The last chunk of rock was cast aside, the dragon’s snout, turned in a most twisted slant, poked out from the rubble.
“You fiends,” Geron could hear himself whisper. The curse grew until the noise of the community was interrupted, drowned out entirely by his primal scream of anger.
“You fiends!” he turned to face them. His clothes stained black and red, he stumbled away from the carnage.
Outnumbered, stamina drained, Geron knew there was no fight to be had. But he would have it regardless. Taking a broken stump of rock, he wielded it as if it were the finest crafted blade in the lands. But there was no fear in his foe’s eyes. The community looked with unanimous uncertainty to Grawnya, who, despite all the fracas and bloodshed still saw Geron as a beacon of alliance between beast and man.
“Wyrmgard has received its sacrifice, the gates need only a push for us to enter,” she said, opening her arms outward as if she were a herald of the divines.
“I shall see to it that this altar have its abundance of spilled blood,” Geron growled.
Abarath whispered concerns to Grawnya, no doubt suggestions of restraint or even termination against this cumbersome disloyalty.
Geron watched her face. The smile was warm. But when it flashed over with the cold realisation of fear, Geron felt it bore a more comforting sight. This repose was spread as the fear duplicated across the faces of the other members of the community.
There were many factors afflicting Geron’s state of mind, but even in the midst of all this chaos, far removed from harmony, he knew that this stated fear was not at his nor his makeshift weapon’s expense. Turning to share their vision, he gasped in astonishment.
The dragon, with snout twisted and crown stained deep black, stirred meekly. Eventually, its head rose from off the ground, staring at the collective before it.
Weeks ago, the distressing sight of the beast impaled upon the Hybrawn palace walls was the most vulnerable he had seen it. But then, the dragon looked vengeful, eager to right its wronging. Now, the beast only looked weakened, defeated.
For Grawnya, it was time to craft the key. The community drew their blades, slowly advancing forward to finish the dark deed.
“At least we’ll go down swinging together, friend,” Geron smiled as the beast wearily stood beside him.
But the dragon had no intention of accepting its downfall willingly, and Geron could see, or rather hear, why. The beast gave the strange gurgling sound, that to anyone unfamiliar was as if it were about to vomit.
It was a divine sight. And thus Grawnya did not flee, but instead looked to embosom the flames as they gushed forward, swallowing her within the engulfment. The others scattered, looking to escape the wrath of the dragon as the projectile stream of fire spread outward.
Some members of the community forgot the name of the mountain under which they were perched, attempting to scale it to safety. But the entire altar space provided no refuge, no member escaped the fiery fury. Bathed in righteous flame, their ablaze bodies proof of their purpose.
An opaque cloud lingered. The smell of burnt flesh thickly present, a warning to Geron, as he uncovered his face, of the grisly sight that awaited. The dying flickers of flame the only sound, as they extinguished on the mountain surface.
The savant had warned Geron of the danger of translations. Of erroneous ends reached from the passage of information. Susceptible to finite language, fickle emotion and the blurring muddle of time. Grawnya had wielded a fallacy with utter assurance. And yet, there was a key, and yes, the dragon was indeed the answer to the riddle of the altar. But it was not the blood of the great beast that opened the passage to Wyrmgard. To Grawnya’s and the community’s credit, though post mortem, their pursuit had been indirectly efficacious.
For the slope of the mountain, the patch licked by the dragon’s brunt of flame, had been transformed. The sloping stone, rather than sharing the burnt blackened hue of the surrounding altar grounds, was as clear and transparent as glass.
But unlike the brittle delicacy of its doppelganger, the translucent wall did not relent to the impact of the thrown sword. Retrieving the weapon, Geron traced his finger over the fracture he had caused. It was not invulnerable. The sword-edge clanged loudly, each strike damaging both it and the mountain surface further. Eventually the fracture bore cracks numerous. Pieces loosening and falling away until the sharp, yet smooth fragments could be torn away in sturdy chunks.
The other side was hollow. Another tunnel awaited, leading into the heart of the Insurmountable itself.
