The Legend of Drak'Noir: Humorous Fantasy (Epic Fallacy Book 3)

by Michael James Ploof

  Pathos regarded Murland’s question with a frown. “How they did it, I do not know.”

  “What did yer grandpap say?” Gibrig asked.

  “As it is told, the story does not speak of a how, only a what. The champions pushed back the dragon, and ever since, Kazimir has chosen five more who can do the same.”

  “Did he choose the original five?” Brannon asked.

  Pathos looked confused. “Choose? You do know that he was one of the original five, don’t you?”

  The companions all exchanged glances.

  “Who were the other four?” Sir Eldrick asked.

  “Hmm,” said Pathos, absently looking at the table. “Their names are not spoken much, and never written down, for it is said to bring bad luck.”

  “Do you know the names?” Sir Eldrick pressed.

  “No, and I doubt there are many who do.”

  “That woulda been a good question for Great Turtle,” said Willow. “If anyone knows, I bet he does. He knows everything.”

  Sir Eldrick considered her words and glanced at Murland.

  “I might be able to figure out a spell that will help us communicate with him,” said the wizard.

  “Do you know what happened to the other four champions?” Gibrig asked Pathos, and the centaur nodded grimly.

  “It is said that Kazimir was the sole survivor. The ghosts of the four are said to still haunt Bad Mountain. But there are many stories of ghosts, and not all are true.”

  “Oh. My. Gods,” said Brannon. His face lit with sudden realization and he looked at the others with wide eyes.

  “What is it?” said Sir Eldrick.

  “It just came to me,” said Brannon, growing increasingly excited. “But it was there all along.”

  “What?” said Sir Eldrick and Murland in unison.

  “The darklings,” said Brannon, looking at each of them and waiting for them to understand.

  “The darklings are the original four,” said Murland, sitting back in his chair, dumbfounded.

  “Exactly!” said Brannon. “Don’t you all remember Kazimir calling the darklings his ‘old friends?’”

  “By the gods, you’re right!” said Sir Eldrick.

  “Let us talk of something more pleasant,” said Artax. “Tell us of your travels, and the goings-on of the wider world.”

  The companions respected the centaur’s wishes and patiently told their stories, though one and all couldn’t wait to explore the implications of what they had just learned.

  Shortly before sunset, Artax explained to them that with the coming of night, all of the inhabitants of the village would be turned to stone, as was the case every night. It was the curse of Drak’Noir, he said solemnly. He showed them to a hut that they could use, and told them to rest well, for nothing would harm them in the village of the centaurs.

  That night, the companions sat around a fire, whose flickering flames reflected off the stone centaurs. They had turned to stone where they stood, one and all looking east as if waiting for the rising sun to bring them to life once more.

  “What a curse that must be,” said Gibrig, shivering despite the warmth.

  “Don’t look so bad,” said Willow, who hadn’t stopped eating since arriving in the village. “They might as well be asleep.”

  Brannon seemed not to have heard a word; he stared at the fire with a mesmerized look. “We need to find out the names of the darklings,” he said in a voice serious and low.

  The wind picked up, blowing hot embers up into the night.

  Murland watched them burn out and looked to Brannon. “To what end?”

  “Well, surely something terrible happened to them when they faced Drak’Noir. I mean, they are darklings for king’s sake. And Kazimir survived. Not only that, but he has found a way to defeat her every time she comes back, and it involves five champions, just like the first. It is true that he intends on feeding us to her, and so he must have fed the darklings to her in the first place.”

  “Your logic makes sense, but let me play devil’s advocate for a moment,” said Sir Eldrick. “You saw how easily Kazimir fought off the darklings on Ponder Hill. Even if what you say is true, how can they be of any help?”

  “Help!” said Murland. “Surely you two do not intend on asking the darklings for help.”

  “I believe that it is imperative. I don’t know why, and I don’t know how, but it just seems right,” said Brannon.

  “Right? Are you mad?” said Murland, looking from Sir Eldrick to Brannon with bewilderment.

  “Calm down,” said Sir Eldrick. “We are just talking here. You must be just as curious as we are.”

