Vigour Mortis

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. When they arrived it was in droves. They each converged on the valley from their own covetous corners of the world, inescapably compelled to make the journey by latent instinct. Once all had gathered, their restraint finally broke, proving once more why dragons are the worst kept company. Shortly thereafter followed a time known as The Rain of Blood.

When the last drops of the thick patter had subsided, only one remained. Gore-drenched and rage-filled, The Last Dragon claimed undisputed mastery of the skies. It was not enough. The Last Dragon wanted more. He drank of the power left unguarded in the carcasses of the defeated; he drank more than his fill. Delving deeply into the recesses that had for so long been in his sights but just out of reach, he now plucked unopposed and darkly at the strings holding the fabric of the world. The beast forsook bone and body to become one with the valley, spilling up and over its bowl-like confines to stake his righteous claim on the land. No longer could you see him with fleshy eyes; but if you were really paying attention, if you turned your nose to the ground, if you held a great lungful of air, if your life-blood mixed with the earth, that is where you would find him.

The Last Dragon was not mute in his filling of the valley. He had retained but one part of his living body. His breath carried a whisper, one to move worldly creatures in a dance to his tune, one which moved across eons, one which eventually found Edward lying in that same valley.

The invasive stench of saddle-sweat ballooned about the mounted men. They hadn’t bothered to pad their armour to mask their approach as they normally might when manoeuvring through woodland; they had long since been spotted by scouts of the opposing force assembled on the plain. There was nothing stealthy about what was to come.

Then the call came. The anticipation of which had held them so tense. Edward’s heart drummed against his breastplate. The playful jingle of several dozen spurs spiked the flanks of peaceful creatures. The drumming at Edward’s chest was drowned by the hammer of hooves to the earth. There was no individual in the attack. They moved as one, inexorably to their target.

Crashing through the leafy canopy they cut free of the wooded confines. It didn’t take long for them to close the gap to expectant faces. Edward levelled his spear. In that moment he envied his horse its blinkers, for the wall of steel-clad flesh to which he charged looked so painfully sharp, but the wider view from which his horse was spared was something that promised a grisly death. Edward turned away from that dark promise, trying his best to match a horse’s view. Just before the screaming started, Edward flinched in the saddle. He heard his name, clear as a bell, spoken softly as if a lover were leaning to his ear.

The crash of metal and bodies was deafening even under a helmet. The impact alone threatened to break Edward’s spine, not to mention the many grim-set faces below aiming to achieve the same end. Edward’s spear broke after a mere few thrusts, some meeting a soft target, some a hard one. He cast aside the splintered shaft and scraped his sword somewhat awkwardly from its sheath. He had survived the first pass through the bloodied but unbroken mass of bodies. His unit was reforming a few hundred feet from the thick of the battle. He was always surprised at the disorientation he felt after a charge. It was often like trying to read a map in the dark and finding yourself on the wrong side of a mountain come the dawn.

Edward formed-up again to charge from the rear this time, disheartened at how light the numbers were around his banner. It was an extremely bad habit of his to view the rest of the army and how they were faring. He had his orders and he should follow them. But what if they weren’t in the best interest of his men? His unpermitted review revealed… horror. This was not how things were supposed to be going. The rival force still held unjustly strong after the initial assault. The flank that was Edward’s responsibility had been weakened, however, not to the extent that was expected. He still fared far better than other commanders on the field though. The enemy simply refused to give ground. The centre was a bloody mess. It was hard to look at. Edward looked to who needed his help the most. The right flank. It was infantry on infantry. All billhooks and swords. His liege was in the thick of it, along with the rest of his faltering men. Gripping reigns tightly at the frustration of abandoning his position and his orders, Edward wheeled his unit to the opposing end of the holding line.

