The Mighty and the Fallen

By: Lee Posted on: May 19, 2008

Listen well, one and all, and hear the tale of three beings of abnormal greatness and the terrible lesson they learned in the mighty Vashnar mountain range many, many years ago.

Among those pillars of the heavens there lived a gigantic red Dragon, ancient as time and filled with a powerful, unreasoning hatred of all whom he met. His name was Khazdakh, but none of the Achaeans whose villages he terrorised on a regular basis would dare to speak it aloud, for fear the very word would be enough to bring his unholy wrath down upon them. Legend had it that this fearsome creature possessed an unbeatable skill in combat. Hovering in the air, beyond the reach of any sword and impervious to arrows in his scaly armour, he would gradually match his wing beat to the beat of his enemy's heart, and in that very instant....bang! The poor soul's heart would burst in his chest like a rotten wineskin. Never, not even once, had this skill failed to bring a messy and painful death to its target, and it was said--albeit in quiet and secretive voices--that the evil-tempered wyrm would never be defeated in combat.

Word about this got around, as gossip does, and soon drew the attention of two exceptional men. The first was named Larend, a Grook scholar of the highest order, whose understanding of war and tactics was both unsurpassed and legendary, but who was crippled in body. The other was his student, the hulking Troll Gareth, a mighty warrior in battle made more fearsome still by Larend's teachings. Gareth was a glory hound, seeking to forge a powerful legacy by which to be remembered, and when the reputation of the Vashnarian terror and his unbeatable technique reached the Troll's cauliflower ears, it was all Larend could do to prevent him from rushing into battle to prove once and for all who the greater of the two truly was.

However, Larend plied Gareth with his wisdom and advice, and the Troll, having quickly acquired a deep appreciation for his mentor's life-sustaining common sense, was turned from certain death. For Larend had a plan, both dangerous and uncertain, to bring down Khazdakh for good.

"Stand by me, Gareth the Valiant," he urged his impetuous protege, creased brow wrinkling still further with the gravity of his expression. "My strategy is simple in concept, but incredibly difficult in execution. However, if you are willing to trust me, and if you prepare yourself well, you stand an even chance of leaving the battlefield alive and victorious." And because it was Larend speaking, Gareth agreed to follow the Grook's instructions and chance his life.

That very day, they vanished.

Rumours ran wild. Some said Larend and Gareth were in the Underworld, fighting the endless hordes of the Magisters for weeks at a stretch without sleep. Others swore they were drunk beyond measure, their nerves shattered by the very thought of facing their adversary. Still others insisted that their respective brother-in-law or father or local Runewarden was forging a weapon of unnatural power to combat the dragon steel-to-claw. But nobody could be certain of anything, and as the months passed, the topic grew old and was eventually dropped, all its gossip value played out.

When they appeared from nowhere unannounced and walked boldly into Cyrene half a year later, the news spread like wildfire. Because now the two were three: Larend was his usual self, still hobbling along on his gnarled cane; Gareth, in the best condition of his life, transcended any known degree of physical fitness; and the newcomer....a Siren, the most breathtakingly beautiful in living memory, quiet and demure, speaking to nobody.

Only Larend would speak for the three of them, and all he would say was this: "We are ready to slay the dragon."

And they wasted no time. The very next morning, the Troll, the Grook and the Siren begin the harrowing trek into the Vashnars, trailing in their wake a huge crowd of the common folk who had come to witness Khazdakh's death with their own eyes--from a safe distance, of course. On the highest peak, with the massed spectators darkening the mountains and plateaus around them, the three came before Khazdakh's bone-littered lair. Gareth stepped forward confidently, the Siren at his side, and as the people watched in open-mouthed disbelief at his daring, he planted his vast legs wide and firm, propped massive hands upon his hips and bellowed: "Show yourself, wyrm, and face death! I am not afraid of you!"

The growl that rumbled from the mouth of the cave could have been mistaken for half of the peak sliding away. Then suddenly he was there, red scales stark against pitch darkness of his cave, dwarfing the figure of the warrior and the lady at his side. Slitted green eyes, each higher than a tall man, swept the crowds contemptuously, then fixed on Gareth.

"Even Here, Word Of Your Quest Has Reached My Ears," rumbled Khazdakh. "Come Ye Before Me, Then, With Only Your Sword And Armour? Ye Have Amused Me With Your Ambition, And Impressed Me With Your Courage And Confidence, However Misplaced They Be. And Because A Reputation Such As Yours Is A Touchstone For My Own, I Gift Ye And Your Two Companions With Your Lives. Leave This Place With Honour, Troll, As No Other Has Done Before Ye, And Chase Your Impossible Dream No Longer. No Mortal Weapon Can Harm Me."

