The Quest For the Black Dragon

by D.E. Dunlop

  “Are you so sure, Jacob Crow Feathers?” He asked over the sword.

  “Uh, yes. I think so.” The young man squirmed.

  “Whoever has touched the sword needs to cleanse themselves. The one who lives by the sword will die by the sword.”

  The young men of the hunting party each stole glances of shame. Each had played with the sword and taken part in Jacob’s lie. They were also quite sure that their elder knew they had lied. One slapped another as the old man turned to the other casualty. He cradled the sword with one arm and placed his other hand on Earl’s forehead. He stood silent for a moment, oblivious to the bickering young hunters.

  “He’s still in there.” He said. “You boys clean yourselves with water and incense and then move him into the infirmary.” He instructed as his apprentice joined them.

  “What happened?” The young apprentice asked. “Who are these men? Where did they come from?”

  “I do not entirely know. The hunters brought them in.” The ancient one replied. Something caught the attention of the old man’s nostrils. “This man is a priest of Anon.” He said. “I wonder what he’s doing so far north.”

  “How do you know he’s a priest of Anon?” The shaman’s apprentice asked.

  “He’s got mistletoe and St. John’s Wart in his pockets.” He answered then turned away toward a small hut that was apparently constructed of bark and on his way by the fire tossed in the sword. The apprentice took the hunters to the edge of the camp with some incense and water. He returned to the fire to see what had been thrown in. He fished out the sword as the sheath finished burning off. It was tarnished to the point that parts of the blade were black and the wire wrapped leather of the handle was just starting to blister. Even in its deteriorated state the weapon perked the young man’s curiosity. He flipped it over and over and dumped dirt on it to cool it off. When he finally got it to the temperature that would allow him to handle it he carried it off to his own wikiwam.

  On one side of the quaint dwelling stood a couple of shelves made of small logs and branches. It was slowly collecting a number of ointments, herbs, amulets and various shaman paraphernalia. He hung the sword, blade down, on one of the upright posts.

  “What a strange talisman.” He said to himself. “It almost looks like it could be a tool of some sort.” He took it down from the shelf and sat on his cot to examine it more closely. He made note of the two-edge blade and that it was notched in a few places by something sharp. “What would such a blade be used for?” He wondered and grasped it by the handle. He set the point in the ground and his forehead on the end of the Pommel. He cleared his mind and waited for a response from the Master as his master had taught him.

  He waited patiently as he was an unusually patient young man. His long black hair hung down to his elbows as he leaned on the sword. His name was Waiting Fox because he was so patient and sly like a fox. He had been training to become a shaman since he was about eight years old and now he was about nineteen. His formal apprenticeship would soon be over. He would, however, continue in the position until his master passed on.

  His brown eyes opened and gazed blankly past his reddish brown arms to the ground. He was startled to see that the sunlight coming in was orange. One of his tasks as apprentice was preparing the meals for he and his master. It was getting late and he had not yet done this so he quickly hung up the sword and went about it. While he waited for the water to boil he had a vision of men dressed in steel. They were fighting and screaming. He heard steel ringing on steel and could smell spilled blood and death. He looked at the sword.

  “That’s a dangerous tool.” He said to himself. “I’d best be careful with it.”

  When he brought the meal to the old man’s wikiwam the old man was not there. He wasn’t surprised, really. Over the last eleven years he had grown accustomed to the ancient blind man not being where he had expected him. Waiting Fox looked around and saw ointments prepared on the table.

  “He must be with the man who was brought in this afternoon.” He thought and proceeded to the infirmary; a large mikiwam, which was much like what one might call a wigwam, only it was made entirely of wood instead of birch bark like the wikiwam. The old man was sitting beside the injured man. “I brought you your supper, Grey Eyes.”

  The ancient one lifted his face with a smile. “You’re late.” He said.

  “Yes. Sorry, sir. I was…preoccupied.” Waiting Fox wasn’t sure why, but he did not wish to let Grey Eyes know he had taken the sword out of the fire.

  “Well, thank you, but we’re fasting.” Grey Eyes responded.

  Waiting Fox set the tray down and went to sit beside his mentor.

  “What are we fasting for?” He inquired intently. As much as he was patient, he was eager to follow his master’s instructions, not only to please him, but also to become the best he could.

  “This one needs extra effort.” He said.

  Waiting Fox took a seat on the opposite side of Earl’s torso and laid his hand on his forehead as Grey Eyes did. He could see ointments salves and poultices applied to the aged casualty. His skin felt cool to the touch and was pale with a slight blue tinge. The shaman and his apprentice began, in unison, to speak strange utterances, a language not often filtered through human ears nor translated to any other language.

  They spent the next three days, in this fashion, over their patient, two sessions each day and only water to drink for the duration.

  Each evening Waiting Fox would admire the sword and hold it in different poses, pretending to be one of the warriors he saw in his vision.

  In the morning of the third day Waiting Fox rose to find Grey Eyes poking through the ashes of the community fire pit.

  “What are you looking for?” He asked.

