The Legend of Drak'Noir

by Ploof, Michael James

  “Yes, Sire,” said Gibrig, taking a knee and presenting the king with the bundle he had been carrying all the way from Bad Mountain. “But we didn’t scare her away like we was supposed to. We killed her.”

  Dranlar took the bundle and eyed the crowd, who waited anxiously. The bundle was four feet long, curved, and as thick as one of Dranlar’s legs. He slowly unwrapped it, and his eyes widened when he looked upon the black tooth of Drak’Noir.

  “I took it from the dead beast, me king,” said Gibrig. “I carried it all the way from Bad Mountain on me back, so that I might give it to ye.”

  Dranlar studied Gibrig and Hagus, and at length he nodded, his face becoming jovial. He raised the tooth above his head. “Drak’Noir has been defeated once and for all!” He then grabbed Gibrig’s hand and pulled him to his feet and thrust his arm into the air. “Three cheers for Gibrig Goldenshield!”

  Chapter 44

  The Return of the Champion of Halala

  Brannon and Valkimir took their time getting back to Halala. For it was deep into summer, and the flowers were all in bloom. The waters ran cool and clear, and the flute trees sang as the wind blew through their reeds. Brannon and Valkimir followed a less-traveled path along a river that ran northeast to southwest and only came across a few elves, but with Brannon’s floral magic, they were able to keep themselves from prying eyes.

  Valkimir kidded often about not returning to Oakenhold, which puzzled Brannon. During a riverside lunch of vegetables, fruit, and fish, Brannon’s curiosity got the better of him.

  “Why do you always speak of not returning? Surely you are not worried about Father. I have passed his stupid test, and besides, I don’t give a damn what he says anymore.”

  “It’s not that,” said Valkimir. “It’s just…I’ve always been the one to protect you. And you have always needed me to. But you don’t need me anymore.”

  Brannon began to speak, but Valkimir silenced him with a hand to Brannon’s cheek. “Let me speak. You have come so far, Brannon. And I am glad of it. It warms my heart to see you realizing your great strength, a strength that I have always seen in you. You will return not as the spiteful prince who left, but as the powerful and mighty heir to the throne. A true Champion of the Dragon.”

  “Valkimir, my darling. It pains me to hear such words befall your lips. I love you, now and forever, and neither fame nor power is going to change that.”

  Valkimir smiled kindly, and Brannon could not tell if there was doubt in his eyes. Val had always been so hard to read, which was one of the things that Brannon liked about him.

  Their steeds brought them to the gates of Oakenhold less than a week after setting out from King’s Crossing, and to Brannon’s surprise, it seemed as though the entire city was awaiting their arrival.

  “It looks like Father’s seers have been watching us,” said Brannon, eyeing the cheering crowd.

  “I hope that they enjoyed the show,” said Valkimir with a wink.

  Brannon held his head high and waved to the crowd as he and Valkimir rode through the living gates of vine. Elves had gathered in every tree house and packed the spiraling walkways twisting up the trees. They occupied every cobblestone street, every garden, and even waved from boats clogging the surrounding ponds.

  “Prince Brannon, Valkimir,” said a tall elven guard, nodding respectfully at them both. “You are expected in the great temple.”

  “Expected by whom?” said Brannon.

  “Everyone. May I be the first to congratulate you on your recent victory?”

  “You wouldn’t be the first, but your sentiment is appreciated,” said Brannon. “Lead the way.”

  The guard offered him a small bow and then whistled to the others. Twenty mounted guards surrounded Brannon and Valkimir and led them through the crowd of overjoyed elves. They chanted Brannon’s name—something that his people had never done before. Brannon fought to hold back his tears, knowing that they would ruin his coloring.

  When they arrived at the great temple, Brannon dismounted and turned to Valkimir. “How do I look?” he said, striking a pose.

  “Like a champion,” said Valkimir, and he kissed Brannon before slapping his backside. “Now go in there and show your father who you are.”

