Sana and Spero

The shadow of the Devil’s Tongue Mountain stretched ponderously forward, pointing its sickly, accusatory finger as even the sun itself abandoned me. I turned, one forsaken man among many, drifting through the spiny steel gate onto the unsure streets of the Moirai.

I trudged the streets, my destination as final as the tale I carried. Each step more difficult under the solemn burden I now shouldered. The servant’s entrance, a sunken eye in the weary face of the castle wall, waited behind a man in a faded, crimson uniform. The tunic hung loosely from his shoulders, clearly having once been tailored for some forgotten soldier. I slowed to a stop handing him my papers just as he opened his mouth to demand them. He grunted and made a short, piercing whistle. A page, an emaciated caricature of a boy, appeared through the door. The guard returned my documents, motioning me to follow the child.

We shuffled along the stark servant’s quarters, the dim light just enough to keep from tripping over my own feet. I trailed him into halls with Persian rugs, Chinese vases, and rose-scented candles so numerous I was hard put to find the smallest shadow. We stopped before massive doors gilded with rose gold and ebony in the royal family’s crest, a dragon curled at the feet of a crow. They opened to a vaulted ceiling of black marble so high even the inordinate number of torches couldn’t expose the secrets at the peak.

At the far end of the room, a white marble dais rose in contrast a foot above the floor. I stepped past the page and approached; my worn, soft soled shoes echoed thunderously through the silent chamber. Three thrones stood atop the dais. The gold one to the left held a youth, as fair as his sire was dark. Right of the center was a silver chair adorned by a woman with ruby hair, emerald eyes, pearly teeth, and porcelain skin. In the center stood an ivory throne, each piece a prize ripped from every superior opponent the crown had ever had. From the back of the throne protruded a familiar dragon’s head, posed to both invite challenge and promise death. The eyes, though… The eyes held me in sorrow and disappointment. I stared into them as I bowed with deep respect. My fear faded. My doubts subsided. My resolve crystallized.

My eyes sank to meet the smoldering gaze of the King unflinchingly. I began my tale. Well, his tale. A lad worth more, by far, than the mercenary scale with which he’d been weighed.

He’d come from a small town, served a decent family, and looked forward to a secure, if humble, future. Instead, he’d come to the city. I’d seen him watching the knights at practice. I hadn’t thought much of him then, just another boy with stars in his eyes. Then I witnessed him face the King, petitioning the chance for Knighthood. The King had laughed. The courtiers had laughed. Even I had laughed.

For three weeks, he returned every day with steady determination, the set of his eyes mirroring the King’s. Finally, he was given a quest to entertain the court while removing irritants. I had attempted to amuse the court by reading his Majesty’s fortune, but, apparently, prophesying that the lineage of his first-born son would succeed the throne did not sit well with the King. As a result, I was commissioned as witness to this folly, as sure an execution as the hangman’s noose.

I had followed the lad through the city as he carefully selected each piece of secondhand equipment, making sure that all scrapes and dents were superficial and didn’t disrupt the integrity of the armor. The result was a suit that was mismatched, but reliable. His sword, however, was one of a kind. The most accomplished blacksmith in the city had taken a liking to the hardworking boy and had hired him to work in his shop doing odds and ends. The young man had watched the smithy at his forge as he’d watched the Knights on the practice field. Asked for the use of the forge and some steel, the blacksmith had smiled and nodded his head. He’d been sure that the youth would end up with a lump of metal destined for the scrap bucket, but too fond of the boy to refuse him.

The blade was striking in its simple, straight lines, sharp edges, and flexible steel. The blacksmith, testing the finished product, could find no flaws, and strove to persuade the lad to stay. The boy smiled and declined every offer. The blacksmith was disappointed, but understood and gripped forearms with the boy, sending him off with a hearty wish for luck and fair weather.

