The Dragon and the King
By James D. Swinney
“How old are you, Alice?”
“Eleven, sir,” she replied, not daring to meet his eyes for fear of receiving an even harsher punishment. Instead she sat on the chilly stone stairway just outside the school, staring at the ants and bugs that scurried about on the lawn and envying their simple existence.
“Then why do you act like you’re five?” Mr. James Barrows asked her. He paced the sidewalk in front of the girl, fuming visibly, his bright face turned bright red with fresh, hot anger. He threw his arms up with exasperation. “You cannot keep doing this, Alice! You can’t keep writing these…these… these things, and hope to get away with it!”
“I didn’t do anything, sir,” Alice insisted again, though she squirmed under his hot, lingering stare, wishing fervently to be anywhere else but there.
“Look at me!” he snapped. “I can’t stand it when you stare at the ground while I’m talking to you!”
She did as he told her, but she did not like what she saw in her teacher’s face. It burned, seethed with white-hot fury. He always had the shortest temper. She couldn’t understand why they had ever made him vice-principal. He was crazy! “I didn’t do anything,” she mumbled again.
“You wrote a story about Mrs. Larning, your own homeroom teacher, committing suicide, Alice!” Mr. Barrows exclaimed, spitting with anger.
“It wasn’t Mrs. Larning; it was Mr. Taylor,” Alice said, as if that made it any better. “It’s just a story, anyway. I don’t really want him to kill himself.”
“It certainly seems that way,” Mr. Barrows said. “Sure, it may be just a story now, but that is frightening behaviour from one your age. You should be learning during English Class, not writing stories.”
“That was our assignment, sir.”
“Not to write this kind of story, it wasn’t! You’re eleven years old, for Christ’s sake. You can’t write stories about death or suicide. It’s just not right!”
He sat down on the steps next to her, apparently having used up his anger for the moment. “What am I going to do with you, Alice? You don’t get along with the other children, you don’t pay attention in class, and you spend every waking moment either reading or writing. I would support this normally. Hell, I would promote this, but you write about unacceptable topics.
“I’m going to have to call your parents, Alice,” he said quietly, almost sadly. It was a surprising, though not unwelcome, twist from his usual attitude. “You’re being suspended for three days. I hope that you can behave better when you return. Now, you just wait here until I get back…” he said, trailing off as he stood and re-entered the school.
Brushing off her dress, Alice stood up. She was not quite ready to go home yet, she decided. And so, despite Mr. Barrows’ orders, she happily skipped down the steps of the school, clutching her notebook and a pencil and going to the one place in the city she knew that no one would think to look for her: namely, the alley behind the school. There she found solace in times like these, when the world seemed turned against her. There, among the garbage and the hideous stench, she found peace.
When she was safely situated on the old wooden crate that she regularly used as a chair, Alice laid her notebook on her lap, took out her recently sharpened pencil, and began to write. She had done this so many times, had written so many stories in the relative safety of her alleyway sanctuary. This was where she’d written the story of Mr. Taylor’s gruesome death, a tale about the city being sacked by Vikings, even a story that was meant to resemble her own life. Today, however, she had a different story in mind.
In this land, of old, there lived a dragon, she scrawled in her little book. A foul creature was he, given to foul tempers and even fouler odours. And as she wrote, the world around her seemed to fade away, to darken. It began to change in a way that almost defied description. First it changed in the little things; the pavement changed to dirt, the garbage changed to food and refuse over cardboard and glass. The wall she leaned against changed from stone to wood.
A dragon poked its scaly head out of the wall to her side, wriggling out of nothing and revealing its long, slender, serpentine body. From its gullet it belched a blast of fire, which warmed Alice’s face. It clutched the ground with its long arms, dragging itself out of the wall until it became wholly visible. And all the while, Alice wrote…
In this land, of old, there lived a dragon. A foul creature was he, given to foul tempers and even fouler odours. Some called him Gorelin, which meant “destroyer”, while others called him Orenesh, which meant “he who lights the fire” in the tongue of the Men of the South. Others just called him demon. He could be called anything, really. He was evil all the same.
He lived alone in what was once a grand city, full of light and life. Where once there had been statues and fountains and gardens, there was now a burnt desolation. Where once there had been tall buildings, mansions and castles all, there were now hollow, ashen shells. Where once there had been people aplenty and festivals to boot, there was now no one. Nothing but silence graced that ancient city, silence and a dragon.
