“I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear,” said Valkimir. “But it is what you needed to hear.”
Brannon pushed Valkimir’s hands away. “You sound just like my godsdamned father.”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“Help? Help? You think you’re helping by treating me like some soldier? I’m not a soldier. I’m not a warrior. And I’m not a champion. Father knows that, and so do you. Don’t you see? He’s trying to be rid of me once and for all. He doesn’t want me to make it back.”
Valkimir was shaking his head. “Brannon, you were chosen by Kazimir, not King Rimon. The Most High Wizard has never been wrong about the champions, and they always push the dragon back to the Eternal Ice. This time will be no different.”
Brannon wasn’t listening. He had realized something that he didn’t want to admit. Something terrible. And it broke his heart. “You want to be rid of me too…” he said, voice quivering.
Valkimir looked genuinely shocked. “Why would you say that?”
“Don’t deny it, you bastard!” said Brannon, lunging forward and beating on Valkimir’s armored chest.
Valkimir gained control of Brannon easily and held his wrists firmly, shaking him. “You have to stop this, Brannon. You’re being crazy.”
“Crazy? Crazy?” Brannon ripped his arms away and reached for the closest vase he could find. “You want to see crazy?” he said, and he threw it at Valkimir.
The knight ducked and the vase crashed against the wall behind him.
Annallia came rushing in from the balcony then, looking distraught. “Brannon, stop this!” she pleaded, her voice cracking.
“Get out of here, both of you. Leave me alone to die. It’s what you want anyway!”
Brannon threw another vase. Then he grabbed whatever was in reach and threw it at his lover. Valkimir charged through the onslaught, taking more than one hit. When Brannon threw a chair at him, he caught it and smashed it into a hundred pieces at Brannon’s feet.
“Enough!” he bellowed, and slapped Brannon across the face hard enough to rattle him.
Brannon cried out and clutched his cheek. Valkimir had never hit him before. He wanted to lash out, wanted to hurt him back, but a part of his mind had calmed, and the calm was now spreading.
“Your father is not trying to get rid of you, and neither am I,” said Valkimir. “Do you understand? I need you, Brannon. I love you. And now I need you to fight for yourself for once. I need you to fight for me. And I need you to fight for us.”
Valkimir was right. Brannon always clung to the idea that he was a victim. He acted helpless when it got him attention, or threw fits, or dressed in clothes that he knew would gain him animosity. He liked being a victim, because it was easier than trying and failing. Valkimir had been fighting for him for years. He had been the one to announce their love for each other, and he had been the one to fight with words and fists for the respect that he said they deserved. Valkimir and Brannon’s coming out had sparked a revolution in elven society, something that hard-liners like King Rimon openly opposed. And through it all, Brannon had hidden behind his champion’s big shoulders, imagining that he had gone through the same thing.
“Can you do that?” Valkimir asked, his own eyes watering.
Brannon fought back his pestilent tears. “I’ll try,” he managed to say.
Valkimir smiled and kissed him. “I know you will.”
And If I never retu—”
“Shh,” said Valkimir, grabbing him by the studded cup. “Never say never, my beloved. Ever.”
Chapter 10
Frog Leg Necklace
Willow awoke and soon found herself being carried by a group of young male ogres. Hundreds of Fire Swamp ogres marched along with them as they made their way back to the village. They sang as they ferried their champion home, singing songs of victory, valor, glory, and of course, bountiful rewards.
“What’s happening? Have I really been chosen?” she asked her carriers, but they, like all others, sang at the top of their lungs, drowning out her voice.
Glancing over her shoulder from her precarious perch, she spotted the one and only Kazimir walking among the ogres, though he sang not at all, and even looked slightly bored.
She was led into a hut and fussed over by half a dozen matron mothers. All the while she asked them what was happening, but her questions were answered by no one. Instead the females busied themselves with their work. She was adorned in red war paint from head to toe, and dressed in the finest crocodile armor—which was hopelessly tight of course, and caused her bosom and belly to bulge out in all the wrong places. With much ceremony and fanfare, she was led out of the hut and to a raised podium at the center of the village. Kazimir was there, as were her parents and the chief of Fire Swamp.