At this Gareth stripped off his magnificent fieldplate, hurled his unmatched sword into the valley below and stood naked and unarmed before his enemy. "Would you turn your scaly back on me, Khazdakh?" cried he. "Do you fear to test your technique against a worthy opponent? Is it fit only for defenceless peasants and their children, perhaps? I don't believe your pride would allow such an idea to stand uncontested. Face me, and prepare to greet Thoth in person! Your heartbreaking days are at an end!"

And Khazdakh knew in his heart that Gareth was right; his pride would not allow this challenge to stand unanswered. So with a stroke of his mighty wings that raised dust from adjacent peaks and sent the watchers scattering like autumn leaves, he thrust his massive bulk skyward, each wing beat sending a roll of thunder throbbing across the mountain range. And gradually, but with a terrifying sense of inevitability, he began to bring each stroke of his wings in tune with the beating of Gareth's mighty heart.

As they began to synchronise, Gareth gave the beast a fearsome glare, cracked his knuckles....

....and started jogging on the spot.

Khazdakh's expression of cruel amusement changed slowly to one of bewilderment, and he began to beat faster. Gareth increased his tempo. Wings and feet accelerated in a strange duel with the Troll's heart being the grisly prize. And though the jogging was forcing Gareth's heart to work harder, it would only help so much, and the adversaries both knew the dragon could match him. Khazdakh's grin returned, and as Gareth's death drew near the Dragon's savage glee

was terrible to see.

Then the Siren, forgotten in the steely exchange of words, blew gently into Gareth's ear.

It was not widely known--because when an eight and a half foot Troll warrior wants privacy, he gets it--but Gareth, for all his courage and bluster, turned into a puddle of shy mush when confronted by a pretty lass. His heart rate nearly doubled, and Khazdakh panted after him, but for the first time in all his countless years, he found he could not equal his enemy's heartbeat. Nor could Gareth afford to relax or slow down, though, for the moment he surrendered the lead in this bizarre race, his heart and his life would be forfeit.

It was a duel the likes of which none had seen before. For three days and three nights, Troll and Dragon jogged and flapped like creatures possessed. Whenever Gareth's heart threatened to slow, the Siren would whisper longingly in his ear or caress his heaving chest tenderly with loving fingers, and off he would go again. Likewise, with a reputation centuries old hanging so delicately in the balance, Khazdakh maintained his pace, nipping closely at his

adversary's pulmonary heels. This was a battle of lengendary endurance. Something, eventually, would have to give.

Gareth was a Troll unlike any other. He had undertaken and completed fitness training of a degree that few dared and even fewer survived. But even the fittest and most powerful Troll has limits, dear listeners, and Gareth, grey-faced and bone weary, was finally approaching his. Seeing his enemy weaken, Khazdakh laughed aloud with victory and relief and somehow found the strength for one last burst of acceleration. And in that instant, the Dragon--ancient of

days and corroded by centuries of hate--exceeded the limits of his own flesh. With an irony fit only for myth and legend, his heart burst from the strain, killing him instantly. The lifeless body hung limply in the air for a breathless moment, then heeled over and plunged from the sky, carving a new valley into the Vashnars that stands to this day.

The silence lasted almost a minute; then the watchers' joint cheer shook the land, and their applause thundered in honour of the Troll who had released them from their terror. Exhausted, barely able to stand, but buoyed up by the glory and adulation of the crowd, Gareth summoned the strength to raise his arms and recklessly declared himself to be the paramount being in all Creation.

The screaming pillars of fire that split the heavens from every corner and converged on what was briefly his body didn't even leave any ash.

In time the shocked masses drifted away, taking the stunned Siren and the grieving Larend with them, the image of Gareth's tragic demise burned into their memories. And though the commoners eventually moved on, grew old and no longer spoke to their grandchildren of the Grook, the Troll and the Siren that slew the Dragon, they never forgot the lessons that had been demonstrated to them....

The lesson of Larend, who through the respect he earned from his pupil, was able to rid Sapience of a terrible plague.

The lesson of Khazdakh, who respected and honoured his enemy, and thereby himself, despite his intrinsically evil nature.

And the terrible, terrible lesson of Gareth, who foolishly set himself above the Gods and failed to show them the respect that they demand.

Remember.