By the time he had worked his men to the other end of the field, they had seen too what was happening and had worked themselves into a frenzy of battle-lust. Every man under him trusted his orders and would readily give their lives - he wished that they would not. They were so close now that the worry of their lord could be seen through the many variations of visor slits. Their very presence transformed his concern to a jubilant delight. They would crash together and meet in the middle, like the teeth of an iron jaw.

“By the Gods, it’s good to see you Edward!”

“You too, my lord.” Despite himself, despite their situation, it really did feel good for Edward to see that cantankerous old goat still alive.

“What of your flank, Edward?”

Edward was brought up a little sort, “We smashed them, my lord, but did not break them. I thought to relieve you and then together hit their centre,” they were both shouting over the clamour.

There were a few painful moments where Edward thought he may be at least due a flogging. His lord had not been kind to those in the past who had deviated from the rigidity of his battle-plans, and to be fair, those deviants had cost him more than just men.

“You did well,” the would-be-king turned to his breathless lessers, “Don’t tell me you’re tired already! Can’t you keep up with an old man?”

Edward himself was stunned as his horseless lord careered headlong through the broken enemy flank and straight to the centre. It was foolhardy and inspiring to say the least. His sentiment was apparently shared by the gaping maws of dozens who were quickly reminded of their place by more disciplined sergeants. Still, it was hard not to throw yourself in after him. The ones on foot did exactly that. Even Edward wanted sorely to join them, but he had spotted the opposing cavalry reforming themselves from activities elsewhere on the field. Edward needed to hit them while they were still loose. He looked at the men he had left. He had a good few on horses still, the ones without he instructed to guard their lord, their heavier armour would serve him well.

Edward could ill afford a number of charges here, what he really needed was a decisive strike to break their mounted forces. Straight for the jugular then.

Edward shouted some words of encouragement at his riders, which were met well. This was good. They still had the belly for battle. Away they went again, away from the thick of the fight. Edward heard a cheer roar out from behind his gallop. It could only be good news, he knew it. But he could not allow himself to be lulled into the false sense of an early victory. This cavalry was still a threat.

His attack was spotted. The enemy knights hurriedly returned his charge with a messy spearhead formation. The air filled with bellows. The two would glide across the mottled earth to meet as dragons.

Edward woke from darkness to a fading light. The day had grown long indeed. The fiery touch of twilight skittered across the patchy stalks of spring barley; it dashed itself across the valley sparingly, like the worn scalp of an aged man. Its kingly gold met today with a sticky, forgotten red. It was a good day. The barley had not fed so well since The Rain of Blood, and it did not know when such fortune may strike again. Much like a spider, the barley began to weave its spell, creeping over the bodies of foolish men and unwilling beasts in a cocoon that would deny time its due. This was a meal to be stretched-out and savoured.

Edward’s breath came ragged. He lay propped up against his lifeless steed. Edward reached weakly for the spot that pained him the most. There was a vicious gash of rent metal just above his stomach. Blood poured from the rupture like wine from a chalice. He couldn’t get to it. The squeaky scrape of his gauntlet to the base of his breastplate taunted the futility of his action. About him were fallen comrades and enemies alike. Above the stab of his own pain all he could hear was the gentle wheezing of some other poor soul out of sight. He knew he didn’t have much longer. He was oddly accepting of that knowledge. While his body gave its last the closing images behind his eyes were of his wife. He hoped that she would not dwell on his death.

Rigor had already set in while his body rattled with the last desperate clawings at vanishing life. His breath escaped with none to return.

Edward blinked. Night was upon him now. He saw the inanimate, grim silhouettes of man and beast under moonlight. He could not move. He could not breathe. His heart was still. Paralysing panic beset his mind rendering it as static as his body. He had been unsure what to expect of death, but he was certain that it would lead somewhere else. He reasoned that patience would be the key and that he would simply treat this state as some courtly waiting room. Yes, someone would be along soon to tell him where to go.

