But then, in the middle of a battle something changed. I mounted my horse, Grani, and rode over the hills, towards the Forest Beyond Forests. Nobody stopped me.
I lived in a hermit’s hut for two aeons; forgotten by everyone. The Order chose another Master. They stopped singing songs about me; they stopped telling the stories.
Great was the battle of Darn’thirad. The forces of the Usurper surrounded the weakening army of the rightful King and began the slaughter; then the clouds parted with a flash and a great black dragon descended upon the enemy. A knight in white armour rode on its back. The Destroyer returned.
They never forgave me. Warriors and mages from all the Shadow Worlds rode to meet me in battle, looking for great glory. I killed them all, without any joy. But each foe was harder than the one before. I understood that the day will come when even I will be defeated. I had to run. I had to hide.
“I… I don’t understand any of it,” replies Artir. The Knight nods.
“I don’t expect you to. But I want you to remember what I told you; write it down, for those who come to this world one day, seeking answers.”
“Will any of us survive this?”
“You will,” the knight replies, and Artir knows he’s right.
The White Knight returns from a scouting raid. None of his men are harmed, and they slaughtered entire units of the rear guard. The enemy barely noticed the loss.
“They are in a hurry,” he says to Gunthar, the King’s son, who commands what’s left of Eilill’s main army. “The column is long, marching onwards without rest. They left Ottorir Castle intact on their flank.”
“No sane general would do that,” Gunthar replies, shaking his head.
“This not a sane war.”
“What do you propose?”
“Maybe if we can hold them off long enough, they will resign and move to other worlds,” says the White Knight, but there’s no conviction in his voice.
They should engage the enemy column in guerrilla warfare, but they don’t have enough skilled men. Artir’s riders are the only light unit left. The Battle of the Lake was a triumph; they destroyed ten, maybe twenty thousand enemy’s troops. But even that is barely noticeable dent in the countless multitude heading straight for the walls of Eilillgaer.
They gain another day or two thanks to the sacrifice of Ottorir, whose garrison rides to battle in a desperate attempt to slow the enemy’s progress. The head of its commander is sent the capital, with an ultimatum stuffed in its mouth.
Such old fashioned way to wage war, thinks Artir, cleaning his musket.
Four archers shoot four arrows into four corners of the world, for luck; the rite is older than Eilill. And they are lucky. Artir’s riders harass a regiment of some four-handed, bronze-skinned monsters and lead it into a morass, to their death. The dragon soars over the left wing, where the Royal Guard stands against two Giants, each as tall as the castle tower, with maces made of entire oak trees. The White Knight can’t help them, busy in the centre of the field staving off an attack of lizard men. The dragon lands on one of the Giants and tears it apart with its sword-like teeth, then burns the other with the flame as hot as sun. The Guardsmen cheer and charge on.
A cloud of runic arrows bounces off the dragon’s scales; they do no harm, but the Knight dismisses his beast from the battlefield. It’s not ready yet. It was asleep for three centuries; there’s no point in endangering it needlessly. The battle is already won. The enemy flees across the river, leaving thousands dead. Gunthar calls off the pursuit; they can’t risk any more casualties.
No matter how many they killed, more will return tomorrow. Giants, ogres, unnamed monsters… The enemy army is gathered from all the worlds under the Shadow. Eilill’s forces win every battle, and after every battle they fall back to another line of defence. Everyone knows this is not a war they can win.
The White Knight returns to his tent; they think he’s deciding on strategies, but he’s just sitting on the bed, remembering. There are patterns in the way the enemy army moves and fights, strategies and tactics he’s familiar with… He fought against that commander before… No, he fought alongside him.
V. Passage
The White Knight puts away the map of the battlefield. There’s nothing else he can think of. The distribution of the forces is optimal; there’s just not enough men. The right flank is the weakest. That’s where he’s sending the dragon.
He feels a cold wind. One of the candles goes off. He senses the incoming message. He grabs the quill and starts writing down the strange, sharp runes. The dragon letters. The message is brief.
