thank you, good Artax.”

  The companions tapped wooden cups with the centaurs and drank their honey water before finally digging in to the food.

  “Artax,” said Sir Eldrick. “What do your elders say of the day that Drak’Noir attacked?”

  The centaur’s smile disappeared, and he nodded to a very old-looking centaur. “Pathos is best suited to tell that story.”

  Pathos, gray-haired and foggy-eyed, shakily looked in the general direction of the companions, though Sir Eldrick did not think he could see.

  “My father’s, father’s, father saw it with his own eyes,” he said in a voice weak and quivering from age. He pointed to the western sky. “Like a black demon from the thirteen hells, she came from the mountains. Her wings blotted out the sky, and her flames turned the plains into a roaring pyre. Her gaze turned everyone who looked upon her to stone, which, it seems, was a good thing, for it helped them to survive the fire. In the morning, they all awoke to find the plains a smoldering wasteland and most of their loved ones dead.

  “It was a dark time for us centaurs, and we thought that surely we were doomed, but then five great warriors came from the east, and they drove the dragon back to Bad Mountain.”

  “How?” said Murland.

  Pathos regarded Murland’s question with a frown. “How they did it, I do not know.”

  “What did yer grandpap say?” Gibrig asked.