  “Early in the morning when I was half awake and the sun was starting to peek through the trees the Master awoke me with a vision.” The old man said. He faced the morning sun and his apprentice sat at his feet before him. He was always eager to hear the visions his tutor received.

  “I was walking in the forest to the south. I knew it was in the south because there were not many rocks even though there were lots of hills. The forest was very lush and green and all the birds were singing. At least I thought they were singing. Something about it caught my attention and I realized they were disturbed and fleeing their nests. Everything around me went quiet and dark. There was an eerie silence that was disturbed by an even more eerie drum. I turned to one side and then the next. On each side I could see the Knights of the Most High. They were aligned, abreast, each about seven metres apart. Their white hooded robes concealed their individual identities and they all stood quite still with their heads down. I tried to see what they stood against, but could only see darkness and then the Master opened the eyes of my spirit and I saw the spirit world. Standing against us was a great army of dark demons dressed for war. Behind the Knights of the Most High stood legion upon legion of light spirits. They too were dressed for war and each side called taunts at the other and then all eyes fell on one of the knights. When I looked at that knight he turned and looked at me also. I saw his face and it was yours. You reached into your robe and pulled out a sword, but before you could even lift it the multitude of demons fell on you.”

  Waiting Fox sat there staring with his eyes wide open.

  “Did I die?” He asked.

  “I do not know. I was afraid for my apprentice and woke up.” Grey Eyes said and went back to poking at the ashes.

  “So why are you poking at the fire pit?” Waiting Fox asked. He knew the answer, but thought if he didn’t ask it would be obvious to Grey Eyes that he had taken the sword.

  “Three days ago I took the sword from the dead soldier and threw it in the fire. I was hoping to remove its temptation from the young men.” The old one explained. “Though our people have not fought a war for centuries our Master is the Lord of War an
d so it is in the heart of men to war. I don’t see it. Do you see it?”

  “No, master. I don’t see it. Master, if it is in our hearts to war, why do you teach us not to?” Waiting Fox inquired. He hoped he had found a loophole that would justify or, at least, excuse his recent behaviour.

  “Though we walk in the world, we do not war with the world.”

  “What does that mean?” The young man asked.

  “The weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but of the spirit.”

  The answer didn’t do much for Waiting Fox’s understanding. He was more confused now than before he asked the question.

  “You still have lots to learn, but later. For now you must prepare the medicine for our injured friend. I think he is coming around.” Grey Eyes instructed.

  “He hasn’t even moved since he arrived. Sometimes I can’t even tell if he’s breathing.” Waiting Fox huffed impatiently as he got up to follow his instructions.

  Grey Eyes set his hand on the young man’s shoulder to stop him and cocked his head to one side as if he were listening to some strange distant sound.

  He was suddenly aware, by the questions of his apprentice, of the where about of the sword. Waiting Fox’s attitude was slightly out of tune. He almost excused it for the effect of the fast, but knew Waiting Fox had fasted with him on many other occasions and for greater lengths of time.

  “I will tend to our guest. You go on and eat something.” Grey Eyes told him.

  “But we’re fasting.”

  “The fast has been hard on you. Go. Eat. Take some free time for the rest of the day.”

  Waiting Fox knew something was amiss. Free time was unheard of so he continued to argue.

  “I’ve fasted seven days with you. Two days are easy.”

  Grey Eyes put his hand up to silence the young man. “No more discussion.”

  Waiting Fox moped away feeling confused and dejected.

  He wandered deep into the forest to an outcropping of stone on which he often sat to reflect. He over looked a low-lying area of forest that spanned a great many kilometres. He decided he would postpone eating a little while longer and spend some time in self-study. He, too, recognized a change in attitude and he was feeling very strange.

  He breathed deeply and systematically cleared his mind of all thought.

  “I have been clay moulded in the potter’s hand.” He said over again at about five minute intervals for about an hour. He pictured himself on the spinning wheel and imagined the feel of the potter’s hand shaping and reshaping him.

  “I am steel being forged by the smith, sharpened and honed.” Again he envisioned the darkness and the heat of the shop, the pain of being pounded into shape.

  “I will become a Knight of the Most High, walking uprightly even amongst the thorns.”

  Grey Eyes checked on Earl. He busied himself around the room, stoking the fire and preparing various tinctures.

  Earl opened his eyes and looked around without moving his head. He listened intently in the dim light of the shaman’s infirmary. Grey Eyes stopped what he was doing and listened close because he heard the change in Earl’s breathing.

  “It’s about time you woke up my friend.” He said from across the room.

  “Is that you, Stephen?” Earl asked after a moment of consideration.

  “I thought there was something more to your scent than St. John’s Wart and mistletoe, old friend.” Grey Eyes answered. “How do you feel?”

  “I feel great. How long was I napping?” Earl asked as he sat up.

  “Almost three days. What brings you this far north?” Grey Eyes enquired.

  “You, Stephen.” Earl answered as Grey Eyes approached. “Three days you say?”

  “I haven’t gone by that name in nearly two hundred years.” He smiled as he sat down in front of his old friend. “They call me Grey Eyes now.” He chuckled.

  “I see why. It must be tough to get around. Have you been confined at all?”

