The Exile Returns

There weren't always dragons in the valley, and Belisarius would make sure there wouldn’t be any dragons ever again.

Belisarius stopped in the desolation that surrounded him, before the door to the black-stoned tower: the cracked earth beneath him, the sighing wind around him. No sign of life with him save the shuddering of dead-blackened trees in the icy wind, the neighing of his war-bred horse, and the slow beating of his impatient heart.

The beating quickened — speeding up until it was like war drums beaten in the heat of battle — the adrenaline of fear shot through him. His heart was about to burst out of his chest. I could step back, I could leave into the safety of kinder lands. It wasn’t too late. To kill the Watcher Knight here, to go forth into the dread land, to fight monsters and horrid beasts all the way up to Argoryx the Dragonlord of Dread himself — it wasn’t too late to turn back now. His people had served the dragon for so long, why did they need him to die in a futile attempt to save them? He spent so long fighting, he had a good sense of when he could beat a man and when another man could beat him. In his life of traveling all over the lands and learning the martial way, he had learned to trust his instinct. Those same instincts had saved his ass many times. He was certain he would come out of this thing dead. If his instinct told him one thing now, it was to run.

Damn the Nine Lords and their Hallowed Prophecies! he thought, cursing the gods. He had come too far for fear to take control of his body and his spirit. Yet, here he was, in its throes, debating on turning his hide and fleeing like a rat with its tail tucked between its legs. He took a deep breath to steady himself. His body became still. He had to remember his training. Many times fear coursed through him like poison and the great masters of his life had taught him to to be lord over it, to control it. All I have to do is knock, he thought to himself, knock, and it will all begin.

A great steel door was before him: the door to a stone tower of the Watcher Knight. The tower itself was small enough, or at least small enough for the evil that lay within. Behind that tower was a chasm, one dared not peer into its endless depth, and beyond the chasm lay the Valley — his home. He looked beyond the chasm for an instant, his eyes registering the glimpses of desolation that lay beyond, and then he quickly looked to his feet. He could not bear to see how warped it had become, although he knew he would eventually have to.

Memories floated in his head, coming to the surface of his mind: memories of green forests and wild animals, of the people that had loved him in his youth. It was a paradise on earth. His face cast a grimace that gave way to sorrow. It was a paradise. Now in the bleakness of dragon’s fire and the servitude of the people of the Valley to the greedy worm, it was worse than the infernos below. The green of his youth was now barren rock, ash, sand, death, destruction. To look into it was one thing and one thing only to him — torture.

He shivered as if sharp knives carved up his entire back. Finally, I return from exile, thought Belisarius. It’s time, now is my crucible, now is the test. One last struggle to end it all. After mastery of the martial way there was only one thing left: to prove himself.

Belisarius sighed, the dark tower before him was only the first in a line of tests before he reached the dreaded dragon Argoryx. Will I survive such a thing? He shuddered at the thought. Steel yourself, now is not the time for doubt. Death may come, but doubt will certainly ensure it!

Finally, with rising impatience inside of him, he knocked at the door thrice. Each knock louder than the last, a mounting confidence within him.

Then silence, even the wind stopped in its tracks.

“Swords, “ came a voice through the door, “No armor. Do you accept?”

“Watcher Knight, I accept your challenge.”

“Good. One hour,” came the grim voice from within the door.

Belisarius went to his horse, and took off his chainmail. He would eat some rations before battle. Once more came the beating of his heart as if it would burst out of his chest. He gripped his chest and relaxed his muscles to bring it calm again. He didn’t get a chance to size up the man. It had been years since he had seen the Watcher Knight fight, and now, in one hour, it would be his duty to kill his old master.

***

Belisarius sat on the barren earth, bearing nothing but his tunic, cradling his longsword in his hands. He could barely tell if an hour had passed or if an age had passed. Here in this wasteland devoid of life, the sun was cut off by gray clouds. He wondered if any dragons flew beyond the clouds. They were free while the men below suffered, toiled and died.

A creaking sound as the door to the tower opened. All of his attention was captured by the man who walked outside of it. He bore nothing save a cloth tunic, a red dragon sewed upon it.

Fuck, I’m still sitting. He shot up from the earth where he rested.

“You should enjoy your sitting, you won’t be able to do much of that soon if you manage to go into the Valley, ” said the Watcher Knight.

“Yes, I know. If I can defeat you,” said Belisarius, realizing his lack of confidence as he looked again at the face of his old master: the man was so much older than he remembered, the lines of his face were very deep, his hair and beard a winter white. A deep sadness in the man’s green eyes. Belisarius wondered if the deep lines on the man’s features were deep not because of age, but because of despair.

“Now, that is a big ‘if’ indeed, “ said the Watcher Knight, a wry smile on his face. It quickly disappeared, “I have no joy in killing you. I only do it because —“

“Because the dragon commands you. Like it commanded you all those years ago.”

“I let you escape didn’t I? If you gave half a damn you’d understand that the Dragon has all of our people, besides my family. If I were to have left with you then —“

“Then we’d have a damned chance to slay him, wouldn’t we? And here you are. Let me pass, I have no need to kill you, ” said Belisarius.

