Spectacular Tales III Read online

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  Sometime later, Ufburk emerges into a pale dawn. Before him, a silverish barrier flickers and he recognises it as the King's magical blockade. A sense of wonder informs him. Thinking he once knew his father was a baseless assumption. Ufburk decides Tiber has too many secrets to know him well. And an uncle?

  Secrets.

  The whole thing feels untidy, off. Calming Ufburk's frayed nerves will take some time. The once-barbarian moves swiftly to the barrier and as the thing flicks out with a wink.

  As Ufburk rounds one hillside, he spies the landing where the first cave he entered opens its maw. Standing in the bright sun is a man, broad-shouldered and heavily plated in dark grey steel. The steel shines disproportionately according to the light that surrounds it and on Ufburk's wrist, Antar's Brace tightens.

  The man is more a giant than Ufburk. The armoured man stares at the once-barbarian with high intensity, yet does nothing else.

  There is no sign of Rydal, or of the Scala hordes and their Cyborgs. Ufburk cannot see his dogs.

  Out in the open and already sighted by his foe, Ufburk turns and treks across the sward. A strange pattering grows steadily under his breastbone. In one hand he is clutching the bone sword.

  When Ufburk is some seventy yards away, the armoured giant pulls out a heavy weapon, forged of a dark steel and levels it at the once-barbarian.

  "Uncle lay down your arms, or I am forced to arrest you, even if that be by death!"

  A thunderous crack splits the air. Ufburk's ears explode with brilliant pain and then muffled, he hears ringing. A thin trickle of ruby blood runs unnoticed from his nose into his beard. Again there is a flash and the sound of roaring thunder. Cupping his hands to his ears the best he can while holding the blade he advances, knowing Rolo is firing some weapon.

  "Aye, I hear your fury well enough!"

  Ufburk's cry causes the armoured man to shake his head. It is not Rolo's anger the once-barbarian is addressing, rather, it is Seljuk's. And it is the Many-eyed Wizard who has enslaved Ufburk's Uncle.

  Sadness steals over his heart. The Prince knows that Rolo cannot be brought to reason, that the wizard has ruined him. The armoured man is lost, enslaved so, and was lost long before today.

  One projectile assumedly would have killed the once-barbarian, but Antar's Brace repels the round, sending it smashing into a hillside. The next sound to come is a dry, metallic cracking as Rolo's Revolver strikes on an empty chamber.

  Again the vacant click sounds, and again.

  "Rolo!"

  It is Rydal, bloodied and wounded but alive. The Merrigan raises one palm in a wiping motion, and Rolo's Revolver has flung aside. The giant charges the Merrigan, not making noise. The sight triggers Ufburk's superstitious leanings and causes his anxiety to soar.

  Rolo bounds into the Merrigan at full speed, knocking Ufburk's big friend backwards. The two fall in a flurry of thrashing body parts, fighting even as they fall.

  Ufburk is dimly aware that he is running toward the fight, and that Rolo is on the Merrigan's chest, beating poor Rydal possibly to death. A fine scarlet mist dots the air for emphasis.

  The once-barbarian dives at Rolo knocking the man free of Rydal. Now it is Ufburk railing against the bulk of Rolo's assault. His Uncle is like a hundred oxen, and the armour he wears is thick enough to repel any weapon and presumably to shatter the bone sword Ufburk wields quite readily.

  Seconds pass before Ufburk sees his peril, he cannot fight such a brute. Rolo is preternaturally resilient. On that haggard face, Ufburk sees traces of his lineage but no sign of compassion or remorse, no evidence of his Uncle's humanity remains.

  Rolo is striking him, Ufburk sees flashes and feels exploding pain. The once-barbarian feels something snap at his side and knows Rolo has busted a rib.

  And then a voice breaks out in the chaos, hearing it, Ufburk's hopes simultaneously soar then plummet. The once-barbarian is aware he no longer holds the bone sword. From one puffy eye; he sees Rydal lying dead or unconscious before him, and he knows he too is wounded severely.

  "Rolo, fight me, brother!"

  It is the King, coming down the gentle slopes of the grassy knoll near the cave. Ufburk struggles to take a knee, and his head spins for his effort. Blood spatters from a gash on his thigh. Ten yards away, he sees the bone sword, lying in a tangle of grass. Rapidly, he begins to shuffle toward that blade, knowing it is significant. Why else would Tiber have given the weapon to him?

  Gripping the hilt makes Ufburk's hand tingle as if the blade is suddenly alive and this, in turn, invigorates the once-barbarian.

  Rolo is fighting Tiber, but the Chieftain retains his footing despite the force of the armoured man's flurries. Ufburk sees his father's axe describe a half-moon in the bright of day, leaving a silver blur in its wake and then the axe flies free, repelled by Rolo's might.

  The King throws his head back, laughing defiantly and charges his possessed brother, and now Rolo is winning -he is winning against Tiber the same as he fared against Rydal and the now horrified Ufburk.

  But the Prince is not ready to become King and he charges his Uncle, who has already hurt the King considerably. Rolo sees the charge, hits Tiber a final time and stands to fight his nephew. Still, no emotion shows on the warrior's face.

  They clash together, but Ufburk feels energised, and he fights with all the courage and ardour he can muster. Finally, Rolo succumbs to his will, losing ground. They fight wordlessly with one knowing much and the other bent only on bringing death.

  Tiber and Rydal do not stir, rather, they seem broken to Ufburk, who tries his best to put them out of his mind. The bone sword sings as he strikes out at his Uncle and ten Ufburk finds an opening in the armour, near the underarm. The bleached blade sinks in easily. Rolo slumps to his knees, and rolls then onto his back. He gasps and scarlet ribbons of blood soak his beard, and the cloudiness leaves his eyes.

  "Your father, haul me to him..."

  Ufburk stares down at the wounded man in disbelief.

  "Nay," replies the once-barbarian.

  "You must. I need to tell the King..."

  More blood gushes from Rolo's lips, but again, he manages to speak;

  "Please."

  "'Tis no need brother. I have come to you."

  Rolo's eyes spark with excitement.

  "Ah, Tiber. You must," A spasm rocks Rolo and he grimaces, spitting out more blood. "take this armour, the Armor of Enthily and cleanse it the old way. Give it to Ufburk, with it; he can save the Tarakanian race -he can kill - Seljuk."

  Rolo's eyes shut then, never to open again.

  Rydal does awake for more adventures with Ufburk, yet it takes months to heal the damage he sustained at the hands of Rolo. The dogs, Bevold and Rugsin, re-join their master, whose side they remain loyal to for several years. Over the coming days, Tiber reveals many of his secrets to his son, but not all.

  And Seljuk has vanished to the void, to gather his powers and Ufburk thinks it will be long before they meet.

  © 2016 Donny Swords

  The Black Knight of Higham

  by Chris Raven

  The black knight came a-riding down,

  To guard the mountain track.

  His aim was to protect the town,

  And drive invaders back.

  Far up upon that mountain road,

  The Black Knight stood his ground,

  Upon which was a gauntlet throw’d,

  For any opponent found.

  That’s what I came upon, by chance,

  Caused me to end my trek,

  Before me, tent, horse, sword and lance,

  Black standard ‘round its neck.

  Stood motionless, the knight’s head panned,

  As I trudged up that rise,

  Black armoured, tall, with sword in hand,

  A visor’s slit for eyes.

  As I stepped on the dark knight's land,

  He turned to block my way,

  And silently he raised a handr />
  But not a word did say.

  His tower'd frame, forced me to stop,

  The Knight had checked my path,

  Silent, cold and still was he, not

  A single sign of wrath.

  The task ahead 'came clear to me,

  It filled me full of fright,

  To carry on with my journey,

  I knew I had to fight.

  No warrior was I, nor bold,

  Dressed not in steel, nor hide,

  From the shadows I unfold,

  On wits I’ve more relied.

  I drew my sword, thin, curved and sharp,

  A light Seprian blade,

  No match against sword, plate and shield,

  A knight against a knave.

  I charged forward and feinted thus,

  I just missed my foe’s swing,

  Rolling behind, I gave a thrust,

  My blade so sharp and thin.

  I skip’d and roll’d, I gave a faint,

  My blade struck true and fast,

  At all the gaps in the knight’s plate,

  Until he failed to last.

  With gurgled groan, sword’s hilt unclasped,

  The knight fell to his knees,

  And as his last breath slowly rasped,

  I knew my path was freed.

  So on, I go, my road released,

  My once home lies ahead,

  To seek revenge in which to feast,

  A past love that’s now dead.

  © 2016 Chris Raven

  The Reaver

  By Vernon Maxwell

  Sheets of flame and ruin fell upon the small town. Children wailed and screams resounded. Death had arrived with the lurid orange and gold fires burning unchecked through homes and liveries, stables, and barnyards. The smell clung to the air, permeating Samson’s senses. He pressed on through the destruction, his hopes frail, and with a heavy heart.

  Samson the Giant came from the north, where drakes often found ways to outlast winters and men. Were it not for the unrelenting spirits of such dragons, arriving in full maturity, they might have been left alone. They could not be tamed or subdued. No matter the preparations made, a dragon was the worst of foes. This dragon was farther inland than any in hundreds of years, and triple the size of any; he was fearsome, so bearded in thick scales that his throat resisted lances. Arrows pelted its black scaly skin and bounced away harmlessly.