“Blood of the deities,” Geron hissed, “that whoremonger Tommamare. He was right.”
The dragon had little difficulty in detaching the remnants of the passage, following Geron into the supposed Wyrmgard entrance.
19
Marvel drove him further onward, though Geron’s thoughts of having to retreat to recover some form of torch to light the way were banished by the realisation that he could see his way quite plainly, even long after passing from the opening’s exposure to the sun.
A most curious green luminescence lit the passageway. No torch holdings were embedded into the wall, rather a soft felt-like growth bathed the cavern in their gentle glow.
The lighting plants no longer were entwined around him but spread out circling above. Geron craned his neck upward, the stretch of the cavern in which he now stood was immeasurable. A fact that was confirmed by his vocalisation of surprised wonder echoing extravagantly.
Though all proofs pointed to the fact that this was indeed the fabled land of Wyrmgard. No life seemed to exist within this mountain interior terrain.
The skipping stone that was jettisoned by Geron’s boot warned him of the drop that lay inches away from where he stood. He crouched, peering into the abyss, devoid of presence or light.
A protrusion poked up from the plummet’s edge. Geron eased his discomfort by resting upon it, breathing deeply.
“Not quite the sanctuary that Tommamare promised, eh? Well, the savant promised it I suppose, Tommamare merely said that this was where the dragon was defeated. I guess neither of them were fully right.” He was about to wax lyrical further about the nature of myths to the disinterested dragon, when Geron realised what exactly he was seated upon. Gliding his palm over the smooth surface, it was not stone but bone.
“A dragon skull…” he uttered aloud.
The mound was no isolation, the bones of dragons lined the very walls of the cavern. Stacks of gargantuan skeletons.
The dragon perched, observing something in the dim bleakness that Geron’s eyes alone could not see. It rose, testing its capabilities against the wounds it had suffered. Satisfied, its wings spread, and took flight to investigate further.
Watching as the dark scales were smothered by the murky shadows, Geron waited. Senses dulled by his surroundings, he could not see that which rose above, the sounds of the mountain’s interior lost to a plethora of rushing wind.
Every movement seemed amplified as it echoed across the vast rock. How impressive it was then, that the Baronet moved without detection, her footsteps mute until, by fortunate peripheral register, Geron was able to spot her approach, his deflection of her blade defying the lethal blow, but still harming in the highest degree.
“You?” Geron winced, clutching at the contact point, knowing that the fight was now tipped heavily at a disadvantage. And a fight it would inevitably be, for her weapon remained drawn, her advance persistent. “Even here? For him?”
She paused, lowering her sword. “Yes, even here. I would follow you to the very world’s end. But not for Lornus alone. I do this for me. And most of all, I will have yours and that beast’s death for who you took away from me!”
There was no time for clarifications nor apologies, for she resumed her attack, devoid of mercy or sporting flair.
Sluggish and slow, Geron’s strikes were errant and slovenly. He felt as if he were fighting a spectre, her movement followed no readable patterns, where upon once she stood his
blade touched nought but air.
She could have taunted him, there was plenty of opportunity, he was on the defensive daring not make a move until she begun a fresh assault. But this was no demonstration of skill nor of bragging rights. He was a means to an end. “Where is the dragon now?” she asked. “Answer and I will ensure your death is a quick one.”
Her blade was lowered, the proposition legitimate. There was too large a gap between them, but enough for one final gambit.
The Baronet’s unprecedented combative skill lay within a simple secret, deducing body language. One’s movements betrayed their intentions on both the swing and the power of their sword handling. However, it did not account for the trajectory of Geron heaving his sword toward her.
With a flinching borne more of instinctual preservation rather than skilful deflection, she thwarted the inbound weapon’s landing, but nary had a moment to reposition her footing when both of Geron’s boots planted themselves in her abdomen, launching her backwards, tumbling her over the side of the plummet.
She yelped, grabbing at the edge, the metal clasps of her tunic loudly rattling as she came to a halt against the face of the cliff.