Gorelin lived alone there, in one of the old, now deserted castles. It had once housed the King of Ticaria, a man who had reigned supreme over all of the Southern Continent. Now he was dead, however, and Gorelin took his place. He had been the one to burn the city, to destroy all of the grandeur of the men. He'd taken their gold and their coins, their goblets and their swords, all the riches that they had in the world. He'd taken their lives and their families and everything that they held dear. Now it was his to hold dear, and he did exactly that.
Deep in the darkest cavern of that great castle, in what might have been a dungeon once, Gorelin had made his horde. Piled high, reaching almost to the cavernous ceilings, were riches of every kind: coins, cups, weapons, armour, everything imaginable. And it was solely Gorelin's.
Now Aron had heard the story of the Dragon of Ticaria, of that fabled demon that men called Gorelin. He discounted it. It had been more than five hundred years since the sacking of that Southern City, and it had more likely been by barbarian pillagers than by a dragon. No, there was no dragon lurking in the ruins of Ticaria, he was sure. And to prove his confidence in this, Aron had decided that he would go there himself, to show his friends that there was nothing inside those walls worthy of fear. He was a fool, indeed.
A fool though he was, he was the first man to set foot in legendary Ticaria since the city had burned so long ago. He found ruins, ruins, and ruins to spare, but he found no other life. No bugs to scuttle along the ground, no predators to stalk the alleys. Not even the birds flew overhead. How could there be a dragon in such a lifeless place? No, it made little sense to him. Alone he walked down the dusty cobblestone streets, past crumbled buildings and dry fountains. Once he passed a statue of what might have been an ancient king, though he had not a head on him, no crown to prove his royalty.
Eventually he stumbled onto the castle, a greater building than any other. Towers stretched up from it to scrape the sky; a barren moat surrounded the ancient stronghold, a splintered drawbridge spanning its width. Its sheer immensity seemed to highlight its emptiness, and it seemed even more desolate than the rest of the city. Barren or not, though, Aron barged in all the same.
There, in the darkness of the entryway, he found nothing but dust and ruin. Two great heads looked down on him from either side of the doorway, heads that had once been regal but now held nothing but terror. Their eyes, though made of stone, seemed able to peer into his very self. He shuddered, but pressed on. There was a vast series of hallways from there, one that led into the throne room itself. He went there first, but found it empty like the rest, with nothing to hold his attention. He left.
From there he found a staircase, one that led both up and down. Though he would have liked to see the towers, he realized that no dragon—at least, not the dragon of the stories—could possibly fit in one of those spindly things. Down, he decided, would be his best option, and so he went, stirring up ancient dust as he did so. Wheezing, he made his way down many floors along the winding staircase, down into impossible darkness. Removing a torch from his bag, he lit it and began his trek again, this time with a light to shine on things that had lurked in darkness too long. It was there that he found the dungeon.
And then there was the horde. At first it shocked him to see so many valuables stacked up in a lonely cavern. It was more wealth than he had ever seen before, more wealth than his entire hometown possessed, more wealth even than was in the whole nation of Maleron! It was piled to the very ceilings and it was dazzling to behold. It stunned him, conquered his mind until he could think of nothing other than its sparkling vastness.
He took one, cautious step towards it, then another, and another, until he was almost running. He soon found himself scooping piles of it up in his soft hands, grinning even as he did so. He could become a lord with just the riches in his hands, not to even mention the enormity of it that rested before him. He could buy himself a grand manor, a castle even, to spend the rest of his days in. No longer would he have to toil for hours for some paltry sum with which to buy his bread and wine. No, he would have servants to wait on him hand and foot, to take care of his every need before he even knew that they existed. His mouth began to water in anticipation.
And then he woke the dragon.
Gorelin's roar broke the infinite silence, shattered it irreparably and left Aron to gape wide-eyed at the beast that stood before him. The treasure was thrust away from the dragon like an avalanche, raining down from the highest heights as the great lizard reared in fury. It screamed its fiery rage, loosing torrents of hellfire from its lips. Its eyes were filled with unknowable anger as it searched hastily for the thief that dared steal from Gorelin the Mighty!
Aron, clutching a jewelled goblet to his breast, ran away from there as fast as his feet could take him. Not taking even a single instant to reflect on the truth of the stories, he sprinted towards the staircase, dashing just ahead of the tongues of fire that leapt from the dragon's throat. He had been wrong, so very, very wrong.
"King Baovel!"
