When Woe Comes

There came out from beneath the Wandering Mountains a knight errant wearing worn-shod armor and an old beautiful sword.

The rings of his mail were tarnished and haggard; his breastplate—once sterling—cracked from contest with one greater than he; the belt about him had lost its buckle and so he fastened it with a knot.

Somewhere along the way he had lost his name and so he walked as a testament to his own poverty.

He had come with his lady wife, their babe and young son—and an impossible shame.

Their wagon was a strange sight and stranger were its contents. For beneath its billowy canvas there lay the monstrous head of a great malignancy.

A tyrant king.

It was one of the great lizards—dragonkin they called them, for they were monstrous in size like the dragon but they did not share their cousins’ wisdom. Many of their breed were used as beasts of burden, some as homes for kings, but the fierce ones were plight to men and none more so than the Tyrant.

A mighty foe, a wondrous terror—never before had one been slain by the hands of men.

Yet there, beneath the canvas of an oddly-crafted, overly large wagon, lay the cured head, hide, and bones of just such a one—a treasure worth a king’s ransom and tale of valor, the like of which, was long gone from the hearts of men.

The wagon was drawn by a three-horned dragonkin with a brilliant golden hide dappled with copper flecks. The shieldfaced cow was still half-grown, but she was a kindly creature with a slow steady gait and Bell was her name and she was loved mightily by her little family.

From the highlands of his lady’s people they hailed. It was a land of eidolic marches beyond the western river and the realms of men in those elder places, where Old Folk shepherded vast herds of dragonkin. There, the venerable people still ate of glistening boughs and grew trees tall as mountains. The rivers ran great and wild through that numinous land with their starlit songs. High above, ancient drakes sailed through clouds like sky-born ships upon misty seas. The land there hymned the ancient verse, and it was known by all as the blessed realm of Eletheme.

They were on the long march to the City of Ithilion where sat the high throne to the Realms of Men.

They journeyed through long perilous in oft forgotten lanes and rows through burrows and meadows, trekking mountainsides on thin and rarely used roads. The family wearied the days and nights beneath a slow and tarrying sun and found haunted woods that stretched further than the seas and this is how they came then to the eastern stretch of the Wandering Mountains.

The sun was fading in the west and the sky was yawning in all its varying shades. The world was already dark beneath the forest, ancient wood crept up to the road and crowded it at either side. Bell raised her head and snorted in sudden alarm. The wagon came to a halt. The animal stamped and widened her legs, the kindness of her nature now behind her as she became shield to her little ones.

Out from the woods stumbled a figure into the road. The knight unhitched his sword. It was a bandit’s play. The lady slipped from her mount into the wagon like they’d practiced, winding the reins around the hitching handle. The boy holding his baby sister crawled over the seat into the back of the wagon with tyrant’s head.

The wife looked at her husband’s hand upon the hilt of his sword. She worried for his many wounds.

The figure in the road, rose wearily and moved as if on stilted legs, like a cripple. His voice was thin and raspy. The knight couldn’t make out his words.

“He’s asking for help,” his wife said, she pulled her bow from where it was hid and strung it in a single breath.

“This is how bad men work. Boy, keep your head down. Protect your sister,” he looked at his lady, “Soon as your keen eyes see movement let the arrows fly and do not stop until everything is still.”

She nodded at him.

“Declare yourself,” he said and nudged the steed forward, but Bell tarried, throwing her nose about in a threatening display.

“What if he can’t talk,” the lady asked.

The knight studied the road. It was already so dark.

“Get off the road or be trampled,” the knight said harshly.

The figure rose, limping and did as he was bid.

“That’s odd,” the knight said, “bandits don’t do that.”

His eyes were slits of steel, roaming from side to side across the road. He spit over the side of the wagon, “When I step out, take the reins, do not stop. If you hear steel…”

“Let Bell run,” she said. She remembered his instructions. He nodded and was out of the wagon, sword in hand and ready to make violence.

