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Coyote -> RE: A Blaze of Glory (6/26/2008 1:19:35)
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Chapter 1: The Good Life
“We’ve got another one.”
Raldoth Serredan stepped over the neck of a fallen red dragon. The dragon’s originally crimson scales now gleamed a dull red. Its eyes, once full of life and vigor, were clouded. Death had already overcome the fearsome beast. But its eyes remained open, an eerie reminder of the folly of killing. But this lesson wasn’t just about to be learned by the man that stamped his foot on the dragon’s skull. Raldoth grinded the heel of his metal-clad boots on the scales on the dragon’s head in triumph. This had been yet another victory for him.
Raldoth had kept true to his word. Every dragon he killed, he killed with a ferocity that equaled that of the dragons themselves. He killed with a passion. Every dragon he fought was the dragon that killed his parents. Every dragon he killed was the dragon that razed his hometown. Every dragon hatchling he slaughtered was the child of that foul beast.
As he gazed downward at the dead dragon, a myriad of thoughts came to him. With each dragon kill, he got richer, more famous, and more feared. He felt no remorse for each deed. And besides, the entire dragon could be sold for money, mostly to wizards, who tended to pay a handsome fee for the dragon’s organs, skin, and claws. But the horns he kept for himself as a prize for each kill. A smile slowly split his face. After getting a team of workmen there to take care of the carcass, he could collect his bounty, sell whatever he didn’t want for himself, and then go back home to relax. With even the dragons starting to fear him, life was good.
* * *
A woman danced in the trees, singing a beautiful ballad in a different tongue. Her silver hair flowed out behind her as she skipped and hopped through the woods. She was elven in her beauty, but human in body. Her fair skin sparkled with the morning dew and eyes twinkled with laughter. Her slender frame was perfectly balanced as she pranced through the woods in her joy. But, as her facial expression masked years upon years of worry, her skin costumed her real appearance. She was a dragon, eternal in body and adept at shapeshifting. In reality, she had been sent to find a cure for a plague that had been festering in her clan and killing them off. The disguise was to keep off rival clans who would rather have them done and out of the way. But she would need more than just her own battle prowess. She would need bodyguards. Her destination was a certain city to the east, though it was uncomfortably close to where the Order of Dragonslayers resided. This was just a detour.
* * *
A merry fellow, hopping and skirting down the streets, was regarded with a rather curious eye. The young man seemed an abnormally cheerful for the place known as Cemetery Lane. Many clutched their purses as he passed. He was Lyether Arddarci, renowned thief and your basic all-out, carefree sort of person. The beaming smile on his face just about shouted that he had absolutely no care or trouble in the world. He wore a strange-looking hat, its brim shadowing his sparkling eyes. But they still shone through like a fireball through thick fog.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed as he ran into an innocent passerby. The traveler, already knowing this trick, checked all of his pockets. His possessions were all there, safe and sound. He sighed in relief and continued on, oblivious to a dark shadow darting towards his coins. “Sucker…” he chuckled as he eyed the pilfered gold. Get them when they feel safe, after running into them. He hurried down the road, and an infuriated cry from behind him confirmed that the traveler had discovered his lost wares. Or rather, discovered that he had lost them. He pocketed the gold and walked casually into a nearby alleyway. No sense in getting caught.
“There he is! We’ve got him!” A local peacekeeper faced him and pointed in his direction. Lyether cursed his bad luck. The alleyway was a dead end. Seeing no other men to help him, the peacekeeper advanced, sword drawn and pointing at Lyether’s heart. He drew a long dagger in self-defense. The armored man disarmed him. He glanced around frantically as he backed away from the sword. The peace official obviously wouldn’t be content with just the money he stole. In the words of the townsfolk, the only good thief was a dead thief. He had only one option; otherwise he would be a dead man because of the alleyway off of Cemetery Lane.
He glanced at the wall behind his back before facing the peacekeeper again. He grinned deviously. He had still yet another trick up his sleeve as he feigned fright as realistically as he could. The peacekeeper advanced upon him slowly, step by step. He was obviously happy with Lyether’s predicament, taking the almost blatantly smug smile on his face to account. But Lyether wasn’t about to go down anytime soon. With a flick of his wrist, he extracted yet another dagger from up his sleeve. This one shone with a magical aura and glowed ever just slightly. Before he could look at the look of surprise on the guard’s face, the poor man’s throat was grinning and coughing blood.
A souvenir from a recent excavation from a wizard’s tower, the weapon proved time and time again to be invaluable. He had no idea what it did; only that it was magical and helped him poke the places that hurt. In short, he wouldn’t give the weapon for all the gold in the world.
Well, maybe if there was a lot of gold…
* * *
A girl ran down the street, a multitude of guards chasing her. Her skin was fair, her figure was slim, and she was obviously from a rich family or was very successful in life. She wore silk scarves and a lot of other finery. She appeared frail and would seem like the prettiest little girl a proud mother could have. But outraged cries from behind her said otherwise.
“Witch!” they shouted out in unison, brandishing torches, swords, and anything else they could get their hands on. It seemed nothing could bar their path between them and the witch. The air stank of sweat and bad breath. The female continued running. The mob kept on chasing.