  The wizard Vanin, Samson thought, still must be far off. Little did that giant know that his Vanin, his lord and wizard, was nearer than he hoped. Closer than Samson dared to dream was the wizard, Lord Vanin, making his way to the burning town from which the giant currently fled.

  Samson knew he must run, thus he did. He was loath to flee, but none but Vanin stood a chance against such a huge dragon. The horned beast did more than frighten, and did not bargain. This dragon cooked his smorgasbord of seared flesh endlessly murdering with molten flame and ruinous claws.

  Lurid dragon’s fire rose like walls behind the beast as Samson fled. This giant of a man, knowing what the dragon could do, fled destruction beyond what the bravest could withstand. Samson could not fathom how the dragon chose his town; later this would burden him, but now he turned his back on all he loved and ran southward.

  Devastation lay north, amid the fire and the smoke, so Samson took the greener route — a blunder in actuality, for Vanin approached in the dragon’s wake, along the beast’s own route, healing whom he could and bringing painless death to those yet suffering. Vanin moved quickly, swift in the glowing day, fending off flames wherever they kindled about him.

  The wizard’s demeanor seemed calm, but he was not.

  Approaching the beast, Vanin reflected on his circumstance quickly, whilst retaining the urgency necessary to meet this current threat, be it one dragon’s depredations or the work of many lizards prowling his lands.

  A single dragon had never before inflicted such havoc, but all signs pointed to a single fire-breathing lizard at the heart of this chaos — an alpha dragon. If such a fabled dragon stalked the lands, he’d be twice clever, and reign over many drakes: a dragon king. In truth, a single, average dragon could not so damage his land and militaries. So this dragon was no average monster. Vanin dared hope that the beast might be less threat to his subjects’ safety than he feared. For if what the wizard believed was true — that this lizard was an alpha — not even caves could keep men safe from a dragon king.

  The wizard Vanin tracked this scaled enemy with his every skill. Yet always the dragon howled, miles ahead, ever before him. Even from a distance, this dragon’s cries chilled the wizard, bleak reminders of Vanin’s duty, heralding dragon fire in flaring orange spheres; burning trees to charcoal; leaving behind mere blackened trunks and ruins smoking from the soil.

  A revelation struck the wizard, clear to Vanin’s inner sight: huge threat or no, this beast he tracked was no dragon king. The alpha had not yet come hunting. Cursing, Vanin shook his staff before him, casting a spell to resist poison and flame. He nearly stumbled, expending so much energy against a future threat he could see nowhere but in his mind. This spell was costly, cast here and now, but promised protection for the wizard along his way.

  Determined, the maestro Vanin pressed on. Long ago his father’s armies had failed against such an alpha dragon. Long ago in Nammok. There, rumors still circulated of how the alpha dragon slew Vanin’s father, campaigning far from his seat of kingship while Vanin ruled in his stead. And after, Vanin kept on ruling. His father had preferred axes to gavels, battle to compromise, and died as he lived, weapon in hand.

  At his core, Vanin remained his father’s son, although possessing a gift for diplomacy which his father lacked. The wizard still refused to believe these stories: his father fought too well to fall to a dragon, no matter its size. Nevertheless, Vanin’s heart beat more labored than on normal days. This he ignored. Scaly beasts would not prevail over him or his people while he yet breathed. For centuries, he’d been lord of this domain, holding his ground against all comers.

  Vanin’s lands were not bloodstained — or hadn’t been. Until the dragons had come, united under an alpha, drawing courage from numbers and direction from king. Many drakes were too small to breathe flame; these used fang and talon. Opportunists quick on their feet, these slaughtered the innocent, simple folk. Despite many drakes killed by guardsmen, human casualties mounted daily, and refugees fled before the scourge from above.

  Until Vanin arrived.

  These drakes were a minor annoyance to Vanin, at their best impeding his progress for the time it took his spells to slay them. Wherever Vanin went, dragon spawn quivered like fish out of water as thunderbolts cracked from his fingertips and pierced his enemies, frying them in crackling bolts of lightning. Such magic had little effect on older drakes, with their thicker scales, stronger hearts. Vanin killed those with his bone staff’s long and jagged tip, trusting its oval haft, a sapphire hardened by nature and a lifetime of spells, to bestow death where due.

  What secrets that sapphire stowed away: hidden enchantments not even Vanin understood. Many spells did bind with the gem and with the bone, delivering Vanin powers which most wizards would dare not wield if they lived a hundred lifetimes.

  As Vanin reached the rubble of what had been Samson’s childhood home, he saw Samson, fleeing; if Samson had not been a giant, Vanin might have missed him altogether at that distance.

  And he saw a dragon whose wings beat like wild winds cross the bright clouds overhead.

  This dragon swooped on powerful wings toward Samson.

  Samson’s prayers had summoned Vanin to save him, but Samson and this dragon were yet too far away for a yell or a spear or a bowshot. But not for Vanin’s otherworldly powers. He spoke a spell, then another, to ward off the dragon before it attacked the giant — to gain some time, for a warding spell would not last long.

  In midair, the dragon decided to change direction as if it could no longer see Samson, choosing instead to chase
fleeing flocks of villagers south through fields of chest-high grasses.

  Fire swept the fields. Screams rent with agony assailed the giant’s ears. Samson broke through an irrigation ditch swiftly, heading toward the beast now chasing easier prey.

  Meanwhile Vanin had shortened the gap between him and his scaled foe. “Dragon!” Vanin’s voice boomed across the valley. “Come and die!”

  Above Vanin’s head, the wind itself paused.

  Then the beast let out an ear-splitting scream of fury. This outcry laced with hatred boomed across the fields.

  This screech, a cry unlike any other, hurt Vanin’s ears.

  Vanin raised a palm before him, reasserting his ward. Fire was no factor in this battle yet. Magic would be. Magic spent like money, like water, taking its toll on his reserves, weakening him. This risk Vanin must take. When his reserves were exhausted, his magic might fail him; but he must try until his heat ran out of beats.

  This dragon wouldn’t wait. This dragon, a hell spawned thing, plated in scales, with red slatted eyes full of knife-edged fury, desired to wreak havoc now, lay ruin now upon the weak and the undefended.

  Too many had already died before the lizard’s onslaught. This dragon would perish, and nothing would change that. Vanin was in no mood to die today.

  Seeing the pain those malicious dragons had caused his world infuriated Lord Vanin. They would all die after this . . . war? He finally admitted this was war. He would strip his enemies clean of spirit and destroy them. The cries of children echoed loud enough in his ears and memory to convince him, as did the broken faces of their parents contorted before his eyes: destruction heaped onto his people for no reason.

  Someone had not performed their duty. One or two of the hunting clans had left some dragons alive who then bred, thrived, and preyed upon Derusa, a small city in Vanin’s domain. Now those dragons brought outright war. This betrayal was likely brought by a rival clan of men, so finding them might become simpler once the dragons and their drakes met their fates.

  Thus far, Vanin had seen hundreds of the damnable drakes on his trek down from Nammok. Too many. Of these, he slew all he saw of the recent spawn from some great wyrm. While they brought nightmares to his subjects, Vanin thought little of the lowly drakes, although he despaired over the devastation those fiendish creatures unleashed upon his subjects.

  Nevertheless, ruin could only be answered with ruin.

  Long ago, laws were set in stone concerning dragons and their kind. These doctrines, enacted when Vanin was a child and set in place by his father, were enforced, their dictates absolute. Dragons and their worshippers were enemies for the doom of Great Tiber’s army to vanquish. Tiber, Vanin’s father, was a practical man, if stern and deadly. Such a purge had come once before, thousands of years gone. And might well come again. Tiber’s merciless defenders destroyed countless dragons, all their worshippers and cults. Blood ran in rivers then, gushing dragon blood and the blood of men who served beasts. Upon Tiber’s command, none who revered dragons could remain alive; they too were purged from the land.

  Or so it was said; so it was celebrated. Purged these wyrms might have been, but not well enough. For one wyrm must have breathed on, lying low for lifetimes, waiting in some dark cavern to enact its inhuman revenge.

  Vanin waved his arms and shouted, then thumped his staff to make it spit a bolt of blue.

  The dragon’s head turned; its wings beat toward Vanin. Now Tiber’s son and successor must gauge the threat from the dragon bearing down out of the clouds toward him. But he’d succeeded: the dragon wanted wizard-meat, no longer tempted by tough and sinewy giant’s flesh.

  Seeing the dragon veer and swoop toward the old wizard with the staff that spat lightning, Samson dove for an irrigation rut, watching the massive beast flapping toward the grey haired wizard. This must be Vanin, the great wizard Samson had summoned — to save them all or die trying. Guilt shook Samson speechless: another death on his conscience, unless this wizard were more than he looked. Gaunt Vanin appeared far less formidable than the flying lizard he taunted.

  Nevertheless, this gray-haired specter must be the famed wizard Vanin: who but a wizard would taunt a dragon?

  Samson had his doubts concerning the confrontation’s outcome. . . .

  As the beast swooped near, the wizard either found hidden strength or found the dragon’s weakness. Narrow-eyed, frowning, Vanin spoke some mad verbiage no human ear could parse, then waved his staff in the air. This time the stick contorted like a snake.