“Help,” she heard the words. Just a whisper. The voice was exhausted and broken and filled with other brittle things.

“Ellowyn,” came the voice of her husband. It wasn’t harsh this time. Just soft. The man knew he didn’t have to yell, but still it was good to hear his kind voice.

The lady pulled Bell’s reins and stepped from the wagon. When she came around she found a horror.

“Help,” it whispered. The voice was wheezy, as if breathed from smoke.

His face was wrong, even for burns.

His lips were gone, the mouth hole was barely an opening. One eyelid was gone and the bone of his skull shown through the top of his head and he had no hair left. The rest of him looked as if it had been melted, like his skin had dripped like wax beneath the fire. Skin and mail had become one new bloody, terrible flesh.

And she knew then what fires he had passed.

She’d seen this kind of flesh before.

“We will help you,” she said.

“Thank you,” he whimpered and Ellowyn heard his little boy voice. He was just a lad, no older than her own and her heart ached so. She pulled a few things from the wagon. Her son watched in wide eyed terror.

“You must be thirsty,” she said holding out a skin of water.

The stranger nodded, but then his eyes became fixed upon her and he looked in wonder.

“Are you an angel, my lady?” his words sounded like wind; thin and stretched.

She knelt beside him, “No, I’m just a woman.”

He shook his head like it was a great effort.

“Are you sure?” he said, his face crinkled into what was once a smile.

“I am sure,” she said with kind smile.

”Ellowyn brought a skin of water to him, but when he reached out his arms they would not rise for the severity of his wounds and because his flesh had become one with the steal rings of his mail. He moaned so. Ellowyn poured the water into tiny hole that was all that was left of his mouth. The parched thing drank the whole bladder.

The skin around his mouth became taut as he tried to smile.

“I didn’t think I would find anyone. It’s been so long,” he tried to sit, but his knees would not bend and so he had to crumble to the earth. The knight caught him and helped him to the ground. The knight called to his son.

“Bring out a roll and skin, let’s lay him down.”

“Yes, father.”

The boy gave his little sister to his mother and then brought everything his father asked for.

“Son, upair Bell. Stake her where you see the most ferns. Then make camp—fire and everything, alright. We will stay here for the night.”

The boy went and busied himself about his chores, though he much wanted to stay near the one who’d been burned.

“What’s your name?” Ellowyn asked.

“Lancid,” he said painfully.

“That’s a wise name,” she replied. He gave her a small nod in thanks.

“How old are you, lad?” The knight asked.

“Twelve summers, my lord.”

Just two years older than their boy.

“How did this ruin become you?” the Lady Ellowyn asked, but she already knew, so did her husband. The answer was in the skin like wax. It had been too long. It would take many cuts to take his clothing and armor from his body. The work would kill him. Her husband was looking at her for an answer.

She shook her head when the stranger wasn’t looking. She couldn’t save him.

“I’m squire to Ser Raymond, Captain…”

His words failed him. He gasped for air like his lungs couldn’t keep it.

“How did you come to be in this forgotten place,” the knight asked

“The king…”

“What king?”

“King of kings,” the stranger said. The knight and lady looked upon one another.

“Dead,” the burned one said, “His quest. To. Save son.”

He whimpered from the pain.

“Had to find a dragon,” the words all tumbled out correctly.

He took a few moments and breathed. His words were strained with agony.

“It didn’t heal the king’s son. It burned him. It burned all of them,” he’d found a renewed vigor. The starlit waters from which he’d drunk were doing their work. The squire went on. “The dragon was so angry, but the king had brought him gifts. It didn’t matter.”

“Are you all that lived?”

He nodded slightly.

“I’m so tired… but, I swore it. A quest I made of it, like a knight. I’d return with word of the king… I’m so hungry, might you share.”

“Of course,” Ellowyn said and resting her hand on his ruined cheek and he whimpered against the affection of it. He looked into her kind eyes and his cheeks became wet with tears.

