by Tiger Hebert
“Ohhhh, to feast on the bones of royalty, the bones of Tchara chitko naiy,” cried out the dragon as he salivated. “What makes you think that your sacrifice will save them?”
Aneri’On snapped back at the dragon, “You are bound by the Law of Blood!”
“Ha-ha-ha,” laughed the wicked dragon. “You fool. They don’t care about you. They don’t love you. They don’t want you. Some even choose to betray you, handing you over to me, yet you would choose to die for them?”
Aneri’On turned back to his left and then his right, his eyes meeting with, first, Tua’Liluon then Kyarl before turning back to the beast. “I know, and they are forgiven.”
The dragon slowly moved toward the Frelsarine, and his army parted, clearing a wide path between the two figures.
“I am going to enjoy destroying you,” growled Slayvin as he crept closer to the man.
As the dragon came closer, Theros and Melgrim tried to step in front of their friend, but he held up his outstretched arms to stop them. Looks of confusion and anger covered their faces as they looked at him. His gentle blue eyes met theirs. Few words were spoken, but much was said.
“This is madness! You can’t do this,” cried Theros.
“Don’t do this,” pleaded Melgrim.
“Friends, this is why I have come,” answered Aneri’On before turning and walking away.
The death march began. His strides were long and deliberate. The world around him stopped, as if all of creation would bear witness. Few sounds remained—the howling of the frozen winds, the crunch of the frozen ground under foot, and the churning within the dragon’s core. Alone, Aneri’On walked toward the beast.
Liquid fire spilled from the dragon’s slavering maw. Patches of scorched ground sizzled and steamed in the chilling air. The burning chasms all but closed as Slayvin narrowed his eyes upon his prey. The fiery slits blazed with wicked light, and the dragon hissed once more. “Your hollow sacrifice changes nothing.”
“It changes everything,” retorted the man who stared into the face of the dragon unflinching. Then he drove his fiery blade into the icy ground before him.
As he stood in the shadow of the dragon, the eyes of the Frelsarine began to burn with a brilliant blue, almost white, flame. Then without warning, the dragon’s face drove down upon the human, his mouth open wide. His jaws snapped shut violently, and Aneri’On disappeared behind the wall of blackened fangs. Slayvin jerked his head and neck back as he swallowed his victim down. It was then that the dragon’s mouth sprang open, and a tremendous roar accompanied the massive pyre of flames that were spewed into the winter sky, punctuating his victory. The cheers of the ebon drake’s army rose while the hearts and hopes of the rest were shattered.
Shock and disbelief fell over the army of Jasprita. Muffled sobs could be heard across the battlefield as tears trickled down even the hardest of faces. The clouded sky grew darker, and the forceful strength of the bitter cold wind grew as the flakes of snow continued to fall to the earth.
It was in that moment, in what seemed to be the darkest moment in the history of Aurion, that one of the great surprises of their time occurred. Ekrin, the high priest of the Drakari, hung his head in shame. He climbed down from his perch atop the jagrel and slowly walked in front of the dragon as he pulled the outer robe of his order off. Rivers of guilt and sorrow poured from his eyes as he dropped the unholy robes upon the ground where Aneri’On had stood against the dragon. Loosening his grip, he watched the staff roll and tumble from the palm of his hand, past his fingers, and through the air until it crashed upon the ground, where it inconceivably fractured into two pieces.
With a snarl, the beast asked, “What do you think you are doing?”
“I am done selling my soul,” was his sharp response as he kept walking.
Another person walked forward, dropping her outer robe on top of his. Then her sword was similarly thrown aside. A third person, then a fourth followed suit as they turned away from the beast. Within a moment’s time, dozens and eventually hundreds of the thousands of still-surviving members of the black army tore off the insignias denoting their allegiance and threw them down in the snow where they stood.
“What?” howled the enraged dragon. “You cannot walk away from me. You belong to me, all of you!”
While he spoke, the once-proud champion of the An’wari, Bogbaan, joined the rebellion, spitting upon the nearby pile of discarded garments.