  Fire blossomed from the wizard and the dragon, so bright that Samson’s eyes reflexively shut against the brilliance shooting from the wizard’s staff and enrobing man and dragon in a cloak of flame.

  Through watering eyes, Samson watched the dragon fall like stone to earth, blasting apart from within, showering the ground with shards of sand and black glass that caught in Samson’s hair and pricked his face and stung his lungs when he breathed,

  Some wizardly ward must be protecting the old man from the summoned fire, Samson thought, for the ancient seemed not burned or harmed at all.

  Coughing and hacking, shaking bits of dragon from his hair and arms, Samson ran to his deliverer, who could be none other than Vanin, Samson’s very own lord.

  Finding Vanin had been Samson’s mission. Now here was Vanin. He hoped the master saw him for who he was as the giant ran toward the death-dealing sorcerer. . . .

  As Samson ran, the maestro recognized the giant dashing through grassy fields towards him: Samson, one of his subjects. Vanin cursed under his breath, not at huge man advancing, but at dragon debris strewn around.

  Samson pulled up short before the wizard and went to bended knee, “Lord Vanin, I am yours in service. What should I do?”

  “Standing would be a start. Samson, is it? The expert rower, last summer, at Wood’s Keep? So Samson, tell me what you see now. And what you saw before?”

  “The dragon you defeated destroyed my town, killed my family, burned houses with women and children inside while men worked the fields, and slaughtered the men themselves as they raced home to save their families. My family, too. I tried saving them, failed and narrowly escaped a fiery death myself. No common man could kill that thing. Yet you killed the accursed lizard, my lord, and saved my life. I am in your debt.” Samson’s words sounded odd to his own ears, clinging to air full of an acrid stench. How could his simple brawn be useful to a powerful wizard? The giant wished he could crawl away. Vanin terrified him. Despite Vanin’s frailty, the wizard’s gaze made the giant feel small.

  But the wizard-king smiled. “What if I told you that the dragon you see scattered around us in ashes and slivers was not real, but illusion?”

  Samson shook his head, bewildered. How could such a thing be true? How could Lord Vanin say such a thing, when so many had perished because of this dragon, and bits of defeated dragon were strewn all around them? “How can this be so?”

  “Because I say it is so. Stop cowering. You’re my servant. I am your lord, your overseer. On my throne I may be a king; when magic is needed I may be a wizard. Today and henceforth, until this battle is over, I am only your lord, the overseer. We are building an army. We can stop it — all this death by dragon. We shall mount a crusade to do it. But you must pledge your life to me.”

  “I do. I will, my lord.”

  No drakes or larger beasts threatened them further that day. Samson helped his master tend the wounded or bring eternal sleep to those needlessly suffering.

  By then, in Samson’s eyes, the wizard was mercy incarnate. Overseer. Not king, not wizard: overseer. The overseer Vanin showed empathy, and left none in anguish behind.

  “Lord, how can you give so much?”

  “Such love is simple to give,” Vanin replied.

  “Sire?”

  “These drakes, they could be the thoughts, the thralls of one alpha dragon. Certainly a new cult has arisen. Samson, do you not see? This alpha dragon possibly has worshippers. How else could our ene
mies get this far? I ask you, how? Surely the brigand clans did not unleash so many drakes, and none larger, with no help?”

  Vanin’s theories were evolving. Unbeknownst to his domain’s defenders, a mysterious alpha dragon must have arisen secretly, one with a vile agenda,

  Samson addressed Vanin: “If we are leaving this place, what must I do, O Lord?”

  “Wait a moment,” said the wizard to the giant. The shards the dragon left behind began to pull together, shiny and cobalt against the smoky skies in front of Vanin. Raising his staff crookedly to the windy air, the wizard croaked an entreaty none but he understood. Then the bits of dragon melded together, becoming steely, hard and fearsome at the wizard’s feet, remade by his magic into a fierce club fit for a giant. Vanin picked up the club, and heft it.

  “Follow me,” the wizard demanded as he handed the club to Samson.

  They walked for miles. Wherever they went, wildfires were extinguished; no dragon-fires burned after they passed by.

  Samson found meals for them as they traveled, looking for evidence of a cult, smiting whatever drakes lived nearby. Many of these smaller drakes perished at the end of Samson’s club, a splendid gift from Lord Vanin.

  They never seemed to find what Vanin was looking for, although they trekked from village to village, week in, week out. Eventually Vanin did find recruits, here and there, after long searching: plowmen and merchants, blacksmiths and youngest sons, thieves and ne’er-do-wells. So many folk claimed fealty to his lord now, when before, wherever the wizard came bearing spells, they’d curse Vanin, saying he was only a greedy overlord who cared nothing for commoners.

  While they marched northwest, killing the rouge dragons as they went, their cadre grew.

  Vanin did little, helping only when absolutely necessary.

  Samson found himself hard-put to kill the young dragons, and yet Vanin lent no hand. One day, months into the bitter campaign, the giant Samson could no longer repress his curiosity.

  “Lord Vanin, why do you not help me, when you can easily do so?”

  “I would not be a good teacher if I did everything for you. One day you will be as I, and then you must honor your students, allow them to learn.”

  Samson built strength every day; one did not need to be a wizard to see that.

  Samson stopped asking questions of his overseer. He learned the ways of warring against the lizards. Soon few lands held sanctuary for dragons. Vanin had found the trail.

  A new war was brewing.

  In Vanin’s honor, Samson sang his every evening away. During the day, he smote beside his master, who did nothing but stare at his hands occasionally while his minion did the best he could.

  The giant and wizard no longer trekked the lands alone. Men now enlisted by hundreds, recruited from destroyed settlements and from the roads they travelled. Farmers, ruffians, thieves, cutthroats, and puritans alike flocked to Vanin’s side to end the madness and put a stop to the dragons. Fear of Vanin’s magic and Samson’s strength kept the rank and file in line as their force grew into a squadron, a company, and kept growing.

  In battles, Samson barked the orders. In keeping with tradition, Vanin did little to help vanquish the lower drakes, though he often made a spectacle of the larger dragons, slaying them in dramatic displays of power and courage which pleased his men. Morale was high, and the wizard’s troops legion.

  Vanin’s troops pleased him. They fought decisively, bravely. Their courage and determination must be enough. Let them learn the art of war, free of his scrutiny while he observed them, sorting their talents.

  The troubling aspect of this so-called dragon crusade remained the magical force behind the drakes. Whence came the magic? Magic was more to be feared than the dragon-king, who himself, some said, languished in thrall to a corrupt power.

  Was it an alpha dragon, sending the drakes to his kingdom? Why send attacks so chaotic, unreasoning? Now that enough boots and spears pursued them, dragons were less threatening. Vanin believed that a mastermind lay behind these attacks — that something or someone had bastardized and twisted an alpha dragon. What or who could do such a thing? Questions without answers would keep. Vanin put his concerns away and marched onward. Answers would come in time.

  Samson said little, focusing on his and Vanin’s physical safety. Theirs was a beneficial arrangement. While the overseer had his head in the clouds, looking for his portents, his answers, Samson dealt in hard truths.

  With his own truths Samson would serve Vanin well — truths of war, warriors with sturdy arms, his own grip on his capable club. The giant carried a large shield painted with a soaring falcon, Lord Vanin’s symbol, scrawled across its surface; a short-axe; and a dagger. But Samson most prized his club, carrying it always. He wore plates, fastened by leather over chain mail, as did all the men but his rangers and woodsmen. Several blacksmiths following Lord Vanin’s troops provided whatever metal Samson or Vanin’s men needed. Wielding both shield and club became second nature to the giant. As his skills grew, he tasted the grit of war. Vanin was unchanging, often unhelpful, but unrelenting when crossed. Together they made a pair, and the men who served Vanin and Samson respected them.

  In addition to his staff, the wizard Lord Vanin carried only a dagger, seldom used.

  Theirs became a scarlet road. One test led to the other. The men that followed Vanin and Samson hardened, as did the giant. Within the band, their warrior spirit grew, their hearts beat hopeful. Vanin’s men obeyed his orders. They had seen what these dragons could do. His soldiers knew the havoc that dragons caused, the destruction they levied on the land.

  Although Vanin, Samson, and his tactical troops had advantages over the unthinking drakes swarming their domain, such creatures were dangerous.

  “Best not to fight dragons in the dark.” So Lord Vanin decreed, and thus they’d halt their marches each night and make supper before dark. Fires were not allowed after dusk; cooking became difficult without flame to boil a pot. Life was rough, unrewarding, yet all continued onward. Camp at night was silent and dark but for grunts and snores. Samson set patrols to ensure the safety of the group, but nothing came for them from the dark.

  Samson wondered why so many drakes kept coming, and from where. His questions multiplied.

  In answer, Vanin became increasingly distant. He healed whom he must, and otherwise stayed away from the fighting. After each confrontation with the enemy, he patched up the survivors. They did as he asked, stopped where he decreed, behaved as he ordered.

  When Vanin stopped their march, at a bay called Jes, they began building a wall meant to seal the Jes inlet off from the north-blooded drakes. Vanin’s ordered Samson to recruit newcomers from surrounding hamlets; their gaggle of camp followers grew apace.