“Look upon your champion now,” said Kazimir in a voice that silenced all whispers. “Look upon your champion and bow. For she has been chosen, to help defeat the wyrm. Beneath her heavy boot, Drak’Noir will squirm.”
“Four cheers for Willow!” said the chief, and the crowd complied. When they had finished, Chief Gnarlytooth turned to her and presented her with his very own club, carved from the heart of an ancient ironwood.
“Do me the honor of wielding my club,” he said with a slight bow as he handed it to her reverently.
Willow took the smooth wood in her hand, amazed and humbled, and offered her chieftain a slow nod. “It is my honor.”
Her mother looked on with tears of pride and joy, and her father puffed out his barrel-like chest. She had never seen her parents so happy. Willow endured the attention of the crowd bravely. She was a fierce ogre of Fire Swamp after all, and fear and doubt had no place in their society. Willow did have one fear though—would there be anything good to eat on the quest?
When she had finally been properly prepared for the quest and stood with Kazimir on the bridge leading out of the village, the other ogres raised their tusks to the sky proudly and offered up a chorus of burps in a glorious sendoff.
A low fog hung so thick about the congregation that nary a cattail or bulrush could be seen among the bald cypress, mangrove, and white oak trees that sparsely dotted the bog.
Her father Tharg led her raptor to her and handed over Tor’s reins. He scowled at Dingleberry, who was whizzing and buzzing around her head excitedly; the little sprite was very excited to go on what she was calling a “holiday.”
Her father beamed, which accentuated his large bottom tusks. “I am proud of you, Dragon Champion of Fire Swamp.” He handed her his long gator-tooth dagger. “Bring your old father back a dragon tooth.”
“I’ll bring you back two dragon teeth,” she said with tear-filled eyes.
He beamed and turned toward her mother.
Her mother Negek leaned in close and touched foreheads and tusks with her daughter. “Willow, my gargantuan daughter…Return victorious, and you will have your pick of mates to plant seed.”
Willow blushed and glanced at the chief’s son.
Her mother, not missing this, offered Willow a knowing nod, unable to keep herself from grinning. She tied a leather line around her daughter’s neck, which sported two dozen dangling frog legs. “A snack,” she told her happily.
Willow waved at the enthusiastic crowd behind her parents. “Goodbye, Mother. Goodbye, Father,” she said. “I will make Fire Swamp proud.”
The crowd gave a collective cheer that ended in a grand chorus of belches. Willow herself belched as well. The sound drowned out all others, echoing throughout the swamp, and many nods of approval followed in its wake.
Kazimir coughed impatiently.
She mounted Tor, whose legs nearly buckled beneath her great weight.
It protested, but she reined the beast in easily and began following the wizard across the bridge toward faraway lands.
“The sprite stays here,” said Kazimir.
Dingleberry looked to Willow with concern.
“Can’t she come?” Willow asked.
<
br /> “I believe that I have already made it quite clear that she cannot. In other words, no. And for a third time, should you continue to press me, the answer will be no.”
Kazimir turned and headed down the road, and Dingleberry gave him a thumbs-up—the rudest gesture in ogre society.
Willow laughed. “You watch over my parents while I’m gone. They will let you stay in my room.”
“But…but…”
“Sorry, little one, you heard the old cruster.”
Willow offered the ogres one last wave, patted Dingleberry on the head, and followed the wizard north toward her destiny.
***
Chieftain Gnarlytooth watched, grinning, as the two left, and slapped his belly along with the other ogres. He leaned in conspiratorially toward his closest advisor, Phlem. The skinny little ogre offered a tusky grin and opened a sack enough for the golden glimmer inside to shine in the chief’s eyes.
“We did good, Phlem. The tribe will not starve now that she is gone.”
“The dragon won’t starve now either,” Phlem snickered.