The doors of the longhall were swept open suddenly with a rush of chill morning air. Light streamed into the great room, filling it fully and hurting the aging king's eyes. Standing silhouetted against the light was Wiglan, his cousin and faithful messenger, and he did not bear good news.
The boy ran to his cousin's side quickly, bowing when he arrived, in keeping with tradition. "Rise, Wig," Baovel ordered, and the boy hastily complied. "What news do you bring?"
"It is bad, my King," Wig said, panting. He had run a great distance, apparently, to bring these words. It could not be good.
"Speak your message, Wig," Baovel commanded again. He did not want to hear it, were it really as bad as it seemed, but it was inevitable. And not knowing was even worse. "I have fought the troll, as well as his mother. I have looked death in the face countless times. This cannot be as bad as that."
"It may be, cousin," Wig replied with a deep frown marring his normally easy-going temperament. He had been the King's messenger since he was ten years of age, but never before had he seemed so ill at ease. "The Dragon has awoken."
"Gorelin?" Baovel asked, quickly getting to his feet. "You cannot be telling it true! Gorelin has slept for five hundred years in the ashes of Ticaria. What would wake him now?"
Wig nodded. "It is Gorelin indeed, cousin. He has woken, though I do not know why. It may be that someone disturbed his rest, for now he is angrier than ever. It is said that he is rampaging through the Southern Lands, burning fields and cities as he did in his youth. None have been able to stop him. He is moving north, to your own holdings, my King." With this last, the boy took on such a serious tone, darker than any he'd adopted before. Baovel knew that he told it true.
"What damnable fool could have done such a thing?" Baovel shouted, fury masking his normal calmness. His hand found the hilt of his sword and he drew the long blade. A collective gasp ran through all those who stood now in King Baovel's court, which had known no strife since the death of the troll in Hrothgar's kingdom. They each took a step back, hoping to avoid being the subject of Baovel's fury, which, as he was typically a gentle man, was all the more frightening.
Baovel paced down the length of his long hall, breathing heavily as his thoughts ran wild. He knew the stories of Gorelin. Everyone did. They told of a hideous serpent who flew faster than a speeding arrow, was more frightening than a god in his rage, and who had burned away empires with his fire. He was the subject of hundreds of tales, which told of him lighting farms and fields and leaving them barren for centuries to follow. They told of great warriors who had gone to face him, only to be left as charred corpses afterward. None had fought the beast and lived. What chance did they have in Gaar, so far from any allies?
"Summon my council, Wig," he ordered, unable to settle on a course of action. He knew that he wouldn't be able to make the decisions in this matter alone. He would confer with those in his kingdom who were the most knowledgeable of men, those who were educated in warfare and in politics. It would take wisdom to win this fight, he knew.
"Yes, cousin," Wig said, saluting to the tall man and leaving the long hall as quickly as he was able, in order to do Baovel's bidding.
After that Baovel dismissed all those who remained in the court, for they held nothing in their minds but useless gossip and rumours. They would be of no help to him now. Then he slumped back in his tall wooden throne, rubbing his temples with his thumbs to ward off an encroaching headache. If only Hrothgar still lived! He had been a wise man and a warrior, and he would have known what to do now.
Soon later the doors reopened, admitting those who were on his council. Acingo, the local sword-master and trainer in the army, led the way in, his long black cloak streaming behind him. Following him were many who Baovel trusted wholly: the physician Janus from the land of Cyrandan, the old smith Karlan, the innkeeper called Horace, along with many others. These were men who’d seen many years, many wars, and many struggles. They would help him.
"What have you brought us here for, Baovel?" asked Acingo, who looked irritated. "You've pulled me out of class, and I was just dueling with one of my brightest students. He's getting near to beating me, I should think."
"We may need him, then, if he's such a good swordsman," Baovel remarked. "The time has come upon us again when we should have to fight. The dragon, Gorelin, has been awakened from his long slumber. He flies our way at the utmost haste, and it will not be long before we must need to stand before him."
"Gorelin!" Karlan gasped. Being a smith, he'd heard many stories of dragon-fire, and how it was hotter than any flame he'd ever made. He did not want to be underneath it, surely.
"Gorelin," Janus spat. Being a man of Cyrandan—a civilized city to the far south, the capital of what had once been the greatest empire man had seen—he did not believe such childish tales. He thought of dragons in the same way he thought of faeries, goblins, and trolls: fodder for foolish stories!
"Gorelin," murmured Horace, who did not know quite what to believe. He liked to think himself a man of great intelligence and worldliness, being the owner of an inn and the host to many folk from all parts of the globe, but he was also a man of Gaar. He'd heard the stories while still at his mother's breast, and he'd heard them countless times since. He was torn.