  So they set their backs to making a wall in the land of Jes, behind which to build a new city. Samson took a standout fighter named Farkas from the hunting party and ordered him to find the young, the glory-hungry, and the combat survivors and meld them into a city guard.

  This is the true story of the building of Thantrix, not the one they teach in school. The city rose from where Jes inlet met the plain at Vanin’s bidding to ward off the dragons, and the wizard established it a long way from any other northern towns.

  Soon enough watchtowers scraped the sky whence dragons might come; long lances cluttered each tower, readied to fire upon the beasts. Riders tamed mounts from the wild for patrols around the city. Farkas watched over all for Lord Vanin, who went onward with Samson. luring and killing the ensorcelled dragons by ones and twos, then threes and fours, driving them away from the newly erected city.

  Days drifted and years slid by, until Vanin at last had the lands organized and protected. They went throughout the region, uniting and healing people, training soldiers, constructing walls and homesteads. At each new settlement Vanin left a portion of his growing army to watch over its citizens. Four immense walled cities now embraced the majority of his people in mudbrick and stone.

  On
this night, as always, Vanin sat apart from others in camp, resting quietly by his fire, his face expressionless, showing nothing of his doomsayer mood. Recently he’d tired of reactively hunting drakes. The lizards set the agenda now. He no longer hid at night. Let them come. His magic had grown inside him. This lent him insights — and insults.

  His enemies confounded him; they knew him better than he knew them. Despite that, the predators from above who haunted his people had little chance against his organized men. They swooped swiftly, almost eagerly to their deaths, as if they did not fear death by arrow or spear or sword.

  Vanin suspected spies within his ranks and inside city governments. But governments were needed now. Perhaps success lay only in narrowing his responsibilities down to one. For normalcy to return, Vanin was convinced, the alpha dragon must perish. Some of those in charge of his hard-built towns might not be wholesome or fair, but they safeguarded the people, allowing Vanin to focus on the alpha dragon — the one who started the bloodshed. This intuition nagged him, but couldn’t be silenced, or outrun, or ignored.

  Vanin would forge a special sword, and with Samson alone trek north, leaving his warriors behind to face the drakes alone.

  He and Samson, a force of two, would invade this maddened enemy, while his forces patrolled his domain and protected its people.

  Or so Vanin thought. So he planned. So he remarked. . . .

  Waiting longer was no option worth considering. Vanin’s enemy bided its time for a reason, knowing the drakes were losing. A death by dragon had not occurred to the settlement at Thantrix or its three sister towns for a long time.

  Now he must heal the sick and unfortunate, enable them; turn loose the wild-hearted; unshackle them. Serving these ends, Vanin sent his dogs of war ahead of him, to the newest walled city, Salvos, east of Thantrix, to grow the ranks of the army posted there.

  Vanin longed to know his enemy’s name and face. His best infantryman, Gant, was an able captain and had his orders. His troops would slay the trespassing drakes, guarding Vanin’s domain while the wizard and giant took their now private war north — to pierce the heart of their enemies. Gant’s eager war dogs would follow their captain into the north woods or to hell if Vanin so bid, for as Vanin was Gant’s master, so Gant was the lord of his hounds. The captain would mount a brave defense in Vanin’s absence.

  So Vanin and Samson ventured to Salvos, there to meet Gant and his men and issue them new orders regarding the defense of Vanin’s domain in his absence.

  In Salvos, Vanin and Samson spent a week prepared for their journey, leaving behind lands much safer and hearts much braver. Folk here understood he had saved them; they served not by conscription, but as volunteers. As volunteers, he allowed them to rebuild their pride by helping them harness their ambitions. Aside from the corrupt, whom there would always be, every person who served Vanin found hopes of increasing their fortunes.

  And the corrupt? Vanin would deal with them once the dragons fell.

  As Vanin honed his new sword for the coming of a battle he could nearly smell, Samson exercised, his mind roaming free, envisioning how to fight this storied foe. The giant loomed above most, and his stature brought both advantages and disadvantages. The army’s smithy had helped him develop new leggings, protecting spots where beasts and men might first strike. He wore plate mail that covered him entirely. For brandishing, he had his steel shield lined with bull hide to aid wielding it against heat. The giant’s shield was heavy enough to grind the densest of bones to a puce pumice, and large enough to shield him from dragon fire. Samson had his short-axe, and his club as always, to deliver death to the dragons.

  Vanin had been wise, Samson knew. Was wise, the giant still believed.

  Samson supposed himself harder to reach now than ever before. He was older, not the overgrown young man who first met the wizard on the day the dragons came to his town. Even so far from where he’d met Lord Vanin, dragons yet soared aloft, despite all the hunting. Vanin said the reptiles would not stop until the alpha dragon in the north was silenced by truce or death.

  Samson tired of walls and cities; he itched to make war, to bring the dragons down. The giant wanted to see not only men, but the wilds themselves free of the pestilential drakes.

  Why not go today? Make war today? Samson had his club and shield, his armor, well-fitted and gleaming. These brought to mind and heart the songs of war. His hands, feet, and weapons were no newcomers to killing drakes, even larger dragons. His resolve had seen him through the toughest fights unbroken.

  As for Vanin, seeing Samson’s progress made Vanin proud.

  A fateful chill stirred the early morning air, as Lord Vanin assessed Samson, whose armor glimmered in the brightness of dawn.

  Few scars decorated this warrior of his who lurked in the shadows of the city walls, and those scars were well earned. So many times, Vanin had wanted to intervene. To help Samson. Seeing the war-seasoned giant now, the overseer knew he had chosen correctly. Who knew what they might face? Their future was a hard guess, and charging the enemy a gamble. Although it would not end well for his people if he took no chances.

  Therefore yet Vanin sowed his seeds of war. He found Samson by a stable, petting a young pony. Samson saw his master immediately, and left the pony, who nickered in protest. “Good day Samson.”

  “Master!”

  Samson bowed his head to Vanin.

  “Heavens, Samson, we’ve come too far for that.”

  “You are my lord; I honor you.”

  “By being yourself you honor me. We have beasts and the king of beasts to slay!”

  “Very well. Do we march north now?”

  “Now. Let us be underway.”

  Crossing the city alongside Samson to reach the city gates reminded Vanin of why he fought dragons. While not as large as the settlement at Gol to the east or as bristling with watchtowers as Collunda to the south; nor or as large as Thantrix demesne in the northwest. Salvos seemed a sturdier city than its peers, built for war and held as it was by troops loyal to “Vanin the Overseer,” as the folk here called him. Salvos was enclosed by three sets of walls, the opening to the sea; within, its palace crouched, surrounded entirely by archer’s towers and lancers. Salvos’ defenses stood solid, functional; its battlements proud.

  Approaching the thick wooden city gates, Vanin saw Gant, waiting for them alongside the mounts they would take north, and pack mules to carry their provisions.

  Vanin had appointed Gant to lead Salvos’ forces. Requiring unwilling citizens to serve in the army or city guard was not Gant’s choice to make, although he wished it were.

  Vanin’s rule and his alone was law here. And Overseer he might be, but Vanin was no overlord, deaf to the will of his people. So Gant was forbidden to conscript soldiers. But Gant wished he could. Gant’s entire life had been burned away by dragons . . . he would stay behind, and slay whatever drakes entered his domain.

  Marking the worry lines on Gant’s face, the wizard told him, “We shall prevail, friend Gant, guard the city and give directives as needs arise. Fight fiercely, Samson and I shall return.”

  Samson hoped so.

  A small crowd of women, children, and a Gant’s guardsmen gathered in the shadow of the battlement wall as the giant and the wizard made ready to depart and the gate winched open. They cheered for Vanin and the giant beside him, knowing these two alone rode out to face the threat of the alpha dragon.

  With pack mules’ tethers in their hands they swung up on their horses and kneed them onward, and heavy gates swung shut behind them, muffling crowd noises. The sky above was clear and blue, promising snow to come; winter would soon be upon them here.

  Vanin, reins and tether in one hand and his opal staff in the other, squeezed his horse’s barrel as Samson’s bigger mount came alongside his, and they struck southward at a brisk pace.

  When at last they slowed to a walk to navigate a gully, Samson called to Vanin: “Will we return?”

  “I cannot say for su
re, Samson.”

  “You did.”

  “I did? Oh — yes, that is true. And so we must win: I pride myself in being a man of my word.” Vanin spurred his mount, his pack mule behind him. Samson’s large charcoal stallion kicked at Vanin’s mule, then his own, then reared and snorted, wanting to lead, not follow Lord Vanin’s horse.

  They would ride to Spirit Lake, camp for one night, then cross the next morning into unknown lands — lands held by dragons or by none.

  From somewhere above the walls of Salvos, or the bordering forests and lands, something had watched them leave the city. Vanin could feel its purposeful stare crawl over his hide.

  Vanin wasn’t surprised: that watchful gaze alone was reason enough for war. Although he would have preferred peace, to express its sentimentalities with his rival, war was the only language understood by this enemy he sought. The crimson writ of blood came steady to such dark foes. Few of which ever grace, but rather they disgrace worlds, these fiendish corrupters ruin lives, and futures. Such vileness must be ended.

