Days of the Destroyer

“There weren't always dragons in the Valley.”

The old man fell silent and peered through the glazed glass of the tower window, as if he could see past the raindrops that dotted the uneven pane, and pierce the darkness with his gaze.

The boy looked out past the proscenium arch of the window frame, but saw nothing except a curtain of rain falling on the empty stage of night – black on black. He shifted on the hard wooden stool beneath him. His tall and narrow writing desk was deliberately set close enough to the hearth for warmth, and yet near enough to his master to hear his every word, but the old man did not speak, and his silence was broken only by the occasional pop and crackle of the fire, and the steady rhythm of the rain, with its drip-drip-drip drumbeat on the clay tiles of the castle roof.

The old man, clad in a modest monastic frock, stood as upright as one could with a crooked spine, facing away, while his shadow danced on the walls in the flickering firelight. However, the boy could see the reflection in the window of his master’s face, and trace all its lines carved by experience. Ancient cerulean eyes, deep set above high cheekbones, glinted like distant starlight beneath the shadow of his brow. His steep nose fell off sharply at the tip just above the tangled mass of his long silver beard.

Lightning flashed, and for an instant all was illuminated in a ghostly light. In that moment, as the bolt reached down from the storm clouds like a jagged electric finger to scorch a spot of earth in the distance, the boy drew a sharp breath. A peel of thunder followed, rumbling like the belly of a hungry god. The old man spoke.

“Mankind forgets the Days of the Destroyer, for any chronicle of it has been lost to history. Its authors burned at the stake as heretics.”

He turned to the boy, gazing over his hunched shoulder.

“Our part in this is not without its own risks. There are those that conspire for the truth to never come to light, but to stay hidden. To stay secret...”

The old man turned back to the dark. “Now take this down,” he said.

The boy nodded, solemnly. Careful to avoid the few lit candles and dripping wax, he dipped his quill into the inkwell, raised it up, tapped it once, and poised the tip above a blank piece of parchment in a leather bound tome on the desktop.

“In days gone by, there was a war in the heavens…”

* * *

Somewhere on high, beyond the veil, fire engulfed the horizon. Smoke billowed into the atmosphere, blacking out the sun. A legion of angelic rebels advanced in a line formation with their wings outspread, silhouetted by the flames. Their revolt was sparked by their great pride, and refusal to obey The Creator’s commandment to bow down to mankind. Those embers of envy and revenge were stoked into fires of hate and rebellion by the winged colossal fiend that was leading the charge, and looming above all. It was a serpent known by many names: The Dragon, The Destroyer, The Deceiver. Its snake-like slit eyes stared through the smoke at a lone archangel who hovered above the clouds on outstretched wings. This fearless seraphim was Michael, the great captain of angels, and the last line of defense between the Dragon’s rebel army, and the throne of Heaven. As the Legion encircled Michael, he readied himself for battle, armored in a suit of gleaming metal plate mail, with slots in his shoulder blades to allow his feathered wings to unfurl. In his gauntlets he held a flaming two-handed great sword that burned with a holy flame.

The gargantuan leather wings of the Dragon extended to their full span, and it reared its head upwards to the darkened sky. The monstrosity opened its maw to vent a deafening roar! It was a war cry that echoed throughout the ancient kingdoms of mankind below. The whole earth, this tiny speck of green and blue drifting in a brilliant sea of stars, trembled. Be that as it may, Michael was undaunted. The archangel stood fast in the long shadow of the Dragon and its Legion. Michael swung his great sword in a high arc, and a thunderous shock-wave of lightning and flame rippled outwards like a meteor crashing into a burning lake, causing a ring of fire that engulfed the forward section of the Legion in an inferno, reducing them to ash.

The Dragon’s chest glowed red-hot beneath its scaly hide as it drew breath, unleashing a cyclonic firestorm upon Michael, who held the blade of his sword flat against the onslaught, buffering the torrent of flame, and splitting its core down the middle. Michael screamed in agony as his armor began to disintegrate, and his flesh blister with burns.