He leaves his tent and wanders off into the forest, towards the twin oak. He waits. A giant viper appears in the glade, as long as a man’s body. It strikes him, but bounces off the invisible shield. It transforms into a humanoid creature, with a long, reptilian skull, wearing a golden robe.
“Agerondion. You stand against me… serf?”
The snake man recoils as if from a blow. He hisses and spits venom.
“You ssshall die, Dessstroyer. And you know what it meansss.”
“I will have only one life left before the End,” the Knight answers calmly.
“Lassst life!” The snake man laughs. “Next time I sssee you, I will know it’s the lassst time!”
The Knight raises a hand. Grass around the snake man bursts into flames. He jumps back.
“Your tricksss will not sssave you. Or your dragon!”
He turns back into a viper and slithers away. The Knight frowns and bites his lips. What did he want? To show me he’s here? I knew that already.
He’s telling me the others know. The Order is on its way. If I linger too long, they will come here after me.
He feels suddenly weak. Fighting on the side of Light has reduced his power. He can’t use his magic as freely as before. But he can still face a snake man, even as powerful as Agerondion, the Guardian of Passages.
“Dairon Aerondge!” The Knight cries and looks up. The wind moves the clouds westwards. The Sun is in the zenith. The army of the Shadow stands in a neat, impenetrable line before him.
Nothing happens.
“Aerondaide!” he shouts again. Still nothing. He sighs, sadly.
He knows. Destiny caught up to him, on this damp grassland. The battle is as good as lost, and there is nowhere left to run. He looks at the soldiers at his side; the officers are anxious. They know, too. They can sense their own death.
He wonders briefly what happened. It doesn’t matter. The dragon will never come.
The wind changes direction; the banners unfurl. He stands in the stirrups and raises his sword.
“T’y nechal aer nal!” he cries, even though nobody alive can remember what these ancient words mean. The army cries back: “Eilill!”
The trumpets blow. The hussars charge downhill. The foot men start their slow, heavy march.
The charge of the hussars is so strong that it forces the enemy to pull back. Lances shatter; heads roll. The Trillings flee; they were always cowards. But then the bulk of the Shadow forces moves forward, threatens to encircle the cavalry.
The Knight gathers his men – the best soldiers of the realm – and rides to the rescue. He misses his dragon. But even without it, he still breaks through and leads the hussars away, to regroup.
The right wing is falling. Young Artir rides to close the gap; no chance. The Knight curses and spurs his Grani to ride once more.
“Fall back!” he cries, but Artir can’t hear him. His riders dismount, trying to push closer to the gap in the lines, hacking their way through the nameless, countless enemy. At last, the young commander notices the White Knight riding towards him. He understands his mistake and calls for retreat.
The Knight pauses and looks around. Maybe I was wrong this time, he thinks. The enemy falls back in the centre and on the left flank. The Eilill soldiers fight in a berserk rage, smashing the skulls of their foes with the butts of their muskets, breaking bayonets on thick hides of the o
gres and goblins. Maybe I can win this one more time…
A great throng of bulky, great-headed beasts emerges from beyond the range of hills on the left wing. That’s the Shadow army’s strategic reserve, charging into battle, fresh and eager. Trolls.
Eilill doesn’t have a strategic reserve anymore. The White Knights calls upon his men – somehow, they’re all still alive. He orders them to form a wedge. The last charge. But he notices something in the corner of his eye: three riders galloping towards him. One of them is Gunthar; the other one – the old Heimir himself. The third one is some chamberlain from the Eilillgaer Castle.
Gunthar is holding a tiny bundle.
“White Knight…” he says, breathless. “The King requests you to save the Crown, and the Heir.”
The bundle is a newborn child. The King is holding another package – a box of yellow crystal, glowing from inside. The Crown of Abyss.
“This world is lost, Knight,” says Heimir. “This is Gunthar’s son – my only Grandson…”
The White Knight nods and takes both packages. He takes one last look at the battlefield – the Trolls are just breaking through the first line of defence, impervious to bullet and sword – and bids the three riders farewell.