Morning came, but nothing more with it. Edward’s view was dazzling. The sun bounced off a discarded shield which set him to squinting. It must have been a few hours before he was free of the harsh angle of light. His view was limited. In his passing his head had listed to the side. In the distance he could narrowly see the many dead strewn across the field of sparse barley. There was no sign of movement save for the light flutter of his own banner which pierced into the soil at a skew. But these things were in his periphery only. What occupied the bulk of his vision was the long neck and powerful shoulder of his dark horse. Edward still sat upright against its belly. Even in death the animal had not let him fall.

His mind wondered at the outcome of the battle while he waited. He didn’t even know the name of this scrap of land over which they had fought - silly really.

Every fight he had ever seen or participated in was followed shortly by those collecting arms and armour to be reused, or chancers cutting fingers for rings and purses for profit. There wasn’t a soul within sight or sound.

In time, Edward found that he did not feel tired, nor hungry, nor much of anything at all. The link between mind and body had been severed like a puppet relieved of its strings.

The longer he waited, the longer his worry festered.

Days drew to weeks, then months, then years.

Edward listened as the winds of spring shrieked harshly, splitting across slate that climbed up the edges of the valley. He watched the lightening from summer storms strike plate armour and dance across the field from man to man. Despite his hope, it did not prove enough to start a heart. During winter he didn’t see much of anything - snow would set deeply, covering all from view - he mostly kept his eyes closed for this as the sun reflected uncomfortably from it.

He had come to accept that nobody was coming for him. There were no Gods; just waiting.

Thoughts of inevitable reality absorbed Edward for a period. He lamented the things that would never come to pass. He would never again run his hands through his wife’s maroon hair, nor hear her laugh, nor take in her scent; he would never hold his child, who was still unborn when he left. There were others in his life as well. Only the fondest memories of family and friends flicked behind his eyes like the turning of pages. It would have been so easy to forgive and forget all past ills that had come between them if it meant that he could see them again. They smiled back at him. He knew they were all dead. The years had passed his counting but he knew the number to be too high to get the better of such a hard and unaccommodating thing as life. They were all gone having never known his fate, that he still lay trapped with them in his heart. He had not even enough life in him to spare a tear. He closed his eyes tightly for he knew what he must do to not fall to despair.

With a speared heart he set to burying all thought of his loved ones, deep, deep as they should have been allowed to bury him so long ago.

Through some twist of time, Edward found his head to have turned one morning. He knew that he had not done it himself. He could not remember ever feeling so excited. The change of view may as well have been a whole new world. His eyes filled with surprise as they found another set. It was a knight, not one of Edward’s, but friend or foe no longer mattered, the memory of it had lost any significance long ago. They were brothers in purgatory.

It looked like the man had managed to drag himself up against a rock. His armour carried a number of dents with a portion missing entirely, along with one of his arms. He looked old for a knight, Edward thought. He eagerly soaked in the man’s features. He had a moustache you could be proud of, flecked with dark grey. His face was hard-set. It was a death mask that spoke of great pain and yet still maintained composure. Up top, his matte, white hair fell long enough to tickle his ears. But what pulled Edward’s focus the most is what rested beneath his heavy brows.

Edward had never seen the wandering eyes of a dead man. They met piercingly with his. The joy and frustration he felt in that moment were immense in equal measure. Were he able to speak he would have called out oh so many things. He was not completely alone.

The seasons repeated over and over.

A rot had set in. The slowest putrefaction. It was the thing that had turned his head. Edward hadn’t noticed. It had taken many years for him to feel it. He was held in decay, denied life and death. He saw the same truth mirrored in the taut, pale skin of his friend. He would look down to see how his hand still clutched at the puncture in his plate just as urgently as the day he had received it. It was the one part of Edward that eternally grasped for the preservation of a life long lost. Even his armour had not yielded itself fully to the rough hand of time. With even a week or two of missed oilings a rust should have taken hold. But after all this time there seemed little more than surface pitting, though it was hard to tell under the filth of course.