"Yes, Gorelin!" Baovel snapped. "Now, we do not have time for this nonsense. As I've said, the dragon is flying here with haste, and he will not hesitate to destroy our lands and our people, like he's done to countless others. We must decide now what we will do, or we will surely fall beneath his wrath."
And so, these wise men of the kingdom of Gaar took to the lonely room set aside for council deliberations. They thought and discussed for many long hours, ignoring the food that was brought to them by servants and slaves. Tempers grew high; frustration was commonplace. They talked and shouted and cursed each other long, long into the night.
"We should flee to Garelim," said Karlan at one point, "or to Jarra. There we will find safety in their great numbers, and we can add our strength to theirs."
"And hide behind their mighty walls?" Acingo inquired, his words dripping with unconcealed sarcasm. "Do you not remember what happened to Ticaria? Its walls, higher and thicker than any around today, were melted like butter! They will not stop Gorelin."
That brought only more argument, until eventually Karlan's idea was discarded altogether.
"Let us stand together and fight the beast as men!" Acingo insisted again and again. "We are stronger than the perfumed women of Ticaria ever were. We could best Gorelin, and win honor and glory to our names for eternity!"
"The fires of the dragon consumed even the greatest warriors, Acingo, or do you not remember the stories?" Baovel would remind him each time he said this. "Knights from all over the world went to fight him, but all were reduced to ash."
There was more argument.
"This is all folly!" Janus shouted over the rest. "There is no dragon and there never was a dragon! It is merely some silly folktale that has gone too far out of hand. It could just as easily be a wildfire that some peasants mistook for a dragon."
That earned him nothing but frustrated glares from the rest of those who sat on the council.
"We've reliable evidence to show that the dragon does exist, Janus," Baovel said calmly, though it was a betrayal of the anger he felt. He appreciated Janus' intelligence, and the southerner was not a bad companion to share a drink with, but he could not stand his southern arrogance! "There's no sense arguing otherwise, now, as it'll just waste our precious time. We need to come to a decision, and quickly."
"Why don't we go to it?" Horace asked his first question since the arguments had begun. He was a gentle man, not one to engage in arguments with others. When the occasional fight broke out in his inn, he was known to calmly ask the perpetrators to leave, never raising his voice and never, ever raising his fists. "It would not expect that, I should think. If we reached it before it got to us, we could best it in a surprise attack."
"No one has ever beaten Gorelin before, Horace," Acingo reminded the innkeeper, "as Baovel already told us."
"You are right, Acingo," Horace conceded. "But did they have King Baovel on their side, the slayer of trolls and of beasts even more foul? Did you not fight and slay the entire family of the troll, with a sword forged by their own kind, my King? Do the same to Gorelin!"
"You flatter me, Horace," Baovel said humbly, though there was some truth to it. Ever since he was a boy he'd been the best swordsman in Gaar and Garelim combined, and he'd never yet met anyone to match him. He still bore the sword that slew the foul troll in Hrothgar's kingdom, a fine and long blade, forged by masterful troll smiths. It was the only weapon that could defeat their foul kind, so why could it not fight a dragon as well?
Horace, with a wide grin, replied, "But it is not undeserved, my King. With your ability and the element of surprise on our side, Gorelin will finally meet his match. You could send him back to the deepest hell from which he came!" This last was almost a shout, which surprised the others. Never had they expected such vehemence from this, the man most soft-spoken of all of them.
Baovel smiled. He preferred this plan than any of the others by far. This way they would not be floundering about helplessly, waiting for the dragon to come and kill them. Now they could fight the creature on their own terms. "So, who is coming with me?" he asked laughingly.
Though he expected only Acingo to volunteer of those at the table, Horace again surprised him when his hand rose into the air. "I would help you fight this monster, King Baovel. For the sake of the people of Gaar, I would risk my life with you."
"I will be glad to have you with me," Baovel said, and he meant it wholly.
In the end there were thirteen men who set out from Gaar to meet the dragon. Early on the morning after the meeting of the council, Baovel, Acingo, and Horace, along with ten other proud and courageous warriors of Gaar—also including young Wig, who absolutely refused to be forgotten—left the city in a long procession of horses. Each of them wore shields that bore the crests of their houses. They left with their heads held high and their hands on their swords, imagining the glory and honour that would flow unto them upon their return. Their spirits were higher then than they would ever be again in the coming days. One of the men even broke into song, and his voice carried for miles across the plains as he shared his joy and excitement.