“How dare you? You filthy human scum! Your life was purchased with a price,” fumed the dragon as his eyes flared.
“Yes, but not by you,” answered the penitent chieftain as he threw his pick down.
“Insolent fools, if you will not serve me in this life, then you will serve me in your death,” declared the dragon as he released his dragon’s breath into the air.
Then in the middle of the flaming torrent, the dragon began to cough and sputter as he choked. The fire was briefly cut off before he unleashed a second heat wave, which was similarly cut short. In his rage, he began to beat those mighty wings and snap his tail about, like the cracking of a whip. The most hellacious of roars fired from his terrible mouth, followed by a geyser of flame. Those in the audience trembled as they watched the shadow drake’s display of power.
His wings continued to punish the air, sending gusts over the battlefield. That armored tail snaked back and forth as it battered the ground. The roaring inferno of the dragon’s wrath seemed endless. It did end, though, and the dragon menacingly leered at the cowering subjects before him as his chest heaved with deep breaths. More liquid fire splashed about and spilled through the wretched creature’s teeth. Then a small, seemingly insignificant drop of water, a raindrop, fell from the sky.
The crystal raindrop sparkled and shimmered, as if the light of the world were captured within. Later, some even said it was as if the entirety of the sun’s reflection were shining through that one tiny globe of water. The tiny droplet fell, but it fell like no other raindrop before or after. It fell upon the back of the foul beast with the power of a thousand lightning strikes.
Slayvin was hammered by the seemingly crushing weight that had fallen on him. His cries must have been of pain, of anger, and even of fear as he reeled. His once-sure footing now wobbled and staggered. Tremors rocked his blackened body as the ground shook beneath his feet. The fire that burned in his hate-filled eyes began to die out. The yellows turned to a white as pale as the snow. The oranges and reds gave way various shades of pale and darker more brilliant blues. The winged serpent writhed in agony as his body continued to shake. He hissed, and the dark blazing fires seen deep in the demon’s mouth were now also burning with a blue-and-white flame of growing intensity. Then the ground stopped trembling, and the dragon’s body ceased to shake. Trying to gather his wits and his bearing, the mighty beast reared back before lunging forward. They would pay for this; they would bathe in hellfire. His legs were securely under him, so he dove his fearsome head forward, flinging his mouth wide open. There was a brilliant flash of light, but the dragonfire never came.
The obsidian serpent’s darkness couldn’t be seen. An explosion of white light raced outward from him like the birth of a supernova. Streaking rays of mostly white and occasionally blue light broke forth from within the beast. Brittle chalk-like fragments of the dragon’s body rained over the bloody field of battle. The red fire of still-burning black ash filled the air, but the scorched earth at ground zero continued to burn with fire—blue fire. The same dazzling cobalt flames that had marked Aneri’On’s arrival now marked the Frelsarine’s departure. The once-furious wind was bottled up and put away.
Silence reigned as the largest, most majestic flakes of snow began to descend upon them all. The great frosted marvels were lowered down ever so gently from the heavens in numbers beyond compare, slowly and gracefully blanketing everyone and everything in sight. Soon the shame of the battle was covered, and even the bloodstained ground was washed away. In the stillness and silence of the moment, few so
unds could be heard, but they would echo into eternity. Those were the sounds of the penitent as men and women alike from both armies dropped down on their knees as they sobbed.
35 From the Ashes
The war was over. The weight of what had just transpired would not be fully felt or understood by most for quite some time. Never had anything like it happened before, nor would it again. It was indeed a miracle, that much was understood by all, even by those that did not believe in such things. The dead dragon’s army disbanded right then and there. Some simply turned away from Jasprita and headed home. Others, like Ekrin, remained crumpled upon the ground as they tried to process everything.