He rides towards the Tower; it’s a long road, but it takes him away from the battle. He should make it. From there he can open a Passage to some other world…
A line of spearmen stands in his way. Some skirmishers, lost in the confusion of war. He prepares to burn them. The snake man emerges from the forest.
The Knight dismounts, and lays the two bundles in the dirt of the road. The Heir looks at him with eyes wise with knowledge of the end, and cries noiselessly.
“Goodbye, child.”
Agerondion waves a hand. Crossbows twang; the missiles drop harmlessly to the ground.
“Give usss the Crown, and we will ssspare the child.”
“You will not. You will enjoy tearing it to pieces.”
“Thisss world doesss not interessst usss. We will leave asss soon asss we have the Crown.”
The Knight stares into the snake man’s eyes. Agerondion reels back with a cry and hisses. Half of the snake man’s face is burned; his robe is scorched, and his left hand is hanging limp. But Agerondion is still alive. That’s not good. The dragon never leaves its victims alive…
A group of orcs marches towards the White Knight. He kills them all. Agerondion hisses another order. Now come the Ogres, followed by Trolls. One of them throws a heavy axe; it breaks through his barriers and hits Grani. The horse falls dead.
The Knight raises his hands; they are both on fire. The gauntlets are scorched black. His entire armour turns dark. Piercing pain tears his back: it’s the wings, growing out of his shoulder blades. He leaps at the enemy, forgetting all about the child or the Crown. He wants to kill. He throws lightning and fire around. The enemy is destroyed in an instant.
He turns back. Agerondion opens the Passage; he alone can do it where he wants, when he wants. He’s already halfway through, holding the chest with the Crown. The tiny Heir is stomped to bits under his feet, but the Destroyer doesn’t care anymore.
His right hand burns bright red. He puts all of his grief and regret into the spell.
“Arhheah!”
The beam hits the snake man, pierces him through, bounces off the Crown and enters the Passage. The energy of the void pours through and explodes when it touches the air.
VI. Grey Robe
A sudden flash blinds everyone on the battlefield for a second. The earth rumbles. A ball of light rises over the forest.
The battle recommences. It’s long and bloody. The army of Eilill falls and flees; but there is no pursuit. The enemy rests overnight and then starts a long retreat back South. A week later it crosses the Graak Pass and disappears into the steppe, never to return.
Old Heimir dies the day after the battle. Gunthar is the new King, and spawns another son. The Chaos never again returns to Eilill. There is nothing left of interest on the tiny world.
Artir Reginson spends the rest of his life looking for the White Knight. His body is never found, only the remains of the black horse, a sword, and piles of slaughtered corpses. The White Tower falls apart; nothing is found in the rubble except the black and white stones. Years later, Artir locates the cave where the dragon was imprisoned, but no trace of the beast is found.
Artir is on his death bed, when a man comes to visit him; his eyes are vertical like those of a snake. He’s wearing grey robes.
“You wrote a story of the one called the Destroyer.”
Artir points to a tome on the table. “There’s not much…”
“That’s all right. Nobody knows much about him.”
“Is he… alive?”
The man in grey picks up the tome and heads for the exit. He stops in the doorway.
“Not yet.”
END
He slid the walrus-tusk arrowhead onto the harpoon shaft carefully; making sure it would detach itself easily enough when pulled. He checked that the line was tied fast, that there were no kinks or knots in the thick rope. He weighed the weapon in his hand one last time, feeling the heft and balance of the long driftwood shaft; it was crucial that each element of the harpoon was in its right place long before he raised it to strike, before he spotted the prey.
A ripple ran through the quiet surface of the sea. A bright green shape zoomed under the umiak. He leaned back and let the harpoon fly with as much force as his arm could muster. He grabbed the rope in his left hand and pulled at just the right moment. The line tightened and then slackened as the prey succumbed to the razor-sharp arrowhead. The fish struggled valiantly, but briefly, before he landed it, flapping, in the basket at the bottom of the umiak. It was as long as his arm; glistening and slippery.