  “Curious? Sure, but not insane. Like you said before, even if they would, who says that they could help. They obviously have no power over him.”

  “They be the minions o’ Zuul, like ye said, right Sir Eldrick?” said Gibrig. “And that be meanin’ that somehow, he’s got their souls.”

  “Souls, darklings, wizards, dark lords, dragons,” said Willow, ending the long list with a sigh. “How’d we ever get in this mess?”

  “Yes, you are right,” said Brannon. “They are all connected somehow.”

  “Alright,” said Sir Eldrick with a raised hand. “Hold on. Let’s consider what we know. One,” he said, counting off with his fingers. “Kazimir and the darklings were the first champions. Two, they somehow defeated Drak’Noir, but did not kill her.”

  “Maybe Kazimir made a kind o’ prison, or banished her,” said Gibrig.

  “Right. Three, the darklings are now ruled by Zuul, which goes to suggest that he had something to do with Drak’Noir’s defeat as well.”

  “Let’s not forget that Kazimir is harboring baby Zuul,” said Brannon. “Which really makes the darklings beholden to Kazimir, if he indeed controls Zuul, as Valkimir and the others have said.”

  “Yes, but they still must hate him,” said Willow.

  “Four,” said Sir Eldrick. “Kazimir has led countless groups of champions to Bad Mountain, and they are always similar. Five, and the strangest part of all, which Willow has pointed out time and again, he never whooshes them there. That is to say that we, like they, must make the trip on our own. But why the risk? What if one or all of them die?”

  “And apparently, it must be the champions who are fed to the dragon, or else Kazimir would just use Valkimir and the others,” said Brannon.

  “He said he would feed them to her,” said Gibrig. “He said it after he whooshed them.”

  “I think that was just a ploy,” said Sir Eldrick. “It is like Brannon said, why would he bother with us in the first place?”

  “Could it really be that it was because he thought us fools, and fools are needed to feed the dragon?” said Murland, adding, “That sounds ridiculous.”

  “No,” said Sir Eldrick. “It sounds like a spell. Your kind are always using strange ingredients, like tears of a virgin, spit of a horse, a jar full of whispers and whatnot. The blood of five fools sounds like a magical ingredient if I ever heard one.”

  “Ye think…ye think we be needed for a spell?” said Gibrig.

  “It sounds that way, bud,” said Willow, munching away as though she had not a care in the world.

  “The darklings could tell us,” said Sir Eldrick. He looked to Murland, who was shaking his head. “I know that you fear them, but if we could hear what happened from them, then we would at least know what we’re really up against.”

  “I can’t summon or find or scry them without knowing their names anyway,” said Murland.

  “Well then, we’ll just have to learn them,” said Sir Eldrick.

  “And how do we do that?”

  “Great Turtle,” said Willow.

  “Oh yeah,” said Murland with a sigh. “I forgot.”

  Chapter 30

  Summoning Great Turtle

  Murland was studying his spell book and keeping watch when the sun rose, though he gave more attention to the ancient script than he did his surroundings. The ce
ntaurs started to slowly come alive with the first beam of light. As the sun rose higher, their bodies began to change from stone to living, breathing flesh. Their hair, once hard and pointed, began to blow in the wind. Color found their cheeks, and stiffly they began to move their limbs and shake off the effects of the curse.

  “Ah, good morning, Murland,” said Artax, noticing him watching.

  “Good morning, Artax. Did you, er, sleep well?”

  “Very well,” said the centaur, stretching and flexing his human half. His stomach reminded Murland of the washing board that he had so often used to clean the many soiled robes of Abra Tower, and his chest was like two slabs of rectangular stone.

  Murland noticed too how the female centaur closest to him met the day with her perky—

  “Well then,” said Artax with a grin. “Shall we put some food in our bellies and set out for the mountains?”

  “Uh, yeah…yes, I’ll go get the others,” said Murland, regretfully peeling his eyes away and hurrying to the companions’ tent, mindful to bunch his robes before him and aching for Caressa.