  This forest land was home to mysteries not even Vanin knew much about. The border line between mundane and mystical had always existed, but now, Vanin wondered why. How was he lord of so much of the south, yet unacknowledged in the north?

  This did not sit well. For some time as they rode on, Vanin dreamed of ruining this enemy, and this soured his stomach. He shifted his thoughts then, to concentrate on the mission before him.

  Just then, as they were rounding a tight bend in the road, Damson’s horse balked and reared, and Samson fell to the ground, unhorsed.

  The giant’s horse didn’t bolt, but flared its nostrils and stood its ground.

  Vanin then saw what had spooked Samson’s gelding: spriggans, creatures like trees that walked and killed and hid in forests until they spotted prey.

  The wizard ordered, “Samson, fetch your reins, and mount up! We must ride away, and fast! Now!” But even as he spoke, Vanin knew it was too late: the spriggans were coming after them, and they were many.

  Vanin had heard of these creatures called spriggans, elementals born of the earth who thrived on living flesh. Long ago his father had taught him what he must do if he met one — or more than one.

  Vanin dismounted, tying first his horse and then the pack mules to a low-hanging tree limb.

  Toward man and giant came the spriggans, rustling their amber gold leaves, their rootballs rolling, rutting up the dirt as they came. These spriggans were eyeless. As they approached, the rings in their trunks gaped open, then shut in a flapping rhythm, expanding and shrinking like accordions.

  These abominations had no cause to challenge the wizard but their insatiable hunger. He would have gone peacefully along, leaving the animated trees alone — until they advanced. He sighed, his staff held out before him. Long branches reached like tentacles for him, but the spriggans were still too far off to envelop the wizard or his giant in their carnivorous embraces.

  From the thickets they rolled, and from the shelter of the old-growth timber, towering against the cloudy sky. Behind them came more of their kind, younger spriggans with pale green leaves. Deadly embraces waited in their branches; their bark revealed mouths opening wide.

  Any one of them could swallow both wizard and giant whole. Branches flexed and whispered, readying to constrict, to impale or strangle the life from these human interlopers.

  Vanin saw sap seeping from their bark like sticky blood. He saw their lust for human flesh. Yet these creatures, although hungry and sentient, were not foolhardy, so something must have driven them to attack.

  Vanin used his wizard’s skill to peer inside them, and what was there made the wizard pause.

  From a few feet behind Vanin, Samson rushed forward to protect his master.

  At this, the circle of spriggans tightened; their mouthy trunks gaped wide, their rootballs whirling. These abominations kept herding their quarry inwards until Vanin and Samson stood back to back.

  Now the boles of the woodland spriggans reached out to grab them. Samson broke the branches stretching toward him with violent swings of his heavy club.

  Wounded spriggans smelled ripe, green. Despite Samson’s club, they creaked, rattled, and pushed closer to their prey. Samson broke more limbs, and swung and swung his club until he heard their horses scream in fear.

  Realizing the horses might break their tethers and flee, the giant pummeled a snaking root that reached for Vanin’s ankle, then pushed back two spriggans back by clubbing their trunks.

  Spriggans hissed at him and rolled back, making room for the giant to club them more.

  Samson smote the spriggans while Vanin did nothing.

  “Lord . . .?”

  “Samson, I am going . . .” Sweat rolled down Vanin’s face, set and determined.

  Samson swung his club wildly, and the animated tree trunks flinched and shrank back.

  “Samson! Stop!”

  Samson fought on, even after Vanin’s warning, while their horses and mules screamed from the woods. Were other spriggans attacking their mounts?

  Nearly exhausted, and distracted by the cries of horses and mules, Samson stopped swinging his club just as flaming lines split the earth, golden and ruby red. The turf around him cracked and humped and swelled into a widening inferno of fire and cinders and death.

  Concussive explosion blasted from the earth, splintering the young trunks, engulfing the spriggans in flames.

  Samson toppled and fell to the ground, crashing roughly onto his backside, dazed and staring.

  White ashes fluttered on the wind, and a shadow came running at him. Only as the heat began dissipating did the giant recognize that shade as Vanin, reaching down to lift him up.

  “Come along Samson. One cannot sit on his arse for too long, lest it grow soft.”

  The giant smiled. “Indeed, Lord Vanin.” Samson hesitated then and finally asked, “Master, what good am I to you? You have saved me many times. Am I better than a burden to you?”

  “Burdens are made in the mind, beliefs the same. You believe as I do, although we never discuss our beliefs. You are a good follower, Samson, and a better friend. Your blessing is that you do not understand.”

  Samson sat quietly as the furrows in the ground closed up, the last flames died, and a rain of ash fell from the sky, making everything new and white and clean.

  Samson stared mutely at Vanin, holding his peace. The giant often wanted to say more. But somehow knew he should not. Samson often felt alone when fighting was needed. As he just had, with the spriggans, until Vanin turned them to ash. Yet whenever Samson truly needed Vanin’s aid, the wizard always helped his servant.

  Pointing north, Vanin said, “Come. We have far to travel. These woods are no inviting place to spend the night.” Vanin pointed to the northeast. “We’ll camp on that ridge. Quickly, Samson. Danger still has its scouts.”

  When they found their way back to their horses and mules, the horses and mules were dead and their provisions gone. Spriggans, or something else, had slaughtered their mounts and mules. Only crimson mud and gory bones remained.

  If they would continue, they must do so afoot.

  Both men stared long at the paltry remains of horses and mules butchered where they’d been tied.

  Finally Vanin said, “Its fine Samson. I need a good long walk. Best I do something, is that not right?” The wizard offered a faint smile as he struck northward.

  Vanin knew the two of them faced grim prospects, savage enemies. Samson might now be a juggernaut on the battlefield, but although giant, he was only one man.

  So they sojourned, Samson killing drakes who attacked on them from above, and Vanin hiking with the butt of his staff as his walking stick, while days melded together and Vanin worried.

  Questions vexed Vanin, questions that couldn’t be answered, questions that couldn’t be silenced. The wizard could not quiet his brain, nor could he or speed their journey. His patience for this alpha dragon had grown thin. The trek stretc
hed out before him, arduous, promising nothing but death. Whose death? This remained the final question Vanin must answer.

  They slept under the stars every night, tired and sore, heads on their packs, often without supper.

  The cool air grew brisk on the morning that the wizard realized he no longer felt haunted by a stare he’d felt now and again since departing the city, but never acknowledged. He hadn’t felt those invisible eyes on his skin since the spriggans, so now he could admit how worrisome that stare had been. He sat a long time, trying to make sure that haunted feeling had left him, one hand resting on his scabbard, his eyes fixed on yonder hilltop,

  Samson merely watched and listened for things a giant could hear and see until the two of them set off into the forest and up the slope.

  In daylight, the forest around them was ghostly and unnaturally silent: the morning mist felt cold to the wizard’s exposed and reddened nose. Vanin and Samson paused where they were, alert to any sign of mischief or mayhem. They saw only forest branches and misty undergrowth, nothing more, although Vanin knew better.

  For hours, nothing terrible sprang out of the woods to claim them.

  Samson grew calmer. The giant tried hiding his fear from Vanin, to no avail. Vanin saw the truth. Fear makes fools of all at some time or other.

  Vanin realized what lurked in the forest but said nothing of that truth to his giant: the souls of thieves and cutthroats, unfit for salvation. He knew what they wanted. So the wizard and the phantoms of the forest struck a bargain, a deal mutually beneficial.

  Someday, by this pact, Vanin must sacrifice some of his land to the phantoms, give them a large forested area in his northland as theirs. This debt he would gladly pay; he knew of worse things than haunted forests, and the patch he’d chosen was not peopled.

  They passed through the mist, free of threat from phantoms or hidden predators who might shred flesh. Samson shivered twice again, then calmed. The giant would ever serve his lord in good faith, fighting when the wizard so decreed. This, his fate and the fighting, were not his pleasure but his war bond.

  The dragons had murdered Samson family. Drakes still made life unbearable for folks in his domain, even after all the killing the giant had done. He longed to stop the dragons, to end the warring for the people. Samson fought, renewed by Vanin’s spirit, breathed because of the wizard. Those were reasons enough to fight

  When they left the misty morning path through the phantom forest, they came on a dark, deep rut. The straight rut, unnatural, made Vanin suspicious and Samson cautious.

  They chose a new route, one which led northeasterly, away from the customary road and through rough country which might conceal them from hostiles.

  The journey turned as spare of words as of company. That evening at an emerald lake near sunset, they admired the view and praised the water they drank. The threat of preternatural danger always existed, but Samson savored the world’s best when he found it in stream or fruit or friend.

  Neither his nor Lord Vanin’s path led to simple endeavors; the wizard chose no easy course. From the lakeside they worked their way around and north again — always north.

  Northbound travel itself became a trial, and lonely. They spied little wildlife, other than waterfowl, of which Samson counted only a few. Yet leaves danced and crackled. Samson imagined snakes slithering and rodents scuttling. Or had he really heard them?

  The trek grew cold, then colder. The steel armor the giant wore made chills mightier. Samson suffered in silence, until Vanin heard Samson’s teeth chattering.

  “Are you uncomfortable?”

  “I am cold, no bother.”

  “Then say so. We must meet your basic needs on this journey, so you’ll be fit to fight when the road ends.”