  Brannon turned with a grin and confidently strode to the vine curtain that led to the main podium. When he walked out, he was greeted by the cheers of thousands of elves. They occupied every twisting branch and filled every row of the spiraling benches that grew out of the surrounding circle of sequoias. To his right, Brannon’s father, mother, and sister sat in the royal booth. They were on their feet as well. His mother cried and blew him kisses, his sister smiled proudly, and his father stood tall, clapping as well. The look in his eye was one of mild suspicion.

  “Elves of Halala! Your prince has returned to you victorious!” said Brannon, thrusting one of Drak’Noir’s long teeth into the air. “The black dragon has been defeated once and for all! No more will she threaten this land.”

  The crowd began to cheer once more, but Brannon raised his hands to quiet them.

  “But I did not do it alone. Great honor is also deserved by Sir Eldrick van Albright of Vhalovia, Murland Kadabra of Magestra, Willow Muckmuck of Fire Swamp, and Gibrig Hogstead, the Golden Shield of the Iron Mountains. Together we faced bandits, cyclopes, darklings, pirates, slavers, mole men, and more. We traveled beyond the Wide Wall. We braved the dangers of the Forest of the Dead, the Swamp of Doom, the Horrible Hills, the Long Sand, and the Petrified Plains. When we finally reached Bad Mountain, Drak’Noir was waiting for us. But together we smote her and cast her ruins down the side of Bad Mountain.”

  Thunderous applause followed, and Brannon enjoyed every minute of it. He glanced at his father and thought for a moment that he saw pride.

  “The road has been long, and I regret that the story cannot be told in its entirety this night. But it shall be told to you soon, have no fear. Before I retire, however, I have an important announcement, for I have decided to marry.”

  The crowd all quieted and waited on the edge of their seats to hear who the lucky lady might be. Brannon again glanced at his father, and the king regarded him with a mix of hope and apprehension.

  “I have asked Valkimir for his hand in marriage, and he has accepted!” said Brannon.

  His father scowled, his sister smiled, and the crowd cheered much less fervently.

  “There are many who are opposed to such a union, and please understand that I simply do not care. There are ways that I might produce an heir, and produce an heir I shall. I have traveled to hell and back. I have defeated the most feared monster that Fallacetine has ever known. I have met with our cousins from the north and have made strong ties with the Queen of Shivermoore. I am known on the Wide Wall, and all through the lands the name ‘Brannon Woodheart’ means champion. If I am to become king someday, know that who I choose to lay with will have no effect on my performance, or my service to my people and this great kingdom. For I am your prince, and ever shall I be your champion!”

  The crowd shot to their feet and shook the great temple to its roots. With a twirl, Brannon turned from them, completely ignoring his father, whose eyes were surely as cold as ice. He blew through the curtain and hugged Valkimir.

  Annallia burst through the curtains behind him and cried Brannon’s name. “Oh, brother,” she said, hugging him. “I’m so proud of you!”

  “Annallia, how I have missed you,” said Brannon, kissing her cheeks.

  King Rimon came through the curtain, and his hard eyes settled on Brannon, but before he could speak, the queen pushed past him and grabbed Brannon by the cheeks.

  “My dear, dear son. You have returned to me, as the sages said you would.” She kissed him before greeting Valkimir with no less affection.

  “Let us return to the castle,” said the king. “For there is much that I must discuss with our champion.”

  Everyone all but ignored him, and together—clucking like a bunch of hens—they
made their way to the waiting carriages. They loaded into one, leaving the king to take his own, and rode through the city with an escort of knights. There was so much to say that Brannon didn’t know where to start. He learned from Annallia that she hadn’t spoken to their father since learning of the grand lie, and that Rimon had considered Valkimir’s going after Brannon to be desertion.

  “I’m surprised that he didn’t try to have you arrested,” she told Valkimir.

  “He wouldn’t dare,” said Brannon.

  “I am so sorry for the way he has treated you,” said the queen. “Rimon loves you in his own way, of that I am sure. It is my fault, really. If I could have had more children, another son perhaps, then you wouldn’t have to bear all the pressure that falls upon an heir’s shoulders.”