They rode all the day, but that did nothing to dampen their moods. When the evening rolled around and all were sore from the saddle and dusty from the road, they stopped and made a fire. Then they ate what would be, for many of them, their last good meal.
Messengers rode to and fro between them and the dragon, outriders going far ahead to scout out the land that they would soon pass through. These men, hearty and strong and courageous all, rode at least twice as far and fast as the rest as they searched for Gorelin. Each morning they set off from camp, riding all day as hard as they could without killing their mounts, and each night they arrived back at camp to confer with King Baovel and to convey to him essentially the same news as all the other nights.
Until the tenth night, that is. That day, when all in the company had settled down to a meager dinner of dried fruits and meats and to warm themselves by the fire, there were no outriders returning. Baovel, his counselors, and his knights waited eagerly and impatiently for as long as they could, growing angry and irritated as the time passed. Soon they were forced to contemplate sleep and, though they did not like it, the idea that their friends had been killed. Were that the case, they would have to ride the next day in ignorance, never knowing if the dragon was near or not.
It was with that thought fresh and frightening in their minds that they finally heard the soft clopping of hooves riding on the dirt roads towards them. Wig heard it first, leaping from his resting place against a tree and scanning the dark prairies for the riders. When he saw a horse, he cried out aloud in his happiness and excitement, "The riders are back!"
Hearing this, Baovel jumped out of his tent with much haste, followed by Acingo and Horace from the canvas tent that they shared. Filled with excitement, Baovel ran to his young cousin's side to search for the riders.
Thus he was sorely disappointed to find only one rider, and a badly scorched one at that. Joram, a distant kinsman of Baovel's, rode his weary and limping horse slowly towards the camp. When he entered into the light of the torches, he was revealed to be covered in the dust of the rode and in ashes. His clothes had been turned into scraps and a long, bloody scar trailed its way across his nearly bare chest. His hair and clothing and body were in wild disarray; his eyes seemed lifeless and empty.
"Joram, what has happened to you?" Baovel cried in horror, seeing his own man so. "Where are the others?"
But the burned man could speak not, the only sounds escaping him being his own weak coughs, which sent swirls of ash into the air. Slowly he slipped from his saddle, falling down to crash onto the rough ground. All the others surrounded him, doing all they could to help him, but he was no longer conscious.
Horace, the innkeeper, made a great sacrifice in draining his last waterskin into Joram's dry throat and onto his face, using some of it to wash the deep wound on his chest. A worried look on his face, Horace carried the wounded man--along with the help of some others--into Baovel's great pavilion, setting him down to rest upon a soft bed. His filthy clothing and his bloody wounds soaked the king's own sheets, but that was not noticed in the chaos. Baovel was filled with worry and terror for his friend and kinsman, and he could hear Wiglan praying aloud to any Gods that cared to listen. They could not let him die tonight, not when they needed his words the most. Whatever had happened to him this night, they needed now to know of it.
It took the whole night, but by the break of dawn Joram had regained, at the least, consciousness. Though he still coughed weakly and was of yet unable to sit up straight, Joram could speak, however softly. His voice was the hoarse whisper of one close to death, and the sound of it filled Baovel with renewed sadness and pity. "Joram, my kinsman," he said to the rider. "Can you speak to me?"
"I think I can, my king," Joram replied, ever so quietly. His face, now clean of the dust and the dirt and the ash, was as pale as death. Baovel had never seen this man, who just hours ago had been a hale and healthy warrior, looking so weak, so pitiable.
"What has happened to you?" Baovel asked, his voice betraying the urgency that he felt inside. He needed to know what was happening, for the good of his company and his nation.
"It was the dragon," Joram whispered, "Gorelin."
Baovel sighed, though the answer was exactly what he had expected.
"I was riding with Marrin this afternoon, and we were just turning round to start on our way back here, when the beast suddenly appeared in the skies, blotting out the sun and all the light. He gave a fright to our horses, letting loose a blast of the hottest fire I ever saw. The grass all around us burned, and Marrin's clothing caught. He died right there, his own body melted from the dragonfire."
"How did you escape, Joram, and what of the others?"
"It was not by my doing that I escaped," Joram confessed weakly. "My horse, the poor beast. His tail caught afire, and he galloped out of their as fast as he could. He ran us straight into a lake, where we lost the dragon." He shook his head, frowning with great sorrow. "I don't know of the others."