  Vanin lay his hands upon the giant’s breastplate and those hands glowed briefly. Then the glow disappeared — or found its way into the steel.

  Samson stopped shivering at once, again stunned by Vanin’s magical skill. No longer was the giant hot, or cold. . . .

  “Thanks be to you, milord.”

  “And to you, Samson.”

  The silent forests, nor the two men said. Skirting the lake became nigh impossible for them as the timberline at its edge grew thicker and night drew closer. The hush on the wind was palpable, eerily unnatural.

  As they went on, certain evidence began to present itself to Vanin, small things his big friend had overlooked: a first strand of hair, thick and coarse, caught in the bark of a tree, another found shortly before nightfall, stuck in a log.

  Vanin became openly suspicious of the quiet then. His giant would not break the silence: he remained alert.

  Something had rid the forest of life, and that something might be upon them with the night. As dusk settled, they reached a bowl-shaped clearing, populated only by saplings under three years in growth. Even in the coming dark the wizard’s eyes told him a fire had burned away the old forest here. Gnarled tree stumps stood in mounds on uneven ground, with tufts of long, golden grasses shooting from the soot and ash on the trees; elsewhere emerald mosses and ivy covering the remains of the older forest downed a handful seasons passed. Lore said that moss only grows on the north side of trees. Vanin knew that saying to be false, but the mosses on the felled trees grew northerly, all the same.

  So what had happened here, southeast of the unknown? A blaze so large, so concentrated as this surely came from a dragon. If they could locate the center, the point the fire struck when the dragon first unleashed his attack, he could gauge the beast’s size. And perhaps direction.

  While he debated the question of this possible dragon, Vanin caught a distinct odor: sweet smell of flesh, preserved with stink weed and coarse salt from the southern valley falls. The salt commonly found in his cities, and even in the sea and across it. Agrian monks had collected the substance for centuries. Although the practice slowed because of the depredacious dragons and drakes Vanin repeatedly purged from their lands, it went on. The smell of human flesh, in large quantity concerned him more. Fire-breathing worms were not his or Samson’s immediate problem.

  Dragons were infamous hoarders, coveting riches, rows with scales, pack rats with wings. Collecting and preserving human flesh, especially with stinkweed and salt was a rare practice to all but draconic reptiles. Witchcraft employed the method only rarely and then only for rabbits, and the effect of such magic was to grant men better control during lovemaking. When added together with the looming silence, which seemed darker — larger now — like a giant hand waiting to smother them, Vanin understood what he sensed. He remembered leaving Salvos, those eyes crawling over his skin. Yet on this trek they’d encountered relatively few drakes or enemies of any sort, other than spriggans. After the wizard reduced the animated trees to cinders, the gaze vanished. A thin line peeled its way off the back of his neck, ruffling the white hairs there. He began preparing Samson for what lay ahead. If this creature was as he believed, then the giant deserved the truth.

  After Samson heard Vanin out, they proceeded as if nothing unusual had been said. Except that the giant kept his mind on their objective: remaining alive long enough to see morning. Eluding such an enemy might depend on luck as much as skill.

  Morning came with a strange bellow from the northwest — not far away. The sound arrived with the first rays of light. This groaning, heartfelt, heartbroken, and enraged sound came from a beast unknown, alien.

  Wide-eyed Samson locked eyes with Vanin. The wizard nodded but said nothing, shrugged as if to say I told you so, and began to climb a tree.

  Above the ground, Vanin would wait. On the ground, Samson would protect his lord.

  As dawn teased the land awake, Samson saw bent trees to his left and fought to keep from retching as he caught sight of bodies hanging from bowed branches, harbingers of horror.

  These corpses stank with the overpowering odor they’d been smelling in the clearing, and since.

  Could it be that under the cloak of night, Vanin hadn’t seen whe
re they had unintentionally wandered. Or had he known all along where they were?

  Soon cracking sounds came, interspersed with noisy footfalls. The giant called his resolve to buoy his spirit, renew his confidence. A determined man has all he needs. Samson was wise enough to know this.

  The giant stood composed against a foe significantly larger that broke into the tree line too far away for Samson to see, and guarding his ground while what came to kill him smashed trees down to kindling to open a path to him. Even while remaining bold, his eyes strayed to those horrid corpses dangling like livestock from the trees. Mortified, the giant Samson came to understand their common cause of death. Something had squeezed those people to death, something large and coming his way, something which stomped trees to the ground and felled everything in its path.

  This time when the gigantic beast let out its bellow, the sound was quite near. For Samson, time seemed to stretch as he heard the sound. He peeled his eyes from the corpses swaying from the trees and spun to meet the beast who groaned and roared and wept all at once.

  This sound swelled, agonized, and Samson was aggrieved to hear it.

  This adversary yet hidden proved a tortured being, and an angry one.

  Soon the forest line buckled, and the crown of the beast’s head came into view. A large ivory horn, thick and grooved at its base, but long, slender and sharp at its tip, sat atop an enormous bronzed skull covered by thick-muscled skin. Its jaw jutted with sharp teeth guarding a huge maw and complimented by a single eye, freakishly malevolent and hostile.

  In this eye, Samson saw storms, anguish, and unreason. Its defiantly dark glint cut into him all its own, before it ever touched him.

  Though this Cyclopes was seven times his size, the giant Samson dreaded only that eye. He recalled his Uncle Del, dead for years, telling frightening tales of such creatures when Samson was young, and his mother scolding that her brother exaggerated.

  No one could exaggerate this beast, its reek, its roar, its fury, its pain.

  “A Cyclopes eats people’s flesh. The monsters catch hunters, soldiers, woodsman, and pickle them somehow, string them up. Funny thing is, they don’t eat often, or until the meat has aged . . .”

  Samson’s Uncle Del told terrifying stories when the bottle took control before the spirits he drank killed him. Samson had often believed Del drank so much wine because the sight of monsters made him crazy, not that his crazy uncle “imagined things” as his mother thought.

  The Cyclopes’ one baleful eye made Samson stop thinking of dead Del. Its smoldering intent made his own circumstance clear enough. Samson hadn't time to flee or time to be brave.

  Decided, the giant Samson ran towards the Cyclopes, to keep the monster busy and away from Vanin’s roost. Trees were less than cordwood to this adversary.

  Samson was not relieved to see his opponent clearly, or to realize that his one-eyed aggressor had no weapons. Thick calluses stained with fresh red blood on the Cyclopes’ hands and knuckles testified to how those people hanging from the trees had died. Old One-eye had crushed them each in his sizable grip.

  Vanin watched, from his perch amid high boughs, helpless, as his giant friend rushed their enemy on the ground. The wizard felt helpless. Of all imaginable horrors, he had led Samson to a Cyclopes, one of the few creatures resistant to his spells. Due to Vanin’s own distrust for steel and lack of ability to wield it, Samson was left to fight this enemy completely on his own.

  Samson kept his mind clear, smelling the fetid stench of the Cyclopes, which moaned as the giant darted and rolled between its legs. A few feints by Samson, first to one direction, then to another, disorientated the flesh-eater.

  But then something happened Samson did not expect, the giant tripped as he darted through the Cyclopes’ legs, where he fell at the creature’s feet, splayed out on his belly. Samson’s club clattered to the ground, whilst the Cyclopes attempted to snatch the giant from the earth to flattened Samson as he had crushed the corpses suspended in the trees.

  Using adrenaline as his incentive, Samson rolled away from the Cyclopes’ groping hand, then managed to retrieve and hug his club tight to his chest as he flipped away to buy seconds of safety. Still avoiding both groping hands and the Cyclopes’ furious stomping, the giant flipped to his backside to stand. A deep shadow had risen above him, and raising his shield, Samson had just enough time to block Old One-eye’s two handed swing. The blow was a brutal one, but the giant had braced himself well enough, butting against the crushing hands of the Cyclopes with his steel shield. As One-eye righted himself, shaking its bruised fists, Samson stood fully, not waiting around to be swung at again.

  The Cyclopes punched at Samson with a single fist, and turning sideways, therefore avoiding contact, the giant bashed his shield into the beast’s crimson stained fist. His shield rang loudly and recoiled, nearly torn away, and the giant’s defense did little other than anger the thing that stomped men as flat as it did trees.

  The Cyclopes took a breath to fill a sail and snarled a roaring snarl so loud it made Samson’s ears ring.

  Half stumbling, shaking his head to clear his ears, Samson nearly toppled and stopped himself by bashing hard with his club at the Cyclopes’ right ankle, all Samson’s weight, muscle, and will arrived behind his giant satisfying thud, followed by a ripping, snapping sound as the giant’s club broke the longus tendon of the Cyclopes’ bare ankle.

  The Cyclopes dropped, wailing in fury and pain. But the beast was not done. Fighting on all fours, the Cyclopes struggled against the giant savagely, to no avail.

  Despite Samson’s bulk, he was smaller and swifter than his enemy, whose first injury was crippling. The Cyclopes could barely crawl; its bloody right hand held its ankle. Tears poured from its single eye.

  When Samson’s club found the Cyclopes’ single eye squarely, the giant felt as if he were putting an animal out of its misery. And he was.

  Blinded, the Cyclopes couldn’t avoid that final blow, delivered expertly to the base of its skull. With one great exhale, the monster breathed out its last and lay dead in a pool of its own brains and blood.