  “My father’s only love is power,” said Brannon. “And it is the only thing that he respects.”

  “What do you plan to do?” said the queen, having seen something in Brannon’s eyes that made her worry.

  “I will give him what he wants.”

  The carriage stopped, and the knights swiftly led them through the crowd of cheering elves and into the castle. Brannon left everyone in the antechamber, telling them that he would join them shortly for dinner. He climbed the stairs to his father’s study and waited.

  Brannon found that he wasn’t nervous in the least, and the thought made him smile. That smile stopped his father dead when he came marching into the room. He regarded Brannon with an unreadable expression and turned to close the door behind him.

  “Drink, Father?” said Brannon casually.

  “You think that you are clever, don’t you?” said Rimon, slowly stalking toward him.

  “Yes, I do, actually. Wine or brandy?”

  Rimon stopped behind his son, but Brannon simply ignored him and poured the drinks.

  “I’m talking to you!” said the king, grabbing Brannon’s arm and spinning him around.

  Brannon had expected violence of some kind, and he had prepared for it. He held a handful of seeds in his left hand and unleashed a great surge of his floral power the instant his father’s big hand touched his arm. From Brannon’s hand, vines shot out and wrapped themselves around the king’s neck, lifting him into the air and pushing him back fifteen feet to slam into the opposite wall.

  Rimon tried to speak, but his face was turning red with rage and lack of oxygen. Brannon shot back his drink and threw it over his shoulder to smash against the wall. He marched over to his father and beckoned the vines to lower the king. Face to face with his father, he said, “Never touch me like that again,” and finally released him.

  Rimon fell to the floor, choking and coughing, every ounce of his dignity and grace having vanished.

  “How dare you—”

  “How dare I?” Brannon screamed. “How dare you try to send me to my death. I knew that you hated me, but even that is evil for you.”

  “I was trying to make you stronger!”

  “And now I am stronger! I am stronger than you are! How do you like that, Father? You have been overpowered by a faggot. Now what does that make you?”

  “You forget your place!”

  “Oh, I know my place. I am the prince of Halala, and heir to the throne. Perhaps it is you who have forgotten.”

  “You will never rule Halala,” said Rimon, still rubbing his throat. His voice was raspy and carried none of the authority that he was known for.

  “Do you hear that?” said Brannon, laying a finger behind one long ear. “That is not your name that they chant, it is mine. And soon they will know of your deception. Tell me, Father, what will the people think when they learn that you have been sending elves to their deaths? What will they think of you when they learn that you tried to send me, your only son, to his death?”

  “What do you want?” said the king, knowing that should the truth come out, he would be ruined.

  “I want you to get out of my way. You want a strong heir, well you’ve got one. Bless my marriage to Valkimir, and I will keep quiet about your transgressions.”

  “I will bless nothing,” said Rimon through clenched teeth. “But neither will I stop you. It does not matter anyway. Your mother is in poor health, and there is nothing that the healers can do. She has a few years, they say. When she passes, I will secure a new wife, and she will give me sons that I can be proud of.”

  Brannon fought back the emotions that came with the shocking news of his mother. “Too bad you will not be a father that they can be proud of.” With that he turned on his heel and walked out the door.

  That night he forgot the bad news and his father’s unrelenting disdain. He pushed it all aside and dined with Valkimir, Annallia, and his mother. Outside the palace, the crowd cheered his name and sang songs in his honor all night long.

  Chapter 45

  The Return of the Champion of Fire Swamp

  “Come-come,” said Dingleberry as she came zipping back toward Willow. “I’ve awakened your fam-fam and told them the plan-plan. Everyone is gathered at the big-big skull face.”

  “How do I look?” asked Willow, who had been carefully applying red and green mud to her face and body.

  “Like fierce-fierce warrior!”