  “No, no. I’ve never seen better.” Grey Eyes answered. “So, how is it you come in search of me? We’ve known each other nearly eight hundred years. Our time is nearly done and this is the first time you’ve come around.”

  “Of all the Story Tellers I’ve known you’re the only one I could think of whom I could trust.” Earl said.

  “I’m listening.” Grey Eyes answered.

  Earl took a deep breath. “It seems Katharine wants to take the Gorchan for herself.” He said.

  “Well, if she did that she would completely control the future on her own.” Grey Eyes answered. “Will Ephimeranon allow it?”

  “She has no choice. You know she can only observe until the next Telling. Otherwise she’s out of order and jeopardizes the very future she would be trying to protect.” Earl said.

  “We’ll just have to do something ourselves.” Grey Eyes suggested. “First we should eat. I’ll get Waiting Fox.”

  “There’s a little more to it. I’ll tell you while we eat. I’m famished.”

  Grey Eyes shuffled out of the infirmary and out to the edge of the camp where Waiting Fox had been practicing with his bow.

  “Exercise in patience?” Grey Eyes asked.

  Waiting Fox was standing very still with his next shaft drawn. He exhaled slowly and released.

  “Yes, sir.” He responded.

  “I wonder why you need it, Waiting Fox.”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Probably something to do with that sword. Now notch another and give me the bow.” The old man ordered and reached out in the wrong place to accept it.

  “But you can’t see.” Waiting Fox protested.

  “Nonsense. Eyes can’t be trusted. How do you think I know you have that sword?”

  “I don’t think this is such a good idea.” Waiting Fox continued to argue.

  “Relax, my boy. When I was your age I couldn’t miss with a bow.” Grey Eyes defended.

  “But you can’t see anymore.”

  Seeing is only one part of the equation. Hand it over.” They fumbled over the bow a little and finally Grey Eyes had the bow drawn and pointed into the field. He held position while he got his limbs under control. “Now, about that sword. You’re old enough and wise enough to make your own choices and decisions, but my advice to you is to get rid of it.”

  “Well, I think I have enough self control and mental capacity to be alright with it.” Waiting Fox answered quietly.

  Grey Eyes exhaled slowly and released. “Just like the old days.” He said and a horse whinnied in the distance. He hastily handed the bow back to its owner.

  Waiting Fox’s jaw hung open. “You just shot Short Tail Feather’s horse!” He exclaimed, as Grey Eyes wasted no time in shuffling away.

  “It’s your bow and it’s in your hand.”

  “But you shot it.”

  “You’re the one who gave his bow to a blind man.”

  “If it dies I’ll have to give the man my horse.” The young apprentice complained.

  “Be glad it wasn’t his wife.” Grey Eyes called over his shoulder.

  Waiting Fox could hear Short Tail Feathers coming through the field and turned to face him. Grey Eyes disappeared into the village.

  “I’ll make lunch myself.” Grey Eyes told Earl when he came in. “Waiting Fox is going to be held up a while.”

  Earl assisted his blind friend as best he could.

  “So, tell me the story, old friend. What brings you here?”

  Earl sat down at the table with their lunch. “Katharine has become queen of Sitty and she’s attempted to take the Union stones and possibly invade the north.” He said.

  Grey Eyes rubbed his chin in the palm of his hand. “But the story doesn’t fit…Oh, yes. A fair skin beauty will become darkened by greed…” He recalled in dismay.

  “Yes, exactly.” She probably has the gold and silver already.” Earl continued.


  “How do you know?”

  “Well, about fifty years after the Telling, Sky convinced me that it would be hilarious if we hid the stones…” Earl started.

  “Ephimeranon would know where you put them.” Grey Eyes interjected.

  “Well, yeah, but you know she always arrives last, so…” Earl explained. “He said it would be one to tell the grandkids.”

  **********

  The Field of Lords was overgrown with grass, but the two Story Tellers knew what they were looking for and where they should find it.

  The ancient gathering place lay basking in the sun. The fallen stone pillars were half concealed in the grass with foundation stones peeking over the top. These were the only signs of the once magnificent structure built by the first Story Tellers countless centuries before.

  At the centre of the ruins was an obvious circle, sunken lower than the rest of the field. Earl and Sky headed straight to the middle of that circle. The two were several hours on their knees rooting through the grass before finding even one of the stones. After so many seasons the stones were over grown with grass and half buried in the ground.

  “Got it!” Earl exclaimed with satisfaction. He had been digging at the stone for several minutes.

  “Which one?” Sky asked from a few feet away where he was also looking for the stones.

  “Black. I think.” He rubbed the dirt from the stone and held it up to the summer sun. “It’s hard to tell. I’ve never seen it so dark.”

  “Well, the Telling’s not for another hundred and fifty years so...”

  “I know, I’ve just never seen it so dark‘s’ all. Oh, yeah, there it is. If you look real close it looks like an ornately decorated circle in there.” Earl described.

  “Let me see.” Sky said and Earl tossed it to him. He held it up to the sun in the same fashion Earl had.

  “Hard to believe such a small stone carries so much power.”

  Earl stood to stretch his legs and began to ponder his surroundings.