  When Vanin came down to meet up with Samson, now stooped with exhaustion, the giant growled. “How is that that so many of our battles are left to me, Lord Vanin?”

  Vanin gave him an answer: “I am no swordsman, and that creature could not be defeated by magic. Best we get on my friend. I apologize for letting you down.” Vanin held out his clean pale hand.

  “Milord, I did not . . .” Embarrassed, Samson didn’t take the offered hand, but wiped his grimy ones on his hips.

  “Ah, nah-ah,” Vanin said extending his palm farther. “I understand how terrible it was to fight this foe. As for me, I may have rivaled you in self-torture, knowing I could not fight him and win — or even fight him and live.”

  “You can do anything!” Samson grabbed the wizard’s fine and aristocratic hand and squeezed it.

  “I cannot. I cannot do many things. That’s why Enra led me to you, Samson.” Reclaiming his hand from the giant’s grip, the wizard flexed it; wry humor danced on his lips.

  “Who is Enra?”

  “The god of salvation.”

  “Why would you require salvation?”

  “We all do, Samson, lest we slide down some beast’s gullet.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  Their life together had always been bloody. Samson wanted to make the realm safe and peaceful but worried what would become of their unspoken union when the warring ended. The giant reflected on those thoughts while they marched the day away, with the forests alive with life now that the Cyclopes who once roved them had been felled.

  By nightfall they had come even farther north and drakes began appearing in droves overhead, attacking in flocks.

  Despite their numbers, battling the drakes came welcome to Samson and Vanin, each for his own reasons. Samson wanted to quiet his mind, his guilt over slaying the Cyclopes even though he had to do or die.


  Vanin used the flood of drakes to find the dragon’s mind when it manifested, thence to locate the alpha dragon that bent the beasts’ brains to his will. Or so he had deduced. Seeing the Cyclopes, Vanin now knew that the enemy he faced was formidable, and canny. Something began to trouble the maestro concerning his theories. . . .

  Samson and Vanin did not sleep that night, or eat, sitting back to back under the stars –sentinels far from home.

  The wizard and the giant took to their path at the crack of dawn, vowing not to rest until their journey ended. Each man understood their goal. If they could not end this, a plague of drakes would ravish their lands. With the Cyclopes gone, no longer killing every being in its wake, new dragons could flood their lands more readily. The dragon had tamed the drakes serving it, but it could not tame Old One-eye. Vanin believed the Cyclopes must have kept the number of drakes invading his domain lower.

  As they began to ascend the narrowing path, Vanin pulled up his hood to stave off the cold. A light dusting of soft snow fell in spirals, floating lazily and serenely to the ground. Then came a noise neither man had heard in such volume: the cry of a full-grown dragon.

  In this cry were the screams of billions of tortured souls, somehow unified into one demonized voice. Buffeted by its booming, Samson felt insignificant, and Vanin as well. This was no Cyclopes.

  This was worse.

  This was a Sisa, an ancient beast who had found his way back through the ages somehow.

  Again the dragon called out. Everything stood still, even Lord Vanin. Fear sunk into his heart like the tip of a spear, and he felt faint.

  When the wizard swooned Samson caught him at the crook of his elbow, pulling him upright.

  “Tis close by, milord. A demon, and too much for my club. You must use your sword and help me this time. We shall go, meet him in his nest and see it done, by thy will! Breathe deeply, and then let me lead you onward.”

  Whisked away by the moment, Vanin hardly cared if Samson took initiative. A wizard was all he was then, a paltry magic-caster. He unsheathed his sword. “It’s time I be a swordsman as well,” he muttered.

  Beneath his considerable beard, Samson smiled slightly.

  They went flat-out toward their objective, heedless of who or what they might meet on the way. Neither traveler understood the cunning wyrm ahead, which even then readied his flames.

  But Vanin understood that this was not a common dragon, but the wyrm of myths. This deviant and vile beast had raised the dead and renewed and used those drakes to slaughter cities, and burned others to the dirt. The dragon’s control over lesser drakes was exercised in detestable ways and to the ruin of men.

  Chill air whistled in their ears under a feeble sun. Samson studied the terrain as he took the lead, his club in hand, shield on his other arm. Vanin stayed tight at the giant’s heels. Gravel bit at his leggings, the occasional reminder coming by way of a sharp stinging scrap of gravel or a low hanging branch. Vanin kept his sword on his side, resting one hand on its pommel.

  The wizard’s eyes searched the forests before and about them for a sign of the dragon or signs of life. Little stirred in that section of forest. Even the few living plants seemed ill and dying. Still running, they kept pace until the hillside curved, obscuring the road behind. Stopping to rest, Samson took a seat on a stone.

  “If we ran all day, we would not reach the dragon,” Samson offered.

  “Agreed. Let us walk to greet him,” said the wizard.

  Without warning the ground began to tremble. Figures like skeletons, but made of slate and sand, rose from it. Soot churned high into the air, forming great dust clouds where lightning cracked like the whips of gods in the heavens overhead.

  These unseemly stone sentinels had risen to rid the road of Samson and Vanin, intruders. Emotionless, in a circle they went after the giant and wizard. Samson’s club did little, ringing off the rock-bodied assailants with loud, useless, and painful attempts to smite them. Each swing vibrated the giant’s arms violently, threatening to steal his club away.

  The struggle became just that. Samson strained his muscles attempting to keep the rock soldiers back, since he could not vanquish them. And lost track of Vanin in the dust and the melee.

  He wondered where Vanin was. Even as near to death as was the giant, he ached to curse the wizard for his unhelpfulness after Samson’s many years of faithful service.

  The killing circle grew taut, and nothing kept more stone soldiers from coming.

  Then rain poured down in fat, splattering drops, soaking the giant and muddying his traction. Samson fell flat on his back, flopping roughly onto the hard dirt and punching the air from his lungs.

  “Alatoh!”

  A sheet of dust sharp as glass blew across Samson’s face, sanding off enough skin to make him bleed from his pores where his beard didn’t cover him. For a moment, the giant simply shut his eyes, trying vainly not to breathe or open his lids until the dust settled. A dreadful wait, that, eyes closed and helpless. But nothing claimed him.

  A foot kicked him gently in the ribs. “Let’s go Samson, and stay alert. There may be other trials. We don’t have the luxury of dealing with a lesser beast.”

  Luxury? Samson’s brow furrowed. Vanin’s magic, as well as his mind, baffled the giant. Ever and anon their enemy left utter carnage behind. Vanin’s thoughts at this present moment were harder to fathom than usual. Lesser beast? Samson turned Vanin’s words in his own mind as dust still fell, littering the ground in anonymous sprinkles from Vanin’s last spell. Lesser beast?

  Vanin had possessed no spells to help either of them with the Cyclopes, a frightening truth. Would Lord Vanin leave Samson with no defense? Must Samson fight the dragon as he had the Cyclopes — all alone?

  No turning back, not now. Samson bottled his confusion, setting it on a shelf to ferment until his elderly years, if he’d have them. His club was required by Lord Vanin, nothing else mattered. The dragon’s lair could be breached before dusk. The giant felt a surge of excitement, mixed with a hollow regret — combined with an undefinable longing. Soon they would face the cause of all evil: the death of his family; his life of warring; his master’s onerous duty.

  The enormity of the task and its value should they prevail made Samson nervous. And no man should go undecided into battle.

  Walking felt almost dreamlike. As they forged northward, Samson’s head grew heavy. He felt as if his helmet were filled with molasses. Muzzy thoughts skittered. Gnarled, uprooted trees lay on their sides, dead for weeks. Sound he heard rang muffled, when he heard anything at all.

  Vanin sniffed at the air. He’d felt someone watching, as soon as they’d begun the climb toward their final stop. Sulfurous, ammonia-tainted mist puffed at their feet early on. Later it began spilling over the tops of his boots, almost liquid as it rolled off his feet while they propelled him towards the beast and his fate. He could smell corruption, not just from the mist, but staining the air — reaffirmation of his adversary’s foul will.

  Before long Vanin grew wary. The air here was a drug, poison: an attempt to addle their senses. Vanin might have cast a ward if he understood this enemy. He’d begun one. And stopped. This was no winged beast, nor a rival spell-caster. Clearly, pestilence underwrote this enemy’s influence upon the land; its power and madness had far-reaching implications.

  “Samson, do you recall the pair of roots I gave you? Samson?”

  Samson heard Vanin, albeit as if from a great distance. The giant’s mind echoed a hundred whispering voices of nature, rebounding off the prison of his thick skull. Swaying slightly, he stared downwards, trudging towards salvation. Then a sharp swat stung his cheek.

  “Samson!”

  Confused still, the giant shook his head to clear his thoughts.

  “You must focus on my voice. Fight that vile beast trying to control you, weaken you.”

  Vanin’s voice, although varying in pitch and volume, never lost its command or certainty.

  “Must I strike
you yet again?”

  “No, my lord — though . . .”

  Samson’s eyes had widened, and Vanin, whose back was turned, watched his companion point a big finger towards the source of his alarm.