Some time had passed, and the man who once rose to the power of high priest by murdering his own brother still sat on the snowy ground, broken and contrite. A seemingly endless flow of tears poured down his face. He condemned himself for all he had done wrong. Then, out of the corner of his blurry vision, he watched a pair of stubby little legs move closer and closer until they were right beside him. And before he could look up, a calloused yet gentle hand was placed upon his shoulder. So he wiped his watery eyes and looked up to see a dwarf. The stout little fellow had a long gray beard, and his eyes too were full of tears, but something was about him was strange. Although he cried, his face was overtaken by a huge smile. His pearly whites were on full display from one tearstained cheek to the other. He was joined by two orcs who came to stand by his side, one male and one female.
“It’s okay, my friend,” came the surprisingly soft voice of the dwarf.
“What have we done? What have I done?” Ekrin begged.
“I would expect that the dragon’s high priest would have at least read some of the other sacred texts, no?” asked old Dom.
“I… have,” the man answered as he tried to wipe his eyes dry.
Dominar excitedly said, “Many texts—not just the dwarven ones, mind you—do tell the same story. That a king would come down to us and that he would beat back the darkness!”
“I, too, have read the prophecies, and we have killed the one that was sent to save us,” groaned the wretched man.
“Perhaps you should add the dwarven texts to your reading lists then,” suggested old Dom with a smile.
“What do you mean, Master Dwarf?” asked the puzzled man.
“Many of the prophecies by themselves are incomplete depictions of the Frelsarine, but the Gorn Tor Elbath said that the warrior king who was to come would lay down his life to set us free,” answered Dominar.
“He was sent to die?” questioned Ekrin.
“No, he came to die,” replied Dominar with a tearful grin.
“I wish I understood this long ago,” groaned Ekrin.
“We all wish we understood,” interjected Theros to the agreement of Sharka and Dominar.
“For eternity, I am damned!” confessed the former high priest as he threw down his priestly outer garments.
Before anyone could respond, something caught their attention as they looked beyond the grief-stricken man, and everyone gasped in disbelief. A billowing cloud of steam rose up from the place where the dragon once was, the spot where the blue flame continued to burn. Then as the steam dissipated, there alone in the midst of the ash remained the giant blade of the Frelsarine.
His sword remained driven into the cold, hard ground, and it burned brightly as the most magnificent blue flames coursed around the blade. Those that witnessed the blazing blade were excited and hopeful.
Before any other words could be said, Kiriana rushed past everyone to the place where the sword stood, and she was not alone. She was quickly followed by Sharka, Theros, and Dominar to name but a few. But their hearts sank as the smoke cleared, and the sword’s master was nowhere to be seen. Aneri’On was no more. They quietly sat on the frozen battle field, confused and full of sorrow. It was a sobering moment for those who knew him, as the reality of his sacrifice hit home.
Dominar returned his attention to the former high priest and asked, “Why do you condemn yourself?”
“All my life I have lived in darkness,” he replied.
Dominar looked upon him with compassion and asked, “Do you wish to live there still?”
“What other choice do I have? I am damned,” remarked Ekrin.
“I am but a simple dwarf and do not know the many mysteries of God, but I do believe that the job to condemn and to pardon… belongs to someone else,” stated Dom as he looked at the downcast man.
There was no immediate answer as the former high priest continued to wipe fresh tears from his eyes.
So the dwarf asked once more, “Do you wish to remain in darkness?”
“No,” cried the abject man forcefully.
“Then, my brother, step out of darkness and into the light,” directed Dominar.
The word brother rang out to him, and in the fraction of a second, it replayed in his ears dozens of times. So the contrite man looked up only to see the outstretched hand of a man who was once his enemy. The weight of guilt that had tried to crush his life and devour his soul came crashing to the ground, as the stone yoke crumbled away to nothing.
He reached up and took the elder dwarf’s hand and said, “I will!”
Dominar responded, “Get up, your new life begins now.” And he pulled the fallen priest up from the ground.
Tears burst forth in a new way, like a river breaking through the damn. Dominar embraced the newly freed man, and they both wept great tears of joy. The crowd around them cheered excitedly as they witnessed the exchange between two men, men who were once enemies.
