A Selfless Sacrifice

by Paul Cude

  Again the king and the librarian shared a look, or at least they would have, but you know what I mean.

  “FOR’SON!” screamed the king, this time deep within his friend’s mind, desperate to get his attention, sure that some treachery had taken place and that danger had engulfed them all.

  “Uhhh...”

  “FOR’SON!” yelled Orac, scared out of his... well, I was going to say mind, but given that’s all there was of him there, it wasn’t quite that. We’ll just go with terrified beyond belief.

  “Uhhh...”

  “Sire?” asked the quivering librarian’s consciousness.

  By now the ten other members of the diplomatic delegation had all collapsed to the floor, each of them looking done for. Of course it was hard to tell for the intellect of the king and the repository guardian, not able to actually feel, hear or even smell them. But from their vantage point, which was squirreled away inside For’son’s confused and confounded mind, it looked as though they all lay there either dying or dead. And just when they thought it couldn’t get any worse... it did, with the confirmation they’d hoped not to have reinforced in the most gruesome and ghastly way possible.

  Elegantly standing up from the seat that although not a throne in name, very much resembled one, Nev’dir used his tiny hands to signal to all those there that they should be quiet. As one they complied.

  “This one,” he said, motioning to For’son who remained seated, head in his hands, unable to do anything else, “should be left alone. The others, you may use as you see fit.”

  And as he sat down, a riot of violence and malevolence the likes of which the king and the librarian had never seen started, the crowd surging forward, grabbing individual members of the diplomatic delegation, dragging them back into their midst for their own amusement and sickening pleasure.

  Too stunned to speak, not that it would have done much good because For’son seemed too far gone to recognise anything at all, let alone fight, both dragon intellects watched in absolute horror at the events taking place, teardrops running like raging waterfalls from their eyes back in the king’s office in London.

  Thomas was the first to be hauled out into the relative open, each of the sadistic brutes that his body passed, kicking or raking their talons down what remained of him. As the cheering became louder, roaring cones of blistering orange, yellow and red fire could just be glimpsed through what tiny gaps in the mob remained. Out of nowhere, a massive dark yellow dragon with a stump for a tail piled in, this time having procured one of the massive scythes off the wall in the corridor, the pack giving him enough room to swing it wildly, each aware of the devastation it could wreak. With a sickening THWUMP and a splatter of thick, dark green fluid, the horrific deed was done, the monster holding up Thomas’s decapitated head for all to see, much to their delight.

  Back in London, Orac’s body started to gag, whilst Greger’s empty shell trembled with rage at the futility of it all, the tears still flowing.

  You would have thought that was as bad as it could get... you’d have been wrong. Systematically, the other dragon diplomats were hauled out onto the main floor, the males tortured mercilessly, some of the Ahrensburg monsters biting huge chunks of flesh and scale off their bodies, others kicking, gouging, ripping, tearing and raking their corpses apart. It was violence on a scale very rarely seen in the history of the planet. Still though, there was more.

  With the librarian’s consciousness having curled in on itself, far too frightened to witness any more, the king of the rest of the world, leader of dragons and one of the most decent beings on the planet forced himself to watch, knowing full well that his eidetic memory would record everything down to the finest detail. Whilst it would cause him pain and misery right up to his very end, it would at least give him something to draw upon when he dished out the orders, when he sent his army to this land to wreak vengeance for exactly what they’d just done.

  Next came the females of the group, still alive but just barely, once again they were kicked, spat at and chomped on, but nothing that would end their lives too soon. Oh no, the horde had other horrors in mind for them. And I think you can probably guess what they were, over and over again, until each of them had become empty vessels, and no more use in even that department. Only after all the male dragons there had had their way were they summarily executed, in the most brutal fashion possible.

  Sick to his stomach, the reigning monarch of this world, at least all of it less this one small part, continued to look on, his physical body back in London now relentlessly throwing up, not that he was aware of such a thing.

  Twisted perversions satisfied, at least for now, most of the dragons left the gigantic hall, the floors covered in thick green blood, scales, organs and other unseemly bodily fluids, ready for the servants to clean up. Surrounded by a few of his most trusty lieutenants, Nev’dir spoke up, his senses and arousal heightened by what he’d just witnessed, almost ready to return to his quarters and have his way with the many concubines that his station commanded.

  “What about this one?” asked an underling, spitting on For’son, hitting him on the side of his right cheek as he did so.

  “Take him and string him up in the square down below in the main city. He can stay there every night. During the day he’ll be paraded around. It’ll be a symbol to all those who had hoped these southerners would be their salvation. Hope should be crushed and destroyed at its very first sign.”

  “Understood,” they all replied simultaneously, standing to one side to let their leader pass.

  As he trailed off, the others set about lifting the only remaining member of the diplomatic delegation still alive.

  Snapped back to reality, still aware of Orac cowering somewhere close by, Greger acted as only he knew how, to save his friend.

  “FOR’SON! Wake up... NOW!” he ordered, but it did little good because whatever the brew had been, it was strong that was for sure. Not killing him or even rendering him unconscious, unlike the others, he just seemed to be in a dream-like state or a trance, unable to act or bring forth his magic in any way, shape or form. Even if he could, it was difficult to see how he could escape with so many of the natives against him, making pretty much impossible odds, even for him.