Howls rose up among the Legion as the archangel disappeared from view within the conflagration, perhaps reduced to ash himself. When the Dragon’s breath ceased, the rebel army strained to see through the smoke. As it began to clear, the cheers of victory fell silent. Michael was still there – still standing – his armor blackened and smoldering. He raised the warped visor of his melted helm, and tore the helmet off his head. Those who dared to look upon him said his eyes were full of an unholy rage.

He raised his fiery sword in another revolution above his head, and brought the blade down with such almighty power that it sparked a blinding flash of light, followed by a cataclysmic explosion that shook the heavens, and repelled all rebels in its path, blowing them away like leaves in a hurricane, scattering the Legion in every direction from ground zero, driving the Dragon and all his armies into the outer darkness.

So it came to pass, the Dragon was cast down. It floated in silence, spiraling in the high atmosphere, but then began to gain more and more momentum. It wrapped its mighty wings around itself to buffer the whirlwind, which rose to an ear-piercing cacophony, but it continued to fall at such a high velocity that those wings caught fire, and their leathery skin burned off to nothing but scorched bones, which rattled apart as the Dragon plummeted. It became a white-hot fireball that shot across the night sky trailing a burning tail as far as the eye could see. When the Dragon crashed into the earth, it was with such tremendous speed that it tore mountains asunder, and scorched the land in fire and ash.

* * *

The old man stabbed at the dying embers in the hearth with an iron poker, and sparks flew. A gust of wind rattled the windows of the tower, and candles flickered in the chill.

“The impact cleaved the earth so deep, the crater seemed bottomless,” the old man said.

He raised the poker toward a faded tapestry hanging above the mantle. It was a map woven with pathways that connected verdant forests to mountainous terrain to frozen wastelands. He pointed the iron rod at the valley, and the black hole in the center of it all.

“They called it The Hollow, a vast chasm in the center of the Eight Realms where the Land of Nod once was, until Dragon’s Fall sunk the ancient domain beneath the earth.”

The boy knew of The Hollow, as did every child in the Highlands, for it had become a legend, whispered over the fire at night. He had heard the stories of the massive crevasse with its sheer rock walls on every side, and its twin rivers that ran into the great rift from the north and the east, creating two cascading waterfalls. He shuddered at rumors of The Shroud, a dark layer of mist that swirled below the cliff’s edge like a witch’s boiling cauldron. The boy’s nightmares were invaded by word of the Shadow Fey, or the Hidden People, with their pale grey skin, and snow-white hair. It was said they dwelt at the bottom of the pit, in an underground city, in the company of none but their own race, and that their hatred for all surface dwellers burned in their crimson eyes. However, the boy had never dared to go there – to see The Hollow for himself. It was a forbidden place.

“How deep does it go?” the boy said, as he studied the tapestry with a morbid curiosity.

The old man hunched his crooked shoulders, and let them fall with a creaking sigh.

“No one knows,” he said. “Nobles and peasants alike whisper of that place, so rumors of it abound. Many say it is a gateway to Hell or the Land of the Dead, but deciphering the truth from the tales is impossible, because no man who has entered The Hollow has ever returned, and many fools have tried to seek their fortune and glory by being the first to discover its true depth, and its secrets.”

“Is the Dragon down there?” asked the boy, “Or, is it dead and gone?”

The old man pondered the question before he replied.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you believe?”

His master turned to the window, and looked into the void.

“If there is light, there must always be dark. I’m a humble man of faith, so I believe in The Creator, therefore I must believe in The Destroyer. It is foretold that the beast is immortal, and merely trapped in that abyss, because it no longer has wings. Perhaps, that’s true – perhaps not. One thing is certain, if The Dragon lives, its hatred for mankind lives as well, and when it does evil, which it will, it will do it thoroughly. But fear not, child, you’re safe here. The castle of Valehorn is a stronghold of mankind, built into the mountains, and able to withstand any siege.”

The old man turned back to stoke the hearth, and the flames leapt higher.

“The prophecy also warns that someday The Dragon will return to destroy the world in fire, but don’t be afraid. There's nothing to fear. It's just a story. It is the moral we must heed. Ego can corrupt the soul, and pride goes before the fall.”

He pointed a bony finger and said, “Always remember that, child.”

The boy’s face grew pale. He nodded with deep sincerity before he spoke.

“But master… what if you’re wrong, and there is something to fear?”