Baovel nodded. "Then we have to assume that the dragon got them as well," he said, more to himself than to the company who had gathered around them. He cursed inwardly at the loss of these men, loyal and courageous all. Gaar would be sore for their loss. "It breaks my heart to say this, but I am glad, at the least, that you, my kinsman, have survived. You will be rewarded for your bravery, I promise you."
"If I live that long," Joram said with what might have been a smile. Then he laughed a brief burst of mirth that obviously pained him.
"Know this, Joram," Baovel said. "You are the first man in history to have faced Gorelin and lived. Take pride in that accomplishment, my friend.
"Come, my council," he then said to the others. "Let us leave this hero to his rest, so that he may recover quickly and be back on his horse soon." Then, after bending down to kiss Joram lightly on the cheek, he walked quickly out of the pavilion, followed by all his knights.
Nine men gathered around that fire, after the loss of Marrin and the two other outriders, and with Joram on his sickbed. They sat in silence for a while, contemplating their losses. "We will always remember them," Baovel said to the others, "those that gave their lives today. They were the bravest of us all, and, what is more, the best of friends to all of us. They shall not be forgotten."
Though they said nothing, there was tacit agreement in the eyes of all of those men who sat before the fire. If they had not already been set on their quest to kill the dragon, they now had to do it for vengeance, if for nothing else. Gorelin would pay for Marrin and the others.
"We cannot avenge them by charging in blindly, however," Baovel said, giving voice to the thought that all of them shared. "We must make a plan, and we must make it now. Soon we will be beset by a dragon."
It did not take long to formulate a plan after that, with their anger fueling them. Soon afterwards they were on their mounts again, nine knights riding out to meet that greatest of threats: the dragon Gorelin.
They found him in a cave nearby, a small and unassuming one for so great a beast. They stopped together at its doorstep, reining their horses in and gazing squarely upon the lair of their enemy. Baovel dismounted first, though he was quickly followed by all the others. Then, drawing his longsword, he started a slow walk towards the cave, with Wiglan and Acingo--his loyal cousin and his bravest warrior--close at hand, and Horace and the others right behind. In each of their hands they held torches with which they would light their way.
The cave was dark. Their torches lit up dark things, things that had gone unseen for so many years; illegible scrawling on the walls, dark passages and caverns, mossy rocks and damp walls. The very place pervaded a sense of menace and fear, to go with the inescapable heat that emanated from the very walls. Baovel steeled himself, holding his drawn longsword shakily in his hand. Before long he would face the dragon, the hideous creature against which no man had fought and won. It was his chance now.
He knew what he had to do. If he did not win this coming battle, Gaar would be left without a king. Worse, it would be left wholly vulnerable to the wrath of Gorelin. Fields would be burned, houses torched, cities destroyed and families devastated. He saw his own family in his mind's eye, and he was filled with dread. He saw the face of Joram, who had faced the dragon and barely escaped with his life and with his horse. How could he, a mere man, face this beast of legend, this creature that had never been wounded? It seemed hopeless.
Wiglan, though Baovel did not think it possible, seemed even more terrified. In the flickering light of the torches his face was pale and drawn. He shivered involuntarily, despite the heat. He seemed emaciated, and Baovel wondered if he had even eaten in these last days. Horace, that old innkeeper, seemed terrified also, and on the verge of passing out. Only Acingo seemed fearless. He was a sword-master, after all, and he had lost few fights--only those he'd had with Baovel, in fact. He was a warrior, a veteran of so, so many battles. To him this was just one more. He was growing old, anyway, and he had come to grips with the fact that he had little life left in him.
This gave Baovel some comfort, to know that he was not alone in this. For the first time, the task seemed almost possible, and he forgot all the dire consequences that would come of his failure.
Unfortunately, this all vanished instantly when he heard the roar of the beast. It howled with uncontrollable rage, and his fury echoed off the walls, traveling miles through the caverns to assault the ears of the warriors. A wave of heat struck Baovel's face. They continued their march, huddled down and shielding their faces against the heat, until they reached a wide, enormous cavern. There they saw Gorelin.
He was the biggest thing that Baovel had ever seen. His tail alone stretched for many, many feet, ending in a vicious spike. Its scaly body slithered around in the air, propelled by immense, leathery wings. Its face held the utmost fury, filling the hearts of all the men with sheer, unadulterated terror. It belched flame in their direction, screaming as it did and flying towards them with outstretched arms, claws like claymores scraping the air before them. "Away, men!" Baovel screeched to his fellows, himself ducking and rolling away from the hideous monster.