  When Murland reached the tent on the other side of the village, he found the other champions up and at ‘em. Gibrig looked bleary-eyed but happy as always, and Willow was rubbing her gut, though a piece of well-gnawed jerky stuck out of her mouth. Sir Eldrick, however, looked worried, which in turn concerned Murland greatly, for the ever-stoic knight never seemed very troubled.

  “Artax said that we should have breakfast. He seems anxious to head out.”

  “Awesome,” said Willow, and spotting the centaur, she lumbered her way toward him with a tusky grin.

  “I thought that she was trying to diet,” said Brannon, looking annoyed, as he often did in the mornings.

  “Give her some slack,” Sir Eldrick snapped suddenly. “She’s obviously worried about her little friend.”

  Brannon and Gibrig both stopped in their tracks and regarded the knight before Gibrig smartly led Brannon away, softly making excuses for Sir Eldrick.

  Murland approached Sir Eldrick with a kind smile. “Do you wanna talk?”

  “What?” said Sir Eldrick, running a hand through his hair and looking to Murland as though he had been speaking another language. “Talk? Talk about what? No, I’m fine, let’s eat.”

  He walked by Murland, who—for reasons that he himself didn’t understand—dared to grab the knight’s arm. Sir Eldrick stopped, looked to the hand with a dangerous glare, and met Murland’s eyes.

  Murland released him, but stayed his ground. “I’m your friend, you know,” he said kindly. “And friends listen to the troubles of other friends. If you’re worried for Akitla, it’s alright. You don’t have to act tough for our sakes.”

  To Murland’s surprise, Sir Eldrick’s bottom lip quivered, and Murland thought he saw tears pool in the veteran’s eyes. “I’ve never been so worried about anyone in my life, Murland, save perhaps my brother and sister. But worry is good for nothing; it just fogs your eyes and clouds your mind.” He wiped his eyes and put a hand on Murland’s shoulder, giving a small squeeze. Without another word, he followed the others to breakfast.

  The knight’s emotions, great as they must have been to have broken that steely façade, unsettled Murland greatly. But rather than linger, he followed in Sir Eldrick’s footsteps, and with a sniffle and a straightening of his shoulders, he carried on.

  Breakfast was had; a kind of soft oats with warm honey and milk, which Artax said would “stick to your ribs.” The companions set out shortly after to boisterous fanfare, for indeed, the entire tribe seemed to have come out to see them off, singing a triumphant song that Murland guessed had been sung to all the other champions. The thought made him shiver, but he put on a stoic face and waved at them all. Gibrig—who had only known the centaurs for less than a day—wiped at his eyes and sang his goodbyes as though he were addressing lifelong friends. Brannon was either used to such attention or was in no mood for it, for he waved over his shoulder half-heartedly and trudged on at a swift pace. Willow, on the other hand, accepted everything that was offered her, which was mostly food, and by the time Sir Eldrick had coaxed her away from the crowd, she was weighed down by sacks of oats, smoked fish, honey water, and other delectable wares. Sir Eldrick offered the centaurs a solemn salute, and to Murland, he looked like a condemned man.

  They’re all scared, Murland realized. He understood then that he had to be strong for the group. He had to pick up the slack and help out for once.

  You shouldn’t be so self-debasing, he heard Caressa say in his mind, as she so often had in person. But what had he done lately? The same old fire spells he had been using all along? He had the greatest wand and spell book of all time, and he had been casting spells for more than a month now, but in truth, he hadn’t done anything more than a fifth-year might do. He knew that a wizard in training must not be anxious, but given the circumstances, he didn’t have time to be patient. Murland was used to feeling like a failure, and indeed, he had hidden behind his incompetence as though it were a condition he was born with rather than a lack of trying or having the confidence to do so. But it was hard to shake old habits, and resigning himself to the feeling that things were out of his control was like a warm blanket against the cold reality of the world. He needed to shed that blanket, he knew, for if he could not, he would surely die in it—just another sacrificial champion given to the dragon-god.

  “Murland!”

  He snapped his head in Sir Eldrick’s direction, and the knight waved him on. Murland offered the centaurs one last wave and left the comfort of friends, food, and fire behind.