  Vanin saw its ebon and red slatted eyes first, before he could make sense of its beard and scales. Later? Oh, later, he would recall all: the dragon’s deep scaling; its lengthy talons; its gaping, tooth-lined maw. But then, he saw only that awful gleam in its eyes, hot with hunger and remorseless purpose. Yes — abhorrent as the sight was, he saw. Vanin’s lips quivered as they renewed a ward he had not used for millennia, its green glow limning him bright against the darkening day.

  Samson was beside him, alert now, club and shield forward.

  The canny beast stood on its hind legs, a show of power that both did and did not accomplish a rudimentary pecking order on this field of battle.

  Vanin’s hands were aglow. Samson’s gripped his armaments, raising his shield as the dragon’s breath cooked the painted design off its surface, leaving it blackened. As the dragon came at him, the giant raised his club, protecting the frail old wizard beside him.

  This dragon loomed enormous, easily five times larger than the biggest dragon the giant had faced before. It was well plated, with dark scaling against which a spear would have been useless. Samson slung his shield on his back, switching it out for the short axe he rarely used.

  He felt gratitude for that weapon then, knowing he must rely on swiftness to outpace and outmaneuver the dragon.

  Fire smacked into the ground behind Samson, igniting grasses and brush, though miasma yet covered the ground. He ignored everything but the beast, his own eyes wanting to recoil in terror as he watched its grotesquely overdeveloped muscles ripple below its thickly scaled skin.

  This skin resisted Vanin’s lightning-bright spell, buzzing through the air like deadly hornets — only to be devoured by its prey. The wizard’s first spell did nothing as the dragon’s flesh absorbed it, dispersing it harmlessly to vanish with a whisper and a hint of stormy air.

  Vanin’s failed attack did not dissuade the giant, or slow his legs, as he dashed away from danger to gain an advantage by reaching the beast’s side.

  His feet found footing, despite a mist boiling off the ground.

  At first, beside the horned juggernaut, which towered above him, Samson gasped at the welts between the dragon’s large scales. Something foul festered within those dark recesses. Samson could sense the sinister nature of something much more than simply dragon. Forces of evil stirred inside this behemoth.

  The huge dragon had no wings, unlike many of the drakes the giant had fought before. With its breath aflame, the dragon tried to follow Samson’s progress, turning like a horse resisting a rider’s attempt to mount.

  And the giant noted the way it moved, like an enormous lizard, on sturdy, capable and surprisingly nimble legs.

  Samson dashed at speed, and slid to a halt under the dragon’s belly. There he tried his hand axe, but its curved blade did nothing when he brought it down in a powerful hacking and slashing motion. In fact, his effort left no marks whatsoever, beyond infuriating the beast who then stood on its hind legs, slashing with a front talon at the giant.

  Samson broke and ran.

  As Samson bolted, a slashing talon ripped into his armor and chest. One burst of pain was all he felt as the dragon struck him. Samson thought of Vanin; then saw fire, felt heat; and found himself tumbling through the air.

  The dragon’s squalling breath caught him, blowing the giant into the forest. Samson only had time to wonder where Vanin was as he crashed onto the smooth flat ground and collapsed.

  Darkness overtook him.

  Vanin tried to reach the giant but could not. When the dragon swatted Samson off into the growing night, Vanin renewed his onslaught but could not save his faithful servant. Furious, the wizard focused on the beast. Flames splattered helplessly against his ward, and as the dragon’s powers met the wizard’s, he found heart and purpose, actual faith where doubt had been too long.

  Hanging his staff on his back, drawing his sword, the wizard’s lips sang a song of free will, reborn in steel, and his sword responded. Magic lit the blade, rolling out a maelstrom. This fire jumped like static, growing sharper and fiercer exponentially with Vanin’s iron resolve.

  Wasting no time, Vanin struck at the dragon foe, cutting a crimson slit along its ankle joint. The beast howled, rising on its haunches, and swatted at the wizard as it had struck at Samson.

  A terrible, fetid odor rose from the beast’s wound.

  Vanin dodged a swatting talon, cutting away one knuckle’s worth of the beast’s arsenal. The single claw, cut from the first knuckle, disappeared onto the misty ground. From the dragon’s throat came a savage growl, followed by more flame, which again washed harmlessly over the ward of the wizard, holding firm.

  Deep within, Vanin vowed to end the conflict. So Vanin stopped, facing his adversary.

  This dragon knew his enemy, and its eyes burned with malicious intent.

  Then the dragon charged on all fours and whirled, swinging its spiked tail at Vanin, who leapt, slashing downwards as he passed safely over the tail and striking skin, then bone. The dragon screeched, smacking the wizard with its tail’s return.

  Vanin had little time to react when the dragon snapped its jaws at him. But he managed and, righting himself, stabbed the dragon between jaw and ear.

  The beast wailed.

  The wizard withdrew his sword, still bright with scorching current. This magic took chunks from the dragon’s scaly hide.

  Vanin dodged a set of claws and, for a moment, couldn’t catch his breath.

  Blood trickled down the dragon’s cheek like tears. It shook its head in frustration.

  Vanin quickly stabbed at the beast’s belly, accomplishing enough damage to make his foe rear back.

  While uttering a cry only his soul heard, the wizard plunged his sword into the dragon, running as his blade slit open its underside, then ripping the sword free in a scarlet haze and bringing it down full force, his feet planted, hacking at the beast’s left hind foot.

  The dragon howled.

  Vanin felt no satisfaction when the beast’s foot rolled away amid an appalling spurt of gore. Rather he set out to sever the dragon’s other foot.

  When the dragon fell at last, it landed mostly on its back. The beast was not dead, as Vanin had hoped.

  The felled beast clung to its hatred to stay alive. It lived yet, wanting only to kill the wizard it could see, but couldn’t reach.

  Moving swiftly, his grey beard flowing out behind him, Vanin found his friend Samson. Seeing that the giant lay dying, the wizard returned to the beast, who vainly attempted to kill him with flames a final time.

  Sliding to a stop, avoiding the still lethal front talons of his enemy by cutting them off, the wizard plunged his blade into the dragon’s breastbone, cracking it open. Dark venous blood and clear fluid gushed from the horrific tear. Gristle and guts hung from the wound as the dragon’s lungs began collapsing.

  Next, Vanin tore away that evil heart which had animated this enemy of his land and people for so many years. And, whispering, Vanin ate the beast’s heart while it still beat, swallowing it in all it chewy toughness.

  That dragon heart hit the wizard’s stomach like a rock. Ripe blood oozed freakishly down the wizard’s chin who, wiping gore away, again ran to his fallen friend. Were the giant of a lighter breed, Vanin might have carried him closer in the first place. Precious seconds should never be squandered, he thought, recalling a saying for fending off death.

  Samson’s breath was ragged, cold sweat breaking on his brow; his skin had lightened, taken on a blue tinge.

  Vanin used a dagger to cut away the straps holding Samson’s chest-guard in place. Any other dagger would have been useless against such sturdy straps — any but this one, which was the wizard’s own.

  Once he stripped Samson of armor, he removed the giant’s chain mai
l. The maestro stared only briefly at his friend’s leaking chest before holding out his own glowing hand to his friend’s forehead.

  Vanin’s dagger tore into Samson, cutting deep. Vanin’s main hand plunged into the incision and broke his friend’s breastplate apart. The wizard kept his glowing hand, lit with a warm amber light, to the giant’s forehead and he sensed his friend’s passing come near.

  Willpower left the wounded warrior quickly once his heart was punctured.

  In the coming dusk, little seemed certain as Vanin cut out the giant’s wounded heart, so near to death. That heart no longer beat when it slipped down the wizard’s gullet to unite in his stomach with the heart of Samson’s slayer, the dragon lord.

  Vanin’s convulsions came immediately. He slumped, fighting the urge to move his hand away from the giant’s cooling forehead, as his body rocked with the price of his deeds. At that moment, Vanin did not care what god’s rules he bent or broke. He had lost enough. Samson would not be counted among those losses. Not even if the gods willed it.

  What remained of his friend was dimming by the time Vanin began to vomit dark blood and then, mouth stretched wide, expelled something larger than his fist, which appeared alien in the stretching shadows of the night.

  Even as it fell from his lips, the wizard’s hand caught the sticky heart, dropping it deftly into the giant. With one word, and a flick of his wrist, he made the wound begin to knit its way toward healing.

  Sinews met with muscle and reunited as the wizard aided their progress with prayer. Soon the scarlet hues and broken bones were whole and fleshy. Although a large scar did cover the giant’s chest, no other sign of a mortal struggle remained.

  Samson had felt far off, and cold, but when his eyes flicked open the giant’s injury had vanished, and the mist had disappeared as well. Mystified, he stared into Vanin’s sea-blue eyes, seeing his savior and feeling blessed for the company he kept.

  The wizard leaned in as Samson sat up and the giant took his hand. Vanin sounded exhausted, but he kept his voice light: “Come along, Samson; one cannot stay dead forever.”

  The giant did stand. And as Samson did that, he swept up the wizard, hugging him. It was a deed he’d never dared before.

  And later, Samson even thought he saw a slight smile on Vanin’s lips when they turned to begin the trek home.

  Theirs was a pleasant journey.

  © 2016 Vernon Maxwell

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Chris Raven

  Donny Swords

  Ray Foster

  Dani J Caile

  Vernon Maxwell

  Chris Raven