Chapter 1
By Daniel Olarnick
On a planet that has existed in celestial impenetrability
for millions of years…
I am Ebon Grupe, Dragon Slayer. I have not always been
so titled.
Today, I have engaged one of Odan's scribal crystals. Of
course, it is without his consent or blessing. He is totally
without blame for this deed. There, I've said it. He is
to be exonerated. I have committed this deed in order to
record my life's saga, so that the true account of my existence
will not be confused with the many tales and half-truths
that are sure to circulate upon my demise. Those unsubstantiated
tales would be fables, at best. That is all they could be,
for no one would or could believe the truth of this saga
unless they were there to see the actual events unfold.
The Quest is coming to its ultimate conclusion - at least,
I hope so, for I grow weary of the ebb and flow of battle.
I fear that we all may perish should we fail in our mission.
I comprehend fully the dire consequences that can happen
should that occur. Our names will be stricken from the Hall
of Slayers. My own renown and rank -- that I so fittingly
deserve -- will not be inscribed in those hallowed halls
of valor. My name will, forever, be cursed and stricken
from that sacred codex of honor; that my very being will
cease to exist; that my death-gem will not be revived, but
burned and crushed, its pulverized crystals scattered to
the four winds by the dragon-gods themselves.
Yet, no matter what happens, this scribal crystal, upon
which I inscribe my yesteryears, will forever hold the truth
of my life, and my role as both friend and companion of
Odan the Scribe, and the journey we have undertaken.
*
The scribal crystal levitated, and began to spin and
sing its song. Its luminescence fills my eyes with its spellbinding
intensity, drawing me deeply into its powers.
*
I am fifteen years of age, once again, the son of Crimson
Grupe, master granite builder. I have left my foster father's
home and employ as an engraver of runes at that tender age
to find my fame and fortune as a dragon-slayer.
I had grown tired of the hard physical work that my family
had engaged in. It was honest labor, and provided handsomely
for my family, but engraving blocks of granite with symbols
of mysticism held no fascination for me, despite the fact
that I had a natural talent for that art.
In spite of the fact that my family had determined that
I was to become a master engraver, my secret desire was
to become a dragon-slayer. That was all I had ever wanted
to be - at least since I was five years of age, when my
mother's brother, "Uncle Jabber" having recently
returned from the outside world, began to regale me, his
foundling nephew, with tales of the dragon-slayers, their
daring, their comradeship. Even the accounts of their short-lived
lives seemed glorious to my youthful mind.
Poor Uncle Jabber, he died so young, allegedly defending
the honor of my foster mother, his sister, for a slur against
her good name. I remember standing by his funeral pyre,
awaiting his body to issue forth its death-gem, I vowed
that, one day, I would find his murderer and extract my
revenge.
Uncle Jabbar had been a great and honored man in our village,
a tracker for a group of itinerant dragon slayers that had
not yet earned the honor of achieving their group name before
being wiped out by a hatchling, a golden dragon, but a hatchling,
nonetheless.
"Ate their stones before my very eyes. Spared me,
the hatchling did, to tell of his tale. That's what he told
me, Ebon. That's why I'm alive today. The golden one said
I was to serve a greater purpose. That I was to speak compassionately
of Ascendus the Gold, Eradicator of Slayers." Then
Uncle Jabbar would look around the room, to make sure no
one was watching, and he'd spit three times, cursing the
name of Ascendus and his entire brood and lineage.
*
Ten years passed before I actually saw my first group of
dragon-slayers. They arrived, at night, their usual time
of influx, to my ancestral home, the Village of Norr, a
wealthy town located in the Kingdom of Nabot, inhabited
by the half-elven tribe of Mienmen, master craftsmen, master
builders.
"Have they arrived, father?" I asked, anxious
to see them in the flesh.
"Aye," he replied, "At the inn. They'll
be settling in about now."
*
The dragon-slayers crossed the threshold of the Pick &
Shovel Inn, full of song and bluster. They had recently
vanquished a band of highwaymen, having been contracted
for, and hired by the village elders, through the dragon-slayers
ombudsman, Mak-el the Sly, at the rather extraordinary fee
of 10 Golden Dragons. They were called into service to safeguard
our settlement, to protect the tradesmen who made their
way into our village, to assure that those patrons who came
to obtain our famous crystalline-granite stones, in order
to build their castles and fortifications, were safe on
the roads leading into our town.
The dragon-slayers had been instructed to dispatch these
highwaymen as quickly and as ruthlessly as possible. It
had not been an easy battle.