“Well done, Ennaki.” His father smacked him on the shoulder. “This will do just fine for bait.”
His father was the best hunter in all of Dihirizniel. This wasn’t a mere boast. The tribe had invested plenty of time and resources to make sure Birki of the Tooth received the finest training possible. He had travelled far and wide all around the Closed Sea in his youth; he had apprenticed with the Iron Seekers of the Finger Bay, and served under the Blubber Princes of the Ice Pillar.
For a tribe living so near the Maw, where the waters of the Outer Sea entered the Closed Sea from the north, an excellent Chief Hunter was a necessity. There were many good hunters living in the scattered camps, some stronger, some faster, most of them younger than Birki. But only one man had enough skill for the kind of pursuit they were on right now; the kind of prey that came to Dihirizniel maybe once in a generation.
A month had passed since the first unconfirmed rumours of the Orphan Maker’s return. Then, one of the hunters failed to return from his hunt. Then another. The boats started coming back empty, the nets torn, the harpoons shattered. The seals, sensing danger, retreated into the floe islands, far from the safe hunting grounds. For the first time in Ennaki’s memory, the tribe faced real hunger — and it was still summer. Noone dared to think what winter would be like…
When the third hunter was found snapped in two by the terrible jaws, Birki took a boat and rowed alone out to sea. He returned three days later, tired, and ashen.
“It is the Orphan Maker,” he said, and there was no doubt in his voice. “I saw the twin scar on its dorsal fin from Old Gaktu’s spear.”
“How many men do you need?” asked the Chief. “None shall shirk from their duty.”
“I will take only my son,” he replied, and Ennaki’s blood froze at his words. “It’s too risky for anyone else.”
The sea was flat as ice, disturbed only by his father’s paddle and the prow of the umiak cutting through water like iron knife through blubber. No wind rippled the surface, no wave lapped against the sides of the walrus hide boat. Wind was rare in this land. It was as if the deathly cold froze the air itself.
Ennaki held taut the line of rolled seal sinews, at
the end of which flapped the great fish he had caught earlier. It left a long, thick plume of blood behind as it thrashed on the hook, tearing its innards. The boat made little noise as it moved, smooth and fast, against the deep currents. Ennaki turned to admire his father’s masterly rowing — he could never make the umiak move without it jerking and jumping with every stroke.
“Mind the bait,” Birki scolded.
Ennaki turned his attention back to watching the rope. A small saw-slug was speeding next to the bait, trying to carve out bits of flesh with its serrated beak. Ennaki reached to his belt and took out an arrow-stone. A well-aimed throw and the saw-slug disappeared into the depths, leaving the bait, like many other predators before it. This was a dish fit only for the king of the Closed Sea. The Orphan Maker was an ancient killer shark, legendary, both for its size and tenacity. Nobody knew how old it was — the Eldest’s grandfather witnessed the terror of its arrival as a child, and the shark was a legend even then. Few saw the Orphan Maker and lived to tell the tale, fewer still hoped to defeat it. But Birki knew he had to at least try, or the tribe would face certain doom.
It looked like a peak of a triangular wave at first, bobbing on the horizon; dark grey and crested with white, except, it didn’t move with any current, but across them, closing in on the boat in a steady, winding spiral. Birki stopped rowing and slid the paddle into the holster.
“Hand me the bomb-lance,” he commanded Ennaki.
The boy swallowed. “Are you… are you sure that’s him?”
“Son, there is no other fish like it in the entire ocean. Now hurry. We only have once chance.”
Ennaki reached into the long driftwood chest at his feet and took out the weapon wrapped in oiled skin. It was a tube, made from smooth black iron, two feet long, open at one end and finished at the other with an expanding brass collar. It was carved with symbols of powerful magic. A copper ring and an iron hook were attached to the tube on one side. Truly, he thought, if ever there was a weapon capable of killing the Orphan Maker, it had to be this mysterious device, which Birki had brought home from his travels among the Iron Seekers.
Dragons' Fall_Tales from the Mirror Worlds Page 11