It was the barley. The barley pulled them all to cold death. The Dragon’s Breath had said so. The Dragon’s Breath had been with Edward since the beginning, since before he fell even, though his mind had been too wracked with disquiet to hear it. The years had hollowed the hallways in his mind to the point where even a whisper carried an echo. It rang so clearly now that there was no mistaking this thing was very much at home in Edward’s thoughts. It told him many things. It was this ancient, corporeal being that so loudly whispered to him on frigid nights. It both scared and thrilled Edward, for he had not known true quiet until he first heard the words. He warily entertained his guest; what else could he do? He knew not what the thing was capable of, nor what it really wanted. It spoke of the land, of things buried in the past, without expectation of an answer. Edward had refrained from making conversation, but he did listen. It told him that the place in which he lay was a groove purposefully cut before The Rain of Blood - but Edward didn’t believe that. He couldn’t bring himself to trust it in full. It said of the barley that it was a hungry thing - this Edward took more seriously. It was this most recent revelation that made sense of the feeling that had crept over him of late. It felt like the touch of a thousand spindly legs pricking at his very essence to steal what phantom of vitality he still retained. Since learning of it Edward had marked the steady progress of the creeping stalks. It was like watching the tide come in, only Edward lay on the beach as a helpless piece of driftwood waiting to be carried off.

There were long periods where Edward heard nothing from The Dragon’s Breath. In that time the barley thrived. Edward continued to watch its progress completely impotent to resist his impending doom. He wished that it would just let him die.

It grew up and around still warriors, cutting them off from each other much like a well-planned encirclement. Edward was separated from his friend. He would come to sorely miss the almost-conversations they had shared with their eyes. He had only his trusted steed left who had propped him up so reliably for so long. Things had become so quiet.

One day the whispers started again.

There is a purpose that you must fulfil.

I don’t even know what you are. It was strange to think with words and to break his silence. Edward’s mind was all weather and seasons.

So many attempted coercions. So many promises. But what The Dragon’s Breath asked of him was monstrous. Despite his disgust, he still listened, it provided breaks in the long monotony. All that he heard and continued to hear made him vow to sit there until the sun swallowed the world before obliging such a task. He wondered if his obscured friend was similarly tormented.

Slowly but surely the whispers worked their way through the shield-wall erected around the inner sanctum of Edward’s mind. They infected every facet of his being, spreading like a mould. They were talking, always talking. Edward lay helpless in this screaming cave.

He lost his place in the world, forgetting much of who he was. It continued until he could barely remember his own name.

A simple question finally came to him at the hush of all other echoes.

Shall I tell you what became of… her? A name was whispered to him. At its very mention Edward remembered everything in a great flood. Then the voice told him.

Something sparked in the back of Edward’s mind, something long forgotten, which ignited a flare to dwarf the sun. From the pit rose a boiling rage. It spilled into the quiet places of Edward’s mind like lava burning everything it touched.

Bones cracked as they broke from the icy grip of death. Armour complained like an old gate - one that would have happily remained closed. The gold that washed his eyes had cleared. He rose again as a child of the moon.

As Edward emerged so too did the others. One by one, bulky shadows of squealing metal stood upright from their long drowning in the sea of stalks. Not just them. The faithful mounts that bore them to this accursed place found their feet again. If it wasn’t for the grim task to which he now set about, breaking free of the barley would have felt much more like a triumph.

Edward cast about him to the shadowy figures. There was a slow deliberateness to their movements; certainly nothing so wasteful as the vigour of a breathing man. There were enough here for a start. He would need to grow his forces for The Dragon’s Breath; he knew exactly which bodies would be contributing. He turned to find his silent friend. Edward inclined his head, a gesture which was readily returned.

In the low bustle of noise that the valley had not heard in ages, the Twice-Damned Legion took their reigns or found their place in the column.

Edward, now saddled, leaned down to grab his banner. The pattern had faded to nothing. They marched now to eventually meet the threat posed to The Last Dragon.

Leading the slow procession from the valley, Edward raised his banner high.