Flame leapt off cavern walls, scorching them and turning them blacker than midnight in an instant. The ground beneath their feat burned with a fury, hotter than anything they'd ever known. They fell away, scattering from the demon and experiencing their terror alone. Baovel and Wiglan fled together to one corner off the great cave.
Suddenly, the air was split by a wild, almost inhuman cry of great, unknowable agony. One of Baovel's warriors was engulfed in the dragon's fire, his flesh melting off the bone, all the water in his body evaporating before his own body burned away. Though death came to him impossibly quickly, it seemed that his screams stretched for hours. "Attack!" Baovel cried, though his basest instincts told him to flee and to run as far away as possible.
A great clang resounded through the whole cavern as Acingo's great longsword struck the dragon's side, sparks flying away visibly as they struck the strong scales. Gorelin, distracted by this, turned instinctively to the man who dared attack him, spewing fire from his gullet as he moved. Acingo rolled away with a yell of fear and adrenaline. He flipped away, narrowly avoiding the dragon's terrible fire.
Baovel dashed towards the great beast, stabbing wildly at it and forgetting all his fighting training. He slashed wildly, but his sword was deflected each time against the scales. He was forced to leap away himself, or be swallowed in the dragon's horrid fire. All around him was noise; the dragon wailed incessantly in its deep and growling tones, screams of his fellows and countrymen echoed off the walls. More than one of his men was quickly roasted by the dragon Gorelin. Baovel could not believe it at first, that these men who were so close to him were dying like flies. He searched frantically for his cousin Wiglan, and for Horace and Acingo who were his closest friends. Relief filled him when he saw Wig's terrified expression and hair strewn wildly about his head. He saw Acingo still trying to fight, attacking the dragon with a fury. He could not see Horace, though he searched as carefully as he was able--though with all the noise and the battle around him, he could do little.
The dragon Gorelin seemed invincible. None of their attacks seemed to harm him, not Baovel and Acingo's concentrated swings at the body, nor Wiglan's infrequent attacks to the beast's great arms and legs. Still Gorelin belched his terrible flame, scorching the ground all around them and singing their hair and clothing. It felt as hot as the deepest hell to Baovel, and he sweated profusely all the while. He tired quickly, his breath coming less frequently and in painful bursts. He could not last too much longer, he feared.
He scanned the entire body of the dragon, searching frantically for some weakness, something that he could exploit and use to defeat the thing. He found nothing, however, despite his efforts. The thing seemed invulnerable, invincible, like a god in itself. It did not tire, continuing with its vicious and furious attacks against the men who fought slower and slower. Baovel's arm felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, his sword a thousand. He could hardly lift it to continue swinging, though he knew that he would die if he could not.
Then he spotted it, the only weakness in the otherwise impenetrable armour of the dragon. Just below its mouth, along its long, scaled neck was a gullet that was the source of the hellfire. It was a comparatively small, bulging pocket of skin, moving constantly as the dragon loosed torrents of fire on the few remaining fighters. Unlike the rest of the great body, it was not covered in the armor scales. It was merely skin, and close to the creature's head, at that. It seemed a perfect place to strike! "Aim for the gullet," Baovel cried to his men, though he did not know how many of them yet lived.
He himself, with his yell, drew the attention of the great monster. Its enormous head turned towards him, its huge yellow and red eyes filled with pure anger at these mere humans who dared to scratch him with their swords of steel. It was not happy in the least, and it showed its anger by blasting fire at Baovel, their king. The fire nipped at his heels as he leapt away, setting fire to his clothing as he screeched in terror and in pain. His skin burned, his hair catching almost instantly and burning away. His legs were nothing but agony, and he could not help but scream. He dropped to the ground, rolling around in an almost manic sense of terror in a seemingly futile attempt to put out the fires.
He praised the gods aloud when he looked down at his legs to see the fires put out. Feeling more pain than he'd ever imagined a human could sustain, he struggled to his feet. Then he limped across the burning cavern--which by now was almost entirely black, lit only by the jumping flames that flowed from the dragon's lips--making his way towards the monster that threatened not only his friends, but the entire world. Though he moved slowly, thanks to his wounds, he moved now with purpose, tapping into a well of energy that he'd not thought existed. He was filled with renewed vigour as he moved towards what might well have been his doom.