The highwaymen were a fierce group, accustomed to the ways
of the sword and the axe. The dragon-slayers disposed of
the highwaymen within the week, hoisting the survivors'
still-living bodies upon huge wooden stakes. It was a long
and painful death. The harpies came to devour the victims'
rotting flesh, death-gems and all. It was a point well made,
a warning sign for all, that their kind were to stay away
from the Village of Norr, a village under the protection
of its own dragon-slayers.
Two slayers, from the team of eighteen, had been lost in
the battle. Their death-gems gathered and placed with the
leader, Flaxus, for safekeeping, to await the arrival of
a scribal priest, who would transport their gemstones to
their families, and start the rejuvenation process.
Life was once again pleasant in the Village of Norr with
the dreaded highwaymen disposed of.
The slayers' leader, Flaxus the Protector, saw to it that
the memories of the slain dragon-strikers were honored;
that their praises were sung for the week, their death-stones
polished and shined, stories of their bravery told and retold.
He then ordered a dedication, attended by all the villages,
for none would dare to miss that, as their names were engraved
on a wall of honor in our village.
During the days that followed that ceremony, a scribal
priest was summoned to gather the slain warriors' death-gems
for safekeeping and regeneration.
"Zovie and Rax died well in battle. They deserve a
full share of gold and honor, as do their families,"
Flaxus said, handing the scribal celebrant a full share
of gold to be distributed to the deceased's families.
"Sing of their glory for their families, as we have
told you how much we loved and honored our brothers."
The scribal priest nodded in silent understanding of the
duty placed upon him, knowing that to fail to deliver the
gemstones would place his own life in wrathful danger. Even
a scribal priest would not dare to provoke the anger of
an experienced group of slayers when entrusted with so solemn
a duty.
Yes, this was The Way of the Sword for the dragon-slayers,
for even in death there was to be honor.
*
I stood outside the stables, as they slayers dismounted
their mighty steeds, and tossed their reins over to me,
the leader flipping me a silver double-headed dragon's coin,
which I caught in mid-air.
"Groom and feed our horses, lad, and there will be
another coin for you after you're done," the leader
said to me, a smile in his voice and on his face. Obviously,
he was used to the veneration of young men, and the love
of the native women, who sought to serve them and see to
all their needs.
I was astonished at the leader's generosity, a silver double-headed
dragon, a coin worth far more than my father earned for
his labors during a month.
Later that evening, after having groomed and fed the slayers'
horses, I stood outside the tavern's doors, almost fearful
of entering the inn and its sanctum of slayers. I knew I
needed my father's permission to do so, or the authorization
of a village elder to grant me that right of entry, for
I was still a minor, bound by the rules of my family and
that of my village. It was forbidden for a young boy, even
a man-child such as myself, who had not reached adulthood
to be allowed within the confines of an inn. But Flaxus
beckoned me to cross the threshold and join them. I did
so, pushing the doors wide open, as I swaggered in.
"An ale for the lad," the leader commanded of
Simon Ventor, owner of the Pick & Shovel Inn, who smiled
and then filled up my family's goblet with a brew our villagers
called the Werewolf's Grin. Enough of that brew, and you
were sure to howl at the moon. It is how, according to legend,
the draft got its name.
*
{Later that night, I learned that legend to be true, and
howl I did, but that was because of the thrashing my foster
father gave me for my lapse in good manners and judgment.}
"You violated my trust," he bellowed. "Associating
with Dragon-Slayers! You'll break your mother's heart. You'll
die young and foolishly, just like your Uncle Jabbar did."
{So, I howled loud enough to let the rest of the elders
of the village know that I had been justly punished for
my transgressions.}
*
I saw the smile on Simon Ventor's face. His countenance
glowed with the remembrance of his own first drink, perhaps,
as he dutifully marked down another credit on Flaxus' tab.
Flaxus slipped a double-backed silver dragon coin into
my vest pocket, bent down and whispered in my ear about
the custom of an apprentice buying a round for the other
slayers when his turn came. I nodded dutifully, my chest
swelling with pride. He had called me an apprentice.
The slayers stayed for a fortnight, telling tales of valor,
spending the gold and silver they had earned from the village
on wine, women, and weapons. Whatever had been remunerated
to them by the village's treasurers, they spent in the town
that they had served so honorably.
It seemed reasonable to all concerned, payment, protection,
purchase, and parting.