“I hoped I wouldn’t be alone when it happened,” he squeezed the words out.

“There, there my boy,” her voice broke in the tenderness of mother.

The burned lad looked at the knight before him.

“Are you a knight, Ser?”

“I used to be.”

“Well, would you carry these words…” he wheezed, “back to Queen Ellyn. I don’t think—“

The words faded into a breath.

“—I don’t think,” the lad roused himself and forced the words out the hole that was his mouth, “I’ll be able… to finish my quest.”

A rush of heat snatched the knight’s voice when he spoke, “You have already done a mighty deed. A thing of valor. You have accomplished what your heart set out to do, young squire. The quest is completed. Lesser men would have failed. I have your words and I will carry them where they must go.”

He took the squire’s charred hand.

“I did not fail?” he asked the old knight before him.

“No, my boy you did not fail. You accomplished your quest.”

“My father… Ser Raymond’s shepherd. Ithilion. If you… find him… could you tell…, I died well.”

The knight gently squeezed the boy’s hand and put his other around it and brought it to his lips. He kissed the lads ruined flesh and nodded, “I can do that.”

The lad tried to smile on last time. It was his last great effort and the light then went out from his eyes and the whole world was still.

“Is he dead,” the man’s boy asked after a time.

The man looked at his boy. His son hadn’t much to say to him since they’d left the blessed lands.

“He’s dead,” his father answered and closed the lad’s one good eyelid.

The boy looked at his mom, but she share no more.

“How’d this happen to him?”

The man and wife exchanged a look.

“A dragon,” his father said.

“They don’t do this,” he said

The man looked at his wife, “I’m going to bury him.”

“I’ll get the fire going and feed the little ones.”

He nodded like he agreed and went to work.

The boy looked to his mother, but she would say nothing else.

The knight’s son and babe were fast asleep when he’d finished burying Ser Raymond’s squire. He walked into camp without a word. His face fallen and eye darkened like they’d wept a great many tears. He sat an arm distance from his bride. The children between them. They let the silence be for a long time.

“How did he make it so far?” Ellowyn asked her man.

“When men have a noble thing before them any pain may be endured,” said the knight.

“But, how was he not killed. These lands are filled with wolves and bears and dragonkin?”

The knight had thought much about it.

“He smelled of dragonfire,” he said, unsure, “It must of kept him safe for his long pilgrimage.”

There was silence between them for a time.

“You should have let the boy help you bury him,” she said to her husband.

He looked up to his wife and ground his teeth. The boy barely spoke to him and when he did there was an edge in his voice. The knight thought to protest; he wished then to send her back the lands of her people, but burying the lad had burned the will to fight out of him. So he sat in silence brooding in the night.

“It is as you say,” Ellowyn dared to speak again, “Something terrible has become of the dragon.”

He looked upon her once again. She was beautiful behind the flickering of the flame. He thought about what beauty would be left of her if she were burned in this quest of his. It was as distateful as a mouthful of ash. He was turned his gaze upon the fire, “It killed King Huron. He was the high king, the king of kings. He is whose audience we sought. Do you know what dragon lairs in these parts?”

“I’ve heard the names of many, but most have not been seen since the silver trees were burnt and our people driven from the lands of men. What does this mean in your heart?”

“It means anyone wearing a crown will think they have right to the high throne; without a high king there will be no moot. Wars will be made, many will die. But, that means nothing. This is the second of that noble breed to breech trust with those they ward.”

His words were like old fear reborn in her bones. The man pulled a fur over his son and sighed a heavy breath, “If men do not learn to kill the dragon, then we’ll all be burying brave little lads.”

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If you made it this far, thank you…

Really. It means the world.

Would love to know:

1. Did it hook you? Where at?

2. Was it interesting? Did it pull you through?

3. How was the prose? Did you enjoy its archaic quality? Or, was it bothersome?

4. How did the characters make you feel?

5. If you had the novel in hand, would you open the next chapter or DNF this?

Thank you again.