  Willow laughed. She was bursting with excitement and couldn’t wait to see the look on everyone’s faces. She carefully made her way to the top of the rock ledge above the great skull. She could hear the confused crowd murmuring below and had to stifle a laugh. As quietly as she could, she got inside the blackened skull of Drak’Noir and counted to three. On three she gave a roar and leapt off the ledge, landing fifteen feet below to the terrified cries of the villagers.

  “Rahhh!” she growled, and when she saw their faces, she burst out with uncontrollable laughter, for the ogres had all dropped to the ground or ducked behind rocks and trees.

  “It’s Willow Muckmuck!” said one of the ogres.

  “The Champion of the Dragon has returned!” said another.

  “Willow!” her mother cried, running toward her.

  Tears pooled in Willow’s eyes as she crawled out from under the skull and hugged her mother. Her father soon joined them and showered her with kisses.

  “Instead of the dragon tooth, I brought you the dragon head,” said Willow to her father.

  “We are proud of you, fierce daughter,” said her mother.

  “I’ll hang it in the kitchen,” said her father, and they all shared a laugh.

  “Behold!” came the voice of Chief Gnarlytooth. “Willow the Fierce, Champion of Fire Swamp, has returned, and she has—!”

  “I’ve got a few choice words for you, you no-good, sniveling nannywiggins,” said Willow, to the confusion of all.

  “Willow, what is this about?” her mother asked.

  “That lying toad sent me off to be a sacrifice to Drak’Noir,” said Willow, pointing a fat green finger at the chief.

  “Surely the long journey has made you confused,” said the chief, trying to placate her.

  “Liar!” she snapped back and began to stalk toward him. “You knew that it was a lie all along.”

  Willow’s father caught up to her and turned her around. “Willow, what are you talking about? Why would you speak to the chief that way?”

  “It was all a lie, Father. The champions chosen by Kazimir were not meant to be champions. We were meant to be killed and our souls used in a spell to send Drak’Noir away for another generation. It was Kazimir’s scheme all along, and the chief knew about it. He needed to give someone to the wizard, and he chose me because…because he thought that I ate too much food. A lifetime supply of food. That is what was promised for defeating the monster croc, and this is how he saw fit to repay me. But we uncovered the scheme, and we defeated Kazimir and Drak’Noir.”

  Willow’s father turned and scowled at the quivering chief. “Why, you, son, of, a, LIZARD!” He charged the chief, who frantically called for his guards, but they only shook their heads and frowned at him. Tharg Muckmuck grabbed the
chief by the throat and lifted the smaller ogre off the ground. “I should kill you,” he said, squeezing.

  “Please, no, I beg of you…”

  “You sent my daughter off to die?”

  “No, no, I believed in her all along…I—”

  Tharg squeezed harder, and the chief’s face turned bright green. The ogres cheered him on, and Willow thought that her father would really do it, but to her surprise, and surely the surprise of the chief, Tharg instead broke both of the chief’s arms and threw him to the ground. “Now let’s see how good you eat, with no one to feed you.”

  The crowd began to chant Willow’s name, and they put her up on their backs and began marching her toward the village, leaving Chief Gnarlytooth whimpering for someone to help.

  A celebration was had that night like nothing Fire Swamp had seen in decades. The swamp echoed with the beat of heavy drums and log horns. Willow recounted her tale from beginning to end. The crowd cheered when she told them of the many battles, and sat in reverie as she told them that she had spoken to the Great Turtle. Her words were written down by the scribes and priests, and her testament became known as the Word of Willow in the book of the Great Turtle. It was decided much later, after many long and heated debates and many measurements of the known world and the stride of the shelled god as reported by Willow, that the end of days would not occur for thousands of years, for the Great Turtle had not even reached the eastern coast of Fallacetine. But it was predicted that his journey would bring him through Fire Swamp, during a time that would come to be anticipated as the Enlightenment.

  By the time her tale was through, it was nearly dawn. Her father, seeing how weary she was, told everyone that they could see her again later and guided her back to their home. Willow was overjoyed to be back, and she sat at the table in the kitchen, fighting back tears as her mother began to make her some tea.