{"Depart as soon as possible. Thank you, very much,
slayers, you saved our town, now leave, and let decent folk
return to their ways. Your work is done. Be gone."}
*
Then one of the dragon-brokers sent a dispatch rider into
the village, telling them of another town in need of their
services. They left in the dawn's early light, as was their
departure custom. The townspeople turned out to cheer them
on their way, but were actually pleased to see them leave.
Men-in-arms, those who had done the township's bidding were
not needed, nor welcome, after they had served their purpose.
There was no place for them in the peaceful and thriving
Village of Norr. Yes, it was time for them to leave.
Of course, our village's highest-ranking elder met them
on the outskirts of Norr. He carried with him another purse
filled with silver. It was a common custom, I was later
to learn. I knew he was thankful to see the slayers gone.
I had overheard him talking to my father and the other tradesmen
who had gathered in my parents' home, explaining the need
for a contribution of an additional coin, to help see the
slayers off, on their way, since they had spent much of
their wages on the pleasures our peaceful village had afforded
them.
I did not know it at the time, but once a town was protected
by slayers, even a secluded town such as Norr, it was assured
a yearly revisit -- and another purse of silver contributed
to the slayers -- whether the town needed the dragon-slayers'
services or not.
The slayers left, bidding me and two other boys -- not
to mention a bevy of weeping young women -- farewell. As
was the slayers' custom, I was later to learn, to come into
a town, find some village lads to do their bidding, then
leave those boys as their contacts, those placed in charge
of a group of homing dragon-hawks, who were trained and
bred to fly off and find the slayers should the town need
them again. It was a convenient arrangement, one that would
have earned me the honor and respect of our village. The
townspeople cheered for us when it was announced that we
would be in charge of the dragon-hawks. It was a fine honor,
but not one I desired. I wanted to be one of the honored
slayers, not some village lackey who cared for dragon-hawks.
*
I informed my family of my choice. I truly expected my
father -- (I called him that even though I had not, as yet,
learned of my true father's identity) - to thrash me for
my impertinence. However, much to my surprise, he nodded
his head in agreement and simply sighed.
I kissed my weeping mother farewell.
My father stood at the door, he held "Uncle"
Jabbar's short sword, wrapped in fine silken cloth, in the
crock of his arms. He handed the sword to me, blade first,
as was the custom of our town, then hugged me tightly with
those strong, brawny arms of his, tears welling up in his
eyes. His parting words, "Make your family proud. Remember
that this will always be your home. Now go."
My two younger brothers and three older sisters stood outside
our home, each, in turn, handing me a treasure of theirs,
bidding me well, making me promise to return to them before
long.
It was difficult to leave my home, but my destiny called.
*
I shadowed after the dragon-slayers, following them down
the road, leading out of the Village of Norr, north to where
the Red Dragon of Death awaited us.
*
(The spinning crystal spun faster and faster, drawing
out memories long since forgotten. Gabriel Morgan had once
warned me against the unauthorized use of the crystals,
"Beware, its power is intoxicating." I should
have listened to my old friend for now the crystal held
me in the past and I did not know if I would ever leave
there.)
*
At first, I was an annoyance to the slayers, as I dogged
their trail, waiting for them to camp or rest their horses.
Two or three days passed before a dragon-tracker, finally,
doubled back to me with a pony and tossed me its reins.
He beckoned for me to follow. A broad smile came upon my
face. Follow them, I did, at a respectful distance, that
is.
I believe, when I finally arrived at the outer campsite,
I graduated from being a convenient annoyance to a welcome
nuisance.
Eventually, I was welcomed to the main campsite. I continued
grooming the horses, and gathering the firewood, cleaning
up the campsite in the mornings, only to repeat the process
again and again. My young body flourished and grew stronger
from this daily ritual, as I learned the intricate skills
required to become a member of a dragon-slayers team.
My mind absorbed the legends of valor told at campsite
during the night, followed by bawdy tales of life and love
that the slayer's resident troubadour would sing aloud.
Along the way various warriors would seek to join the group.
They would have to prove their fearlessness before being
accepted, as I would have to prove mine.
It took a long while to gain their acceptance. The slayers
were accustomed to camp followers, knowing that sooner or
later these would-be admirers would tire of the endless
duties, and eventually return to their homes. Not I! I would
never quit. I was made of stronger and sturdier qualities.
I reveled in the duties the slayers placed upon me, cleaning
and sharpening their weapons, cooking their meals, tending
to their wounds. Life was good and exciting, filled with
the promise of adventure.
*
(Reflections Continued - coming soon)
{See Chapter 2}
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