We chased rumors of flying reptiles across valleys and fens. As we followed the River Vadum, he spoke of his childhood, describing the awe he felt for a passing Knight. The man had brought down a dire wolf that had been circling a great tree the boy had scrambled into. He’d wanted to become that man, to travel and be a participant of magnificent sagas. He dreamed of one day going back and parading his triumphs for those who’d said that a vagrant bastard could never be a Knight.

We reached the village of Umbra one evening, a halo of rose and periwinkle outlining the nearby mountain. We’d heard a dragon had been snatching livestock from the area, but we saw no sign corroborating the tales. In fact, lanterns and ribbons lined the streets and music rebounded off the walls. We followed the loud chorus of laughter and cheers to the village square.

A spirited brunette with amber eyes skipped gaily up to us, her cheeks rosy and her grin enticing. She grabbed the lad and pulled him into a lively romp as a dance set started on the green. A handsome woman with graying fringe in her honeyed hair motioned me over and set down a plate of roast and a mug of ale with a wink. As she plied me with spirits, I quizzed her on local lore. When I asked after the whereabouts of the bride and groom that I might wish them well, she chortled. This was the Day of the Peace, remembrance of the pact between dragon and village; a cow or two every few moons for consummate protection.

The lad collapsed at the table gasping for breath, his cheeks ruddy and his eyes bright. Gulping down the ale set in front of him, he sighed contentedly. I started to relay what I’d heard, but another girl, her golden hair complemented by sky blue eyes and a full red mouth, seized his arm and pulled him back to the dance floor. Several more times throughout the evening I tried to speak with him only to have him hauled off by yet another damsel. I disengaged him the next morning from his bed, where a voluptuous girl with dusky curls still lay; Igraine, I remembered disgruntled.

I spoke with him over bread and butter. A woman sat humming just outside the inn as she worked her loom. He listened attentively, chewing slowly in contemplation. His brow remained furrowed as the server furtively retrieved the barren dishes. He shook his head gravely, his chin set; this was his chance. The humming broke off with a snip.

An enquiry to the innkeeper procured us a map. We traversed the lengthy, winding trail halting at the entrance to the home of the town’s guardian. It had taken the better part of a day, but we made it. The boy unsheathed his weapon and entered the cave. I looked back down the trail. With a sigh I turned and followed him.

The passage allowed for three men to walk abreast comfortably and the ceiling stood near twice a man’s height. Eventually, the walls and ceiling began to slope away from us until we stopped at the opening to a spacious cavern. To one side was a large sand pit directly under a crevice in the ceiling where heat from the sun fell directly onto the sleeping form of a massive, scaled creature. A brilliant auburn accented with crimson rippled from the tines on its tail to its long snouted pate. The head lifted lazily, flashing a snowy underbelly. Lavender eyes regarded us with derision before resting its jaw blithely on a stone outcropping at the edge of the pit.

Incensed, the offended young man leapt forward, a warrior’s cry ripping from his throat. The dragon, it seemed, hadn’t been as relaxed as he’d wanted us to believe for he was on solid ground in a single flex of his wings. The talons he sported were as long as a man’s forearm and he used them with vicious precision as he targeted the boy weaving expertly beneath him. Getting clear of the iron wasp, the dragon swung his tail sharply around, the barbs, mixed in sizes from an inch to a foot in length, narrowly missing the boy as he darted a step back and to the side, his sword detaching a spike and biting into the dragon’s flank.

A deafening roar broke from the beast as he whipped around, his left foreclaw circling the offender and lifting him off the ground. He sat back on his haunches to inspect his catch as the boy struggled, trapped in a crushing fist. But the lad had snagged his dagger in time and it pierced the flesh pressing in on him. The dragon bellowed and loosened his hold. Talons ripped through the young man’s armor as he fell, claw marks trailing from his head down an arm and across part of his back. His helmet was gone, but, sword in hand, he used his momentum and proximity to dig into the meat of the dragon’s belly. He landed ungracefully, the impact of his feet hitting the ground jarred up his spine causing him to tumble forward.