Chapter 11
King’s Crossing
The trek from Magestra to King’s Crossing was a long one. Indeed, it was farther than Murland had ever been in his life. During the long journey, he made camp where the wizard told him to and set out when instructed. The ancient wizard never seemed to sleep, but rather went on watch as soon as they stopped each night, and promptly set out each morning.
As it turned out, the old wizard was not much of a conversationalist. Murland tried to speak with him on numerous occasions, but every time, he was met with things like, “Make hay while the sun is shining,” and, “He who shuts his mouth and puts one foot in front of the other never finds himself late for dinner.”
It was all quite frustrating. How was he supposed to defeat a legendary dragon if the greatest wizard in all the land wouldn’t even answer simple questions? Still, Murland persisted in asking them, more out of boredom than anything else.
At night, when time afforded him, he tried to decipher the impossible spell book Zorromon the Off-White had given him, but much like the broken wand he’d been carrying around, it seemed rather useless.
By the afternoon of the fourteenth day, Murland had had quite enough of the silent wizard and the never-ending road. His feet hurt, and his legs were sore from the endless days of walking.
He finally stopped with an exasperated huff and summoned his courage, cleared his throat, and prepared to give the ancient one a right smart berating. Before he could get out a word, however, Kazimir stopped, turned to him, and said, “Ah, we have arrived.” And just like that, he turned to a wisp of smoke.
Murland blinked. He had been so caught up in his own ponderings that he didn’t realize they had finally reached King’s Crossing. He blinked again when he saw four other Kazimirs standing on each of the conjoining roads. In a flash, three of the others turned to wisps as well. They all flew together and merged, leaving only one Kazimir.
“Welcome, Champions of the Dragon,” said the Kazimir who stood beside a knight in full armor. “Come, come,” he said, gathering all around.
Aside from the knight, there was also a very tall—and very fat—female ogre sitting on a raptor, a bearded man who had apparently come riding a hog, and the prettiest male elf that Murland had ever seen.
“Wait a minute,” said Murland. “If that is the real you…who did I journey here with?”
Kazimir cocked an angry eye at him. “Why, an apparition, of course. Do you expect me to be in five places at once?”
“Well…I…” Murland began.
“Silence!” ordered Kazimir. “I have much to say and little time to say it. You have all been gathered here today to join forces against an ancient enemy of Fallacetine.” He paused momentarily and gestured toward the tall knight. “This is Sir Eldrick of Vhalovia, as fierce a warrior as the southlands have ever produced.”
Sir Eldrick straightened at that, and the wizard turned to the man getting off his hog.
“This here, my good champions, is not just a mere man, as he appears to be, but he is in fact the dwarf warrior of the Iron Mountains, Gibrig Hogstead.”
“Did you say dwarf?” Sir Eldrick asked quizzically, eyeing the lanky little man.
Gibrig couldn’t help but blush. “I’ve got…humanism,” he told them.
Everyone shared confused glances, but Kazimir cut off any would-be inquiries by quickly moving on.
“This is Willow Muckmuck, Champion of Fire Swamp.”
Willow stopped gnawing on the large drumstick she’d been enjoying just long enough to offer a nod to each of them. “Got anything to eat?” she asked.
“Brannon Woodheart, prince and Champion of Halala,” said the wizard, moving down the line once more.
The lithe elf cocked a brow at the group, as though he were far from impressed. “It is your pleasure, I am sure,” he said lazily, and went back to buffing his nails and ignoring them all.
Finally, Kazimir came to Murland. “And this is the most gifted wizard to come from Abra Tower since…well, since me.”
Murland laughed at that, but when Kazimir scowled at him, he turned to the group and offered them all a “Good day, nice to meet you.”
He shook hands with them all but Brannon. The elf continued to ignore him and didn’t so much as bend from his high steed. “Humanism—eh?” said Murland, shaking Gibrig’s hand. “I’ve never heard of that.”
“Did you bring that hog to eat on the quest?” Willow piped in, wiping her mouth and tossing the bone to her raptor.
