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.