“I’m sorry. But I can’t do that.” He raised part of his tunic revealing a horrid scar that Belisarius could only image was like the mangled flesh of a warped fiend from the abyss. Flesh so mangled that it would make most men hurl in disgust. “My master gave me this when I let you leave so long ago, and he took one of my sons. You coming back will only lead to more misery. If I fail him again, he will take the rest of my family. ”

“And so you serve him, and suffer under him instead? I understand, you’re a coward” said Belisarius. It was so long ago before the Watcher Knight had trained him to fight. Memories bubbled up of practicing with wooden swords, of the wise man’s encouragement, of striving to prove himself to a man who was a second father to him. All the images flashed in his mind in an instant, and then as quickly as they had come, he buried them. He buried that love long ago. He remembered the Watcher Knight’s real name, Ulthus. To Belisarius, Ulthus was dead, having died long ago, and the thing before him was merely a living corpse — only the Watcher Knight remained. And his next words were to that old friend and master that was gone, “I’m sorry too.”

“Enough of these apologies, neither of us can change the past. Let’s end this,” said the Watcher Knight.

There was a second of silence, both men looked deep into each other’s eyes. The sorry eyes of the man before him, the eyes that seemed like they were about to tear up in the solace of old memory, changed to that of a killing and brutal man. Belisarius’ vision narrowed to the point where the only thing in the world was his enemy before him. He hoped his eyes too looked like that of a hawk, ready to kill.

The two men approached each other. Belisarius flashed his sword forward, keeping the distance between him and his foe. Ulthus raised his blade as well.

Then Ulthus’ blade came forward, a flash of lighting, he had forgotten how fast his old master was. Belisarius moved back three steps, and each time Ulthus beat his blade to try to gain control. Belisarius made sure Ulthus could not catch him or his blade. Then on his fourth step, instead of retreating, he came close to Ulthus — just close enough for either to hit.

Ulthus lunged with a thrust aimed straight for Belisarius’ heart. Belisarius was quick as a lion and stepped out to the right, and as Ulthus’ blade cut the air, Belisarius’ blade came down on Ulthus’ forearm. Damn it, your distance is off, thought Belisarius. Belisarius barely grazed his foe, but he drew blood nonetheless. Slow, slow, be faster next time! This could have ended. He should be on the ground. You let your love for him cloud you. Remember, the man who trained you died when you left. This is a corpse. Ulthus came with three counter blows, his forearm bleeding, and Belisarius retreated many steps away from the wild swings of his maddened opponent.

“You, fight carelessly old man, “ said Belisarius. “Already I have first blood. Had I been another foe and charged you, both of our blades would be in each other’s bodies.”

“Luckily I know you, and know that you will try to win with guile. But do you know yourself? Look where you are!” said the Watcher Knight, his eyes looking past Belisarius, a grin of unearned victory on him.

Belisarius looked back quickly to where Ulthus’ eyes had gazed: the Chasm was right behind him! If he took another step back he would fall into its near bottomless depth. Damn it, there would be no retreating now. Not unless he wanted to fall and be lost inside that great pit.

He had to think quickly. He lunged at his foe, making quick cuts: first his blade came to the left of his foe, and then to the right. Ulthus' blade followed to parry quickly each time, but there was no contact. He made his opponent be on the defensive, uncertain where he would land. Then on the third blow he went straight for the man’s head. Yet, he was too slow — this time Ulthus parried him. Their blades locked together. He was certain he could outmatch his opponent in strength, he put all his strength into pushing his foe’s blade away. If he could just —

He was too close. Ulthus brought his blade back and Belisarius fell forward as his entire weight had been focused on pushing Ulthus’ blade forward — Belisarius stumbled. Ulthus thrust his pommel to Belisarius’ face as he fell.

His entire world was knocked upside down as the pommel of Ulthus’ blade crashed into his head, into his skull. His body flew backwards. His hands let go off his sword. He heard his blade clattering once on the ground, a sliding sound, and then one great clink against stone as it hit the edge of the chasm on its way down the pit.

His world was spinning, and whatever rations he ate before the melee now were on his legs as he vomited them out. He lay there kneeling on the ground, his opponent before him.

“Stand up, and leave. You’ve lost. Don’t be an idiot, you can still leave here with your life,” said the Watcher Knight.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, I have to go through with this. I have to slay Argoryx. I have to, “ he said with a final whimper. Still his head and the world around him was spinning, he could barely walk. I’ve trained my whole life to do this one thing damnit, and I’m almost dead. Only one thing left, if I could only grapple the man, then maybe I could come out of this thing alive. Yes, that’s my only chance now. Another big ‘if’. Belisarius was always the better grappler, besides being younger and stronger. He pounced at the man, arms forward. Ulthus’ blade came down.

Then both men stopped: Belisarius with his hands forward; Ulthus with his blade extended.

Then Belisarius looked at the palm of his hand. He had been too slow. Too damned slow. His foe’s blade cut deep into the palm of his hand. Fresh blood running down it.

“I’m sorry, old friend, “ said Ulthus. Then came another blow to his shoulder. Belisarius stumbled back, and then he fell into the great chasm.

The light of the open chasm before him became smaller and smaller as he peered above, falling deeper into the pit. Nothing save the wind, the deep pain from the wound on his hand, the one on his chest, and the wound in his soul from his failed quest. He had failed his people. The end was here.

But it did not come. Instead, as he was cast down, hurtling through the chasm, he heard a cackling laugh. It stopped, and then came a deep voice, “It’s not time for you to die. Not yet. I still have plans for you. “

Then everything went black.