As he scrambled to his feet, the massive lizard descended to all fours. He saw the sword lodged in the dragon’s ribs. Bending to retrieve his knife, he prepared to charge, his mouth opening in a battle cry. I saw the tail twitch. A warning died on my lips as he flew across the room and thudded into the wall. The massive reptile charged the fallen man with gaping jaws exposing vicious teeth, no less alarming for his protracted, unsteady lope. I turned away. I couldn’t look. The earth shook, my ears rang, and it was over.

“If you would not mind,” it was a familiar voice, interspersed with labored coughs. My eyes searched the dimming light, seeing only the hulking body of the collapsed dragon. “I’d like to just rest now.”

A deep, rumbling chuckle. “Mmm. We’ll call this a draw.”

Scales chafed against stone as the dragon hauled himself to the sandpit, sinking into the heat with a heavy sigh. Armor scraped and clinked as the wounded soldier painstakingly began to remove the vestiges from his frame. I hurried over to him and promptly started on the buckles. The talon marks were deeper than I thought, one exposing a rib, and another covered the back of his dark head in so much blood I couldn’t see the wound itself.

I padded each wound with strips I made from my spare tunic and tied them as best I could. “I’ll go get help,” I whispered, glancing at the dragon.

He gripped my ankle weakly. “No.” He looked up at me, beseechingly. “Please stay.”

I forced the corners of my lips to turn up. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be right back, okay? I’ll be right back,” I promised as I turned and hurried toward the entrance. Once there, I withdrew the map unable to read it through a sheen of saltwater. He knew he would not live the night. But then, I suspected, neither would the dragon. I sank to the unkind floor with my head buried in my hands, unable to secure timely aid and powerless to watch him die.

“Boy,” the dragon called, “tell me. Why? Why did you fight me? What was your quarrel?”

A self-reproving bark of laughter sounded. “You see, it started when I was about seven …”

A scuffling noise caught my ear and I looked around to find the young man had moved the short distance into the sand ring with the dragon, their voices fading in time as stone fades to sand.

The dragon grunted. “A Knight? Knights do not kill with so little honor. Your foster mother gave good advice.”

A wet chuckle escaped the boys throat.

“What is your name, boy?”

The young man’s eyes settled on the sword. It lay in the sand just within reach, where the dragon had discarded the troublesome thorn. Grunting, he curled his fingers around the hilt and settled it across his knees. His face contorted into a melancholic smile. Touching one of the blade’s edges with a wet, red finger, he said, “Sana. The healer.”

The dragon raised a talon and drew his own blood along the opposite edge of the double-bladed sword. “Spero. Bringer of hope.”

Their discussion fell to murmurs, then whispers, vanishing with the sun. For what felt like a century, I listened for the echoes of a voice that no longer held breath in the indifferent darkness that shrouded the tomb. He was the son I’d lost. The friend I’d killed. The Knight I’d served.

A hush reigned.

I was staring at a man sitting on a throne bearing a tarnished and defiled title. More than one weight lifted as I pulled the cloth wrapped package from its position on my back. Unwinding the tattered fabric of the young Knight’s tunic, I drew the sword from its sheath.

This is my bond. I ascended the dais, one hand on the hilt and the other under the blade.

This is my purpose. The Tyrant’s eyes watched, entranced by the steel as it emitted a soft glow.

This is my home. Inexorably, I placed my second hand over the first and drove Sana and Spero to the hilt through the King’s chest.

I let go, clenching my jaw against the searing pain in my hands. Where the sword pierced the throne, bones blackened and crumbled to a fine dust. It spread, consuming the macabre trophy. The ash rose in a tempest and engulfed the fallen man. On his knees, his spine arched against the support of the blade tip against the floor, the creature threw back his head in agony. His howls were deafening in their absence. When the thick, nebulous mass coalesced, Sana and Spero protruded from a formidable, unforgiving block of hematite.

Thus sealing the blade of healing and hope. The valor of Kings. The sword in the stone.

Excalibur.