The sounds of the battle dimmed around him; no more could he hear the dragon's howls or his fellows' screams. All he could see was the dragon's throat, that one little weakness in the impossibly huge beast. He focused on only that thing that could mean his survival. He walked, gaining speed as he went despite the dull roar of pain that resounded through his whole body. He had to win now, now that he knew how.
When he was close enough, he swung with all his might at that throat, missing narrowly as Gorelin turned to release another blast of fire at his friends. It reared its mighty head, taking the gullet, which could have meant blessed salvation, far out of Baovel's reach. Realizing that he could never catch it on the ground, Baovel leapt fearlessly onto the dragon's side, latching on to the beast’s great arm and hoisting himself up.
This enraged Gorelin even further, and he kicked and reared with passion and hatred. So great was its fury that when it knocked against the walls or the roof, great chunks of rock hailed down from the sky down upon it and the humans. Baovel was nearly wrenched from its back, which would have meant certain death, but he clutched with all his might to the creature's neck, wrapping his arms around it in an attempt to choke it. Then he pulled himself up, using all the strength he could muster. He climbed the thing's neck, using his sword blade to pull himself along. He had to reach the gullet, to destroy Gorelin the Demon. He simply had to.
It loomed ever neared as he climbed, growing hotter and hotter as he neared the source of the fires. He went as fast as he was able, getting closer with each passing second, though it felt like an eternity. To him it seemed that millennia passed before he arrived at that gullet. Then, summoning the last of his strength, his slashed it with his mighty longsword, opening it in one slice. Blood burst forth in a glorious rain, pouring down the throat and covering Baovel completely. He could not see, could not breathe in his ecstasy.
It was short-lived, however. The dragon, in its death, could do nothing but take its final revenge against the man who had done what none other had been able to. Gorelin, screeching violently, smashed its head against the roof of the cavern again and again, bringing down hails of rock and boulders. Then it fell to the floor like a stone to the river bottom, bringing down the whole cavern in its wake.
When Wiglan finally woke it was with dust in his eyes and numbness covering his body like a blanket. He coughed to get the dust from his lungs, trying and failing to pull himself to his feet. For a few moments he stood in a haze of fogginess and could not remember a thing of what had happened. Then, after looking around at the collapsed desolation of the once great cavern, remembrance hit him like a flood.
“Baovel!” he cried aloud, fear gripping him with its icy hands. Now, ignoring the pain, he forced himself to his feet, clambering over piles of fallen rocks. The stones themselves were coated in a thick layer of crimson, the blood of the demon Gorelin. He now remembered how Baovel had risked his own life in climbing the dragon’s neck; he remembered the sheer joy he had felt when his king and cousin had slashed the throat of the great beast. Now he walked on the monster’s blood and felt nothing but despair.
Where was everyone? He had seen too many of his companions fall to the dragon’s fire, but surely some had survived! How could he, a mere boy who had never known a fight until today, have survived while trained warriors had been slain? Where was Horace, that kind and portly innkeeper? Where was Acingo, the highly renowned sword-master of Gaar? Where was Baovel? He cried again and again, but there was no reply. Silence gripped firmly that cavern of rubble and ruin.
Then he found the corpse of the dragon. Its massive corpse was half-buried in rock and rubble, but still he saw its lifeless eyes. It seemed almost a shame to him that such a mighty beast had been reduced to nothing but a corpse, its steel scales shedding away, its mighty claws dulled by stones. Soon it would be gone forever, this monster that had lived for five centuries.
“I am here, cousin,” came a weak voice, so quiet that it seemed miles away. Lying down among the rocks, coughing wearily and resting against the body of the fallen dragon, was Baovel.
Wig rushed to his side and, upon seeing his state, began to weep. His cousin had sustained numerous wounds, more than would have killed a lesser man. His legs were burned and blackened, his arms torn and bleeding. A great gash had been opened on his chest and it bled profusely, Baovel’s life slowly trickling away. “Do not weep, brave Wiglan,” Baovel told him. “I am dying and will soon be gone.”
“I will help you, my king,” Wig promised him. “I will do all that I can.”
“There is nothing you can do for me,” Baovel said. “All that anyone can do is praise the Gods that Gorelin is dead. Remember this Wiglan, above all: Gaar has been saved from the dragon’s fire.”
Wiglan sobbed, resting his weary head on his dying cousin’s shoulder. He beat the ground angrily with his fists, cursing the gods for allowing this to happen. “Gaar has been saved,” Baovel repeated, and he smiled. Then the great king and warrior died, slipping into blissful darkness.