As the raucous noise of the crowd died down a bit, the chieftain was surprised to see a face that you would have expected to have fled from the scene. It was the ghost white face of a visibly shaken elven king. Mired in shame, Tua’Liluon bowed low before Theros and the crowd, his eyes fixed upon the ground. As he bowed before the orc, the crowd fell utterly silent only to hear his sentencing.
The once proud king was bent low under the weight of his treason. He could not bear it any longer, and he dropped to his knees. He lifted his eyes up to the crowd before him, namely Theros and Dominar before speaking.
“What fate…awaits me? What punishment could be worthy of my treachery? Their blood cries out, it testifies against me…”
“Whose blood?” asked Dominar.
“Jeren, Seratu, and…Aneri’On…oh what a wretch I am! I betrayed Him…cursed,” cried out the broken king as tears poured from his eyes.
“Hand me that sword,” demanded Theros as he pointed to the still flaming blade.
At his request, Kiriana pulled the regal blade from the earth’s frozen grip, and handed it over to him. The crowd grew uneasy.
“King Tua’Liluon, you are charged with conspiracy to murder, as you are responsible for plotting the deaths of Seratu, Jeren, and Aneri’On,” announced the orc chieftain to the shock of those in audience. “How do you plead?”
“Guilty,” he answered without a fight as he hung his head in shame.
Then in one swift motion, and to the terror of the crowd, Theros spun around. The blade flashed upon a long elliptical arc before he drove the blade deep into its resting place. There the blade stood, buried deep into the ground before the eyes of King Tua’Liluon. A collective sigh of relief escaped from the crowd, but none bigger than the one from the elven king himself.
Dominar added, “Indeed you are. But do you not understand what has happened here today?”
At the sound of those words, King Tua’Liluon looked up from the ground, tears streaming down his face, “Yes, I have killed the king.”
“No, you didn’t. He gave his life up for you. And with his life, your debts have been paid. Do you understand that?” asked the dwarf.
“I am beginning to,” quietly answered the grief-stricken king.
“Will you remember what the Frelsarine has done for you? And will you teach your people?” asked Dominar.
“If you help me, I will,” answered the king soberl
y.
“Then get up, my brother. For you are a new man!” said Dom as he stretched out his hand once more.
Dominar and Theros both smiled at him, and the orc said, “Elven King, take this sword that it may remind you and your household and your cousins’ households of the day that the Frelsarine gave His life for you.”
The king was blown away. He grasped the grip of the beautiful weapon, and he pulled the giant sword from the ground. The elf marveled upon the remarkable gift he had been given; it was the Frelsarine’s own sword. But he knew better, for the one whom the sword belong to had given much more and was much more deserving, but He was gone now.
Their hero had brought the prophecies to fruition. He defeated the shadow drake; Slayvin the Deceiver was dead. The people of Aurion had been set free from the dragon’s wrath. They rejoiced… and they grieved.
Epilogue
The hero of the day had come. Hope had endured and won the day, and then he was gone. The victory was tremendous and, by most accounts, unexpected, but the reality was that the survivors would now have to pick up the pieces of their war-torn world. Jasprita was once a beautiful city, the shining jewel of the north, and she would be once again. But the work to restore her had only just begun. Many would choose to stay and share in this work, making her streets their home, but the truth was, she wasn’t home for everyone.
One of those people was Kyarl the betrayer. He disappeared very shortly after Aneri’On’s defeat of the dragon. Some said they saw him travel south toward the jungles, and others maintain that he went eastward over the frozen plains as he fled judgment. But the master slayer who conspired against the Frelsarine would not escape judgment, no matter how far he would run or how deep he would hide. He would face judgment; such is the fate of every man.
Commander Melgrim remained on in the capacity of grand commander of the armies of Jasprita, second only to King Nikolai. Where there was once a bitter divide, a bond slowly grew, united in a love for two fallen kings. Together, they loyally served their people in the memory of those kings.