  “Please my friend... I’m begging you, wake up and fight your way out of this sorry nightmare.”

  A strand of recognition deep within the blue shaded dragon’s mind, out of nowhere suddenly realised who the voice belonged to.

  “Greger,” it whispered, weakly.

  “For’son it’s me, your friend.”

  “I... I... I... I’ve failed you, Majesty, and for that I’m deeply sorry. Your friendship has been one of the highlights of my life, I hope you know that.”

  “For’son... FIGHT! I command you to fight with all that you have and return home to me. YOU CAN DO THIS! DO IT NOW!”

  Unfortunately he couldn’t, as he was too disabled by whatever the drink had been to put up any resistance at all, and so as the other dragons started to drag him off to the different part of the city, his legs and knees scraping along the floor at odd and no doubt painful angles, his mind started to drift off into unconsciousness, which in turn meant only one thing for the squatters that currently resided there... a one way trip home!

  In a flash they were tugged out of their temporary home, the city first and then the surrounding scenery of mountains, trees, snow and ice followed by rolling oceans all passing at a speed barely imaginable, even for minds like theirs, reinforced and enhanced by magic. A matter of moments later, each of them was thrust back into their physical bodies, the experience disagreeing with both of them, particularly when they discovered exactly what had happened. As well as the tears, both had thrown up on the table, Orac also peeing himself, something he was now deeply ashamed to discover in front of the king. Taking a couple of moments to come around and get their bearings, it was the librarian that spoke first.

  “What... what... what can we do to get him back
safely, sire?”

  Rubbing his skull, trying to shake off the mother of all headaches that might have been from the experience he’d witnessed or the new found communication via the incredible crystals, only then did Greger realise that he’d never see his friend alive again. His assumption would have been correct... well, almost, but for some magic and a twist of fate. He wouldn’t see him alive again, but their friendship most certainly would be rekindled.

  “I think, my friend,” he said turning to face Orac, “that For’son’s mission will have to go down as a most selfless sacrifice. Before we’d even have a chance to get there, he’ll be dead, if he isn’t already. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s a fact, and one that warrants our most voracious response. Go to your library. Take some time off, seek solace in whatever makes you happy and remember him as he would have wanted you to. He was very proud of you, you know, especially on that last mission you shared. In fact, he even talked about you going out with him on more. For a dragon that liked to work alone, that’s high praise indeed.

  Blubbing like a lost child now, the librarian could barely take back control of his own body, let alone get a grip on it, that’s how badly the grief hit him. Taking his leave, he scurried out of the office and disappeared back down to his refuge, the library, his intelligence trying to come up with anything that would help. Unfortunately for him, and in particular for For’son, nothing sprang to mind, and at least for a time, his feelings for his friend led him to spiral out of control and visit some very dark places.

  For Greger though, things were different. After having shooed Orac off to his library, anger, rage, venom, fury and revenge consumed the, for the most part, mild mannered monarch, who was sick to the stomach at having been played in sending a delegation in the first place, consumed by dark thoughts at what had been done to his dragons, determined once and for all to put a stop to the evil to the north, at whatever the cost. And so it was that he summoned a council of everyone that mattered, and explained in no uncertain terms what was about to happen. And what was that, I hear you ask? One thing and one thing only... WAR!

  Initially there was outrage from most of those that attended, expressing to the king in no uncertain terms that the diplomats should be allowed to do their job and continue with their mission, convinced that was the way to go. Only after slamming one of his fists down on the magnificent oak table in the council room, enhanced with enough magic to shatter it into a thousand pieces did they sit up and take notice. Really not wanting to, he persisted against his better judgement and went on to explain about the crystals and how he and Orac had sat in, so to speak, on the whole dark episode. After that, outrage soon turned into violence and vengeance, each, to a dragon, agreeing on one all out strike, the sooner the better as far as they were concerned. There and then, a mental rallying cry spread out across the lands for warriors to come forward post haste. Soon the wheels of war as was their usual wont were turning very quickly, all of their own accord.

  Given his situation and what they’d done to the rest of his group last night, For’son knew he was most certainly a dead dragon walking, the time and place the only variables, his captors able to finish him off at their leisure.

  And boy, were they leisurely about it. Two weeks, that’s how long it took. Oh... not to kill him, but to break his indomitable will and the strength and courage that he’d shown. Two weeks might sound like a very small amount of time, but we’re talking about the most vile abuse and torture, both physical and magical, his mental defences bombarded twenty four hours a day, with no let up, no break, without food or water. It was a done deal. After that, his monstrous captors paraded him around the streets in the day, chains dragging along the cobbles and hanging him up in the square at night as an example of what would happen to any invaders or challengers to the current regime. If what was done to the other diplomats was horrific, brutal and unforgiving, this was altogether on a different scale. Lesser beings would have cracked after only a few hours, and passed away after only a few more. Only his courage, bravery, loyalty and love for his friends back in the capital kept him going. But once broken, that was it. He was left an empty shell of a dragon, his huge intellect, resourceful mind, inquisitive nature, wicked sense of humour and all that was left of his personality, locked away deep inside him, in what some would regard as his soul.