  ***

  Get your shit together! Sir Eldrick chastised himself silently as he trailed the companions, Artax, and the other three centaur guides. He had chosen to take up the rear—a job usually left to Willow—because he didn’t want anyone to see him like this. His hands shook and he had broken out in a cold sweat. He thought back on when he had last had a drink and remembered the yeti cave and Akitla—fierce, powerful, radiant Akitla. He still could not believe that he had sired such a person, and the thought made him wonder what other amazing children were out there, crying in the night for the father they never had, the father who would not have them.

  He wished then that he could do it all over…

  He would have loosened his grip on his father’s throat, and instead of killing him, he would have sent the drunkard packing. He would have taken his mother, his brother, and his sister, and he would have brought them to Vhalovia. He never would have bedded the queen, and he would still have his oldest friend, the king who had seen something in him that he had never seen in himself. Sure, he would have bedded the other women, for what fun was life without a woman’s curves to keep your bed warm? But he would have been better to them, he would have taken care of them, and he would have gotten to know what children he had. By all accounts Sir Eldrick was a rich man. Even with the king seizing his Vhalovian accounts, he had gold and treasure in dwarven, elven, Magestrian, and even off-shore Icebithian vaults. A knight’s salary was modest, but twenty years of winning wars and questing brought with it great bounty. He had never cared much for his wealth, and indeed, he had squandered a good share of it. Now he was ashamed as he thought of how easily he could have provided for his children. Even if divided by all of them, the money that he had spent on drinking, gambling, and whoring would have ensured that none of his children would have gone without.

  If I get out of this alive, I’m going to track them all down, and I’m going to right my wrongs.

  The thought put a hopeful smile on Sir Eldrick’s face.

  ***

  Willow stuffed a loaf of dark bread into her mouth and chased it with a half-gallon of honey water, burping violently once she had gotten it down.

  Brannon glanced at her, scoffed disapprovingly, and hurried his pace. She watched him go, wanting to give him two thumbs up, but instead she sighed and put the food away. She thought of Dingleberry—tied up and at the mercy of
a grinning Kazimir—and the painful imagining made her reach for her food once more.

  She stopped herself, ever so painfully.

  No, she said to herself. You’ve got to be as strong as you are big. Dingleberry is counting on you. Your friends are counting on you.

  But what could she do?

  Sure, she was big, strong, and fat, but she had no wizard magic like Murland, no floral magic like Brannon. Sure, she was a warrior, but not like Sir Eldrick with his glowing fae blade, and she had neither a magic shield, nor a heart like Gibrig. She had spoken to the Great Turtle, and she cherished that moment, as she would forever. But he had only told her what she now knew; the knife-in-the-back comment had been about Sir Eldrick and Brannon’s now revealed deception. And then there was the other, more ominous statement: “Even if you succeed, you fail, and if you fail, you succeed.”

  Willow wanted to eat until she couldn’t walk. She wanted to eat until she grew bigger than her problems. But she fought the urge, glancing back at Sir Eldrick and knowing that he was wrestling with his demons as well, but unlike her, he was winning.

  She looked down at her body, feeling just as fat as ever, though she knew that she had lost a lot of weight during the journey. Her gator-skin clothes were much looser than they had been, and she could see her toes now and again as she walked, something that she hadn’t been able to do for as long as she could remember.

  Willow tried to be positive. She had come a long way since Fire Swamp, and sure, she might “fall off the wagon” once in a while, like Sir Eldrick was fond of saying, but she determined to get back on.

  Rather than thinking about food to ease her worried mind, she focused on revenge, and imagined all the things that she would do to Kazimir once they faced him again.

  ***

  The sun winked out beyond the horizon like the eye of a god, and the centaurs slowly began turning to stone.

  Murland turned his attention back to the spell book and began reading the incantation that would allow him to communicate with the Great Turtle. Willow watched him from the other side of the fire, and her attention was distracting to him, but he didn’t have the heart to say anything. She had eaten a modest dinner and now sat wringing her hands together, glancing over at the food sacks every few seconds.