Gibrig was beside himself. He slowly shifted his weight. “Ye gonna butcher yer raptor?”
Willow scratched her head in thought and finally gave a slow shrug. “It’s a long road to Bad Mountain…”
Gibrig was horrified. “No! I ain’t butcherin’ me hog. And if ye touch him, I’ll…I’ll—”
“He’s quite sensitive about his hog,” said Kazimir, offering Gibrig a knowing glance.
Willow licked her lips, her eyes still lingering on the hog, and Gibrig in turn eyed her with contempt.
“Well then, out with it,” said Sir Eldrick. “What’s this about humanism?”
Gibrig sighed and raised his arms out to the side. “I be tall, see? Me pap says I got a condition. I grew too tall for a dwarf, and I can’t hardly grow a beard for nothing. He says I got humanism.”
“Seems to me like you’re just a tall dwarf,” said Murland. To which Gibrig was appreciative.
“Maybe you’re just a human. Maybe you were found in a basket in the river or something,” said Willow.
“Maybe the mailman was a human,” said Brannon, and he continued lazily blowing on his nails.
Willow gave a snorting laugh, and Sir Eldrick stifled his own mirth, though Murland wasn’t impressed.
“The grand mystery that is Gibrig Hogstead’s lineage can wait until the road,” said Kazimir. “You’ve a long one ahead of you, and I suggest you get going.”
“What? You’re not coming with us?” said Murland.
The olden wizard walked to the edge of the forest and lingered beside a wide tree. “Of course not. A wizard has better things to do than babysit a bunch of heroes. I’ll pop in from time to time, likely when you least expect and most need me.”
He threw something to the ground, and there was a brilliant flash of light. And just like that, he was gone.
“Wow! That one’s got some good magix!” said Willow, utterly enthralled.
Sir Eldrick motioned to them all. “Come on. You heard the wizard. Let us be off.”
They set off to the west—the only direction that none of them had come from.
Murland was the only one without a mount, and he was forced to hurry after the group of riders. If he slowed them down some, well, he didn’t mind that at all—he was in no hurry to get to Bad Mountain. He still had to mend the wand, and then, of course, there was the whole issue of not yet being able to read Allan Kazam’s spel
l book.
***
“You’re the one they call Slur Sirsalot, aren’t you?” said Brannon, doing nothing to hide his disdain.
Sir Eldrick scowled at him sidelong as they traveled down the road. They had been journeying together for a little over an hour, and already he disliked the snide little shit.
“Sir Whatsalot?” Gibrig asked.
Brannon rolled his eyes. “Slur Sirsalot. Try to keep up, you ignorant farmer.”
“Come now,” said Sir Eldrick. “Is that any way to treat one of your fellow champions?”
“Champions,” Brannon scoffed, sitting side-saddle and leaning back leisurely on his white steed. “If we’re all champions, then I’m the queen of Vhalovia.”
“Well, you certainly are a queen,” Sir Eldrick retorted with a grin.
“Nah,” said Gibrig with all seriousness. “He’s a prince.”
“Hey, what do you mean we’re not champions?” Murland called, hurrying to catch up.
Brannon regarded him over his shoulder impatiently. “You can honestly say that you’re a champion? Look more like an overgrown squire to me.”
Murland considered that. “But…but we were chosen by Kazimir.”
“That fraud?” Brannon spat. “Please.”
“That’s the Most High Wizard ye be talkin’ ‘bout,” said Gibrig.
“Most high indeed, a bunch of crazy leaf smokers, that lot. Well, what about you then, human?” said Brannon, turning on him. “Do you feel like a champion?”
“Don’t call me that, it ain’t nice,” said Gibrig.
“Leave him alone,” said Willow.
Brannon leered at her. “You just worry about getting your next meal.”
“Alright, alright,” said Sir Eldrick with raised hands. “That’s enough. Hells, we’re about to face the horrors beyond the Wide Wall. No need fighting amongst ourselves.”
Champions of the Dragon: (Humorous Fantasy) (Epic Fallacy Book 1) Page 7