  The two weeks hadn’t just been painful for him, with Greger having raised an army the likes of which hadn’t been seen in centuries, made up of volunteers from as far away as the southern Americas. Scores of dragons attacked the barren outskirts of Ahrensburg day and night, flying deadly sorties, using magic and physicality to punish those who would stand in their way, righteousness above all on their side. Unfortunately, power, strength, ugliness and magic don’t always take heed of right or wrong. And the troops under Nev’dir’s command not only had nothing to lose, but were adept at using the most vicious and immoral tactics. Bait in the form of dozens of servants were laid in traps across the borders of the lands, the despicable warrior dragons of the north knowing full well that the southern softies would no doubt attempt a rescue. This played out many times over for the first couple of weeks, killing thousands of Greger’s dragons, depleting their forces, making the task of taking Ahrensburg that much harder. Orac’s crystals helped, laid out around the outskirts of the rebellious land, enabling those from the south to communicate and coordinate their attacks. Still though, it was a bloody battle on both sides. At one point, a squadron of those under Greger’s command stumbled across a most gruesome sight, one in which they had to report back to their leader. If it wasn’t for the general in charge, they probably wouldn’t have realised the significance. And just what was that, I hear you ask? Decapitated dragon heads on spikes at the entrance to one of the main mountain passes, there for all to see, a message of sorts, one that stuck two fingers up in Greger’s direction. You see the heads all belonged to the diplomats who had been sent to negotiate only a short time earlier, all of them there, except of course for For’son who was still alive, and still very much suffering. The general had recognised Thomas, who he’d worked with before. After that it was just a matter of communicating with the king, who managed to describe all the others to a tee. It was heartbreaking, soul destroying and had a very negative effect on morale of those from the south, not quite stopping them in their tracks, but denting their hopes and efforts considerably.

  The skirmishes and battles soon became more bloody, with those under Nev’dir’s command encouraged to fight until the very end, the threat of harm to their relatives, friends and loved ones suitable incentive to make them do just that. What should have been over in no longer than a month, stretched on into years, not only because of the savagery and despicable deeds carried out by those defending the north, but because of the environment, something that turned out to be as much of a problem as Nev’dir and his troops.

  Much to the king and the dragon world’s disgust, it took almost twenty years to take all of Ahrensburg and defeat Nev’dir, something Greger accomplished personally, in front of not only all his troops, but the remaining dragons forced into slavery in Axalangst. That was a bright day in the darkest of times which led to a new beginning not only for that land, but for the rest of the world and the beginning of peace in our time and a renaissance for dragonkind across the planet. What of For’son? He did eventually die, but it took about three months before he did so, his wicked captors constantly healing him with magic up until that point, so that they could prolong his pain and misery. But on the evening of his last living day, something extraordinary happened.

  In the chill air of the frozen north, a little before sunrise, a cloaked figure skulked between the dilapidated buildings, using the shadows and dark to conceal themselves from the watchtowers and patrolling guards, avoiding the supernatural traps laid out, on a wayward path to reach their intended destination which sat smack bang in the middle of the huge cobbled square, which itself was slick with blood and adrift with c
adavers, dragon and otherwise. Finally reaching a blind spot, having already crawled some way on her stomach through the gory guts and disgusting bodily matter, the slim female, shrouded in the tatty rags of what would once no doubt have been a cloak to be proud of, sprinted the rest of the way, eventually reaching her target.

  Carefully she checked the chains holding the blue shaded dragon, the one who had so gallantly stepped in to save her from no doubt a very disturbing end, on his first evening in this dark and perilous land,.

  ‘IDIOT!’ she’d thought at the time, wondering why any foreigner would do such a thing. But being part of the underground resistance, she’d heard the rumour of how the rest of the world lived, devoid of pain and enslavement, in absolute freedom. And so what had happened only confirmed to her what she already knew. For the rest of that first night she’d watched from a distance, hoping against hope that this wasn’t another of Nev’dir’s bold but stupid plans. As soon as the visitors imbibed the drinks that had been specially concocted for the occasion, she knew they were as good as dead. And that soon turned out to be the case. Like the king, she’d forced herself to watch the atrocities, much to her stomach’s detriment, and was amazed to see that the one who’d saved her hadn’t been instantly killed. And so after it had all ended, she’d followed and watched as best she could from a distance, as they chained him up in the middle of the square, imbuing the chains themselves with magic, stubbing out all the torches behind them so that the slaves and servants would wake up to one huge surprise and example of what not obeying the rules meant.

  So here she was some months on, taking the only chance available, audaciously hoping to use what ethereal energy she had in an attempt to destroy the metal chains binding him in place, to rescue him and get the hell out of here once and for all. If she could achieve such a thing, songs would be sung in centuries to come, especially if they could return with reinforcements and free all the others. Quickly though, it became apparent that her magic lacked the sophistication to countermand that which was already there, leaving her out of options... well, all but one anyway.