As Geron crouched at the edge, in the dim light he could see her face, stained with an unfamiliar tinge of fear.
“My death, watched over by you, the fate’s humour is never mundane,” she growled.
“To hell with the fates,” Geron said, offering his hand, “you are not bound to it, neither are you to vengeance. You just need to choose.”
Swinging her hand upward, Geron clasped it firmly, digging his heels into the ground as he pulled her up, his fresh wounds aching with an ironic pain. With solid footing beneath her once more, she completed the rest of the journey without his assistance, scrabbling on hands and knees until they both collapsed onto the ground.
“Thank you…” she uttered quietly.
But before he could respond, Geron felt a tremendous impact upon his torso. The Baronet had leaned over toward him, her hands clasping the hilt of a dagger that was now deeply plunged into his gut. Relinquishing the grip, the handle remained rigid by itself. She stood up, watching as Geron choked in surprise.
“Yes, I have a choice, and I choose vengeance. That is my fate.”
Geron tried to stand, but the blade in his gut made movement an insuperable challenge. It was impossible to ignore; his body demanding that a choice be made. Either cup the wound or reach the sword. He was forced to select the former, the steel rattling upon the gathered dragon bones.
Another pair of footsteps echoed behind them, coming from the entrance. Slow, methodical and dripping with self-importance, Geron knew who it was before his conceited face came into view.
“We were afraid your tracks grew colder as we approached the Insurmountable.” Lornus said, also succumbing to a marvel at the interior of the cavern. “But as if to taunt destiny, when I was about to throw myself upon the mercy of fate, there it stood, arising on the horizon. Beckoning us to come. Revealing Wyrmgard, where it shall be defeated.”
Geron involuntarily coughed, blood flecking upon the ground. He intended a bemused groan of dismay, but that display would have to suffice, for the last thing he wanted to hear was more of Tommamare’s Creed.
The absentee King drew out his sword, a garish affair, untainted by blemish of fingerprint let alone blood. He stood ready, eager to begin his tribulation of combat. “Well, where is it?” he asked, looking around perplexed.
Resting his head upon a dragon skull, Geron laughed, eyeing the spectacle. “I have protected that beast from those that would do it harm, and yet for the first time, I wish I could bring it forth and see it end your charade of an existence,” he chuckled through blood layered teeth.
“Your own existence shan’t be for much longer it would seem. But a most virtuous gift is your reward, you walker of beasts, for you shall be the witness in the fulfilling of my own Creed.”
In the dark distance, the dragon roared. A bleating bark of a cry that it would usually give as a warning to foes or, in the early days of its training, a flummoxing of annoyance at the repetitious commands.
“Ah, and so destiny calls again, the culmination is at hand, my Veruth.” He said to the Baronet who politely smiled in agreement.
Her expertise with the sword was no innate skill, but an acutely learned practice. She, at that moment, remembered how after a training session with her master, she had boasted of her noticeable prowess, besting him in a sparring with dulled swords. He agreed, flattering her further, but as she turned away, she felt the dull force of the training sword clip the back of her neck.
“You are trained to observe the actions of not just your foe standing opposite, for their readings are too simple, but rather when your sword is sheathed you must read the faces, the words and movements of any and all you may come across, for any and all can be your foe.”
It was a most poignant lesson, one that structured fundamentally the rest of her training until that day she was commissioned into the Knight's Order and eventually chosen for the pristine created title of the Baronet. The lesson was universal. Why then had she neglected it in that very moment? How she watched, almost passively, as the King thrust his sword into her gut. His movements bore no treachery, his words no anger.
She clutched at the cleaved separation in her tunic, the spilling of blood and viscera apparent.
Geron watched as the Baronet’s knees trembled and the dragon-bone laden ground welcomed her, empathetic to her suffering as it was rather shared, though lacking the trace of sympathy.
His blade finally denominated to its long-neglected calling, Lornus stared at the unspoiled steel, now smeared with dripping crimson. Both Geron and the Baronet observed in mutual confusion as the King stood by her, taking her hand as if attending to a beloved stricken by illness.
“Please spare your sorrow,” he whispered. “This will ensure authenticity to my Creed. A story cannot have two heroes, the message becomes muddled. Veruth sacrificed herself in Tommamare's Creed to aid the hero.”
“Then I am a fool to have assumed I was immune to your madness,” she said.
Her words perplexed Lornus. It would require an amendment to the eventual text of this day, a change that he would rectify in her honour.
Save for the tell-tale crown that impractically sat upon her head, Queen Raim would have blended in most inconspicuously with the armed knights that escorted her into the sanctum of the mountain.
Lornus could not help but laugh at her sudden and unpronounced arrival. Such an alignment of destiny. The staging of his Creed fulfilled by his own vindications.
Looking around at their enclosure, Raim seemed noticeably puzzled by this strange cavernous landscape, but more pressing matters were at hand.
“King Lornus!” she declared, without an ounce of surprise. “It occurs to me that we never met face-to-face following your declaration of war. Nor were you present at Tallagate’s subsequent surrender. I had to read your words from that soft-jawed attendant. I was beginning to think that our paths would nary cross once more. Little did I realise the fates held such twisted humour. Thousands of your men stand armed within my realm Lornus. Did you really wish to seek the desolation of your Kingdom once more?”
“Wait,” the Baronet cried out, causing alarm to the Queen and her Knights, for they were entirely certain that the two bloodied bodies upon the dimly lit floor were mortally slain. “This intrusion your majesty, it is not what you believe. It is not an incursion of war. It is…”
Lornus looked to his Veruth, pride in her telling of the tale.
“The King. He has gone mad. Whether zealous in belief or blinded by grief, I do not know. But what is true is that a dragon, long believed fable, proven to be a most terrible and destructive real, killed Queen Ictuse and Prince Tidos. We together, sharing that grief have travelled here to bring it to its end.”
Raim looked to Lornus, a frown upon his brow. Displeased at the lack of virtue in her tone, the blu
nt plainness of her words, it was not treason, but rather tantamount to blasphemy.
“Dragons?” Raim repeated. Chewing the words as it if contained a bitter earthy texture. “Here in Arconan, the grip that folklore holds upon your King and its people has transcended mockery to pity. I had to endure the indignity of Tallagatian soldiers marching into my lands on that cursed book’s behalf once, I shall not endure it a second time. My brigades that stand outside, after slaughtering your gathered army shall then march into Tallagate, we shall take Hybrawn and unite it under the banner of Arconan rule.”
Lornus was no warrior, but fuelled by righteous virtue he did not cower from Raim’s challenge. She smiled, beckoning a Knight to her side. “Send word to commence battle, drive the Tallagatian army from our lands. The rest of you re-join your units, after you capture the Sonkiller as a prisoner of war.”
The Knight bore the burden of this communication poorly, knowing the implications of his carried message, but as he turned to depart, he found himself rooted at the sudden sound of the beast.
Once again, the dragon’s cry came. Geron shifted in his spot, his affliction rooting him, craning his neck back to look toward the darkness from whence the sound had emerged.
The cry came again. Geron frowned, the mountain’s interior was a trickster to the ears, but there was something unfamiliar about the dragon’s growl. So too was it carried upon the echo, giving it an ominous tone, causing the Knights to ready their weapons.
Lornus laughed heartily. “How eager you are to dine upon cynical mockery Raim. Witness as I slay the dragon and ensure my immortality in legend, in Lornus the Good’s Creed!”
Geron held no regard for Lornus, but the platoon of armed Knights could very well pose a threat to the wounded dragon should conflict erupt.
With bated anticipation, all those gathered within the mountain cavity stared toward the noise. Each individual wore a different emotion, but none dared speak of their intent, bar Lornus who, with great vigour, commanded that the dragon appear to him. Shapes formed in the darkness; outlines revealed through the shafts of light. The Knights, trained with ridged discipline dropped their formality, murmuring in shock at the sight of the great beast hovering above them. It landed, its talons crunching the wayward bones beneath.
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