The girl tripped on a rock and flew forward, hitting the ground hard. Tears welled up in her eyes as she vainly attempted to get back on her feet. But the mob was too close. Still kneeling, she tried to break out into a run, but her dress tangled up her legs. She heard a loud rip and cries of delight sounded from behind her. It seemed they had their quarry at last. She was amazed she had run that far; she was in a dress. But the untrained militia carried partway-completed plate mail, swords, shields, and a lot of other things. They were weighted down, but they kept a steady pace. One of them, obviously a bloodthirsty new recruit ready for a raise, ran forward with his sword high in the air. The malice shining in his eyes turned to surprise, and then horror as another blade embedded itself in his chest. He dropped the sword and clutched at the place the throwing dagger had entered his body. And then his eyes glazed over and he fell, dead before he hit the ground. It was a sure throw, enough to poke his heart. Lifeblood leaked out of the wound and out of his mouth. And the attacker stepped out of the shadows.
The attacker, a solemn, solitary man, wielded a broadsword and no shield. Several other throwing daggers were seen scattered about his clothing at easily accessible places. The man’s skin was bronzed by the sun, his black hair messy. Chorded muscles rippled as he walked calmly forward. At the sight of him, the ragtag army stopped. The man stepped forward only to pluck his dagger out of the corpse’s chest and sheathe it again. It was obvious that he was a trained fighter. But one reckless youth, screaming a battle cry, ran forward with his sword raised. He, too, was killed with scarcely a glance.
“Leave her alone,” he growled. “She has done nothing to you. And if you have any obligations about her living here, then I will take her.” Nobody spoke a word. And so, the man scooped the trembling girl up and walked away. The army, seeing their kill now out of their hands, grudgingly dispersed.
* * *
And I shall love you forever with all of my heart
‘Till we crumble to dust and ‘till Death do us part.
‘Till Death do us part…
Raldoth woke up with a gasp. Where had he heard that before? He frantically racked his brain for answers and it dawned upon him like a sun cresting the mountaintop. It was part of a well-known tragedy, written centuries ago. “’Till Death do us Part”, the story was called. Dragonslaying also included quite a bit of lore in it, and he had stumbled upon that. He hated the book. A dragonslayer fell in love with a dragon, and tragedy developed out of it. “By five and in five you will perish.” he quoted grimly. Those ominous words lay heavy in his mind. For some odd reason, he had the quote stuck in his head and never really could quite get rid of it. He had read the book almost four weeks ago yet it lay heavy in him like their cook’s porridge. He shuddered and forced himself asleep.
* * *
Almost a week later, Raldoth found himself in a small village just south of the great forest. It was very close to HQ, but far enough so that dragonslayers rarely went there. His stomach growled. He needed something to eat.
As he passed the bakery, an cloaked figure ran into him. It fell backwards, walking stuck clattering on the stone street. The cloak was a deep purple and covered the entire body. No doubt he was crazy.
“Old man! Why don’t you watch where you step?” Raldoth looked down at the old geezer on the ground. Despite his harsh words, he offered a hand to help the man up. When the man touched him, he felt suddenly cold. The man pulled himself up and then hunched over with his mouth next to Raldoth’s ear.
“In five and in five, you will perish!” the old man whispered, his ragged voice wheezing slightly. In response, Raldoth pushed the man away. Yes, he knew it now, without a doubt. The man was crazy.
“Looks like you ran into the town crackpot,” remarked a man leaning against the window once the old man was out of earshot. “Old Gramps there got dropped on his head as a babe.” The others standing with him laughed. They all had the rugged but simple features of farmers and simple townsfolk. As natives of the local area, they should know the local rumors and such; dragonslayer bounties, news of dragons, the usual. The place was close enough to the Order’s headquarters.
“Anything unusual going on?” he inquired. The four others shrugged.
“Nothing much. People come and go.”
“Ya might want to ask the dragonslayers about that one.”
“Heard that ol’ Miss Mayfeather was a witch.”
Raldoth sighed and shook his head. But finally, the leader spoke up.
“I heard from someone that there’s a tribe of dragons just over those mountains.” He squinted and pointed northwest. The faintest outline of mountainous territory was barely perceptible to him. No wonder he had to squint. “Dyin’ of some disease of some sort. Reckon they’re gonna die off soon.” Raldoth suppressed a groan. ‘Soon’ in human terms might mean anywhere from five minutes to a week. ‘Soon’ In dragonslayer terms meant anywhere from five minutes to a year. ‘Soon’ in dragon terms meant anywhere from a month to three decades. Coming from the Order, the word soon didn’t amount for much.
“Thank you,” he told them as he walked into the bakery. “I’ll be taking my leave now.” He opened the door. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted into his face. But instead of resuming their own chatter, one of them spoke up once more.
“You might want to worry about that man you ran into. Mad as he is, he’s not the kind to go about lyin’ to everyone.”
“Thank you. I’ll take that into consideration.” Raldoth rolled his eyes as he closed the bakery door. “I’ll take that into a lot of consideration,” he muttered to himself with his tone dripping of sarcasm. What was an old man compared to a dragon? If the man had placed a geas on him…
Raldoth shook his head. No sense in worrying about what won’t happen. When he walked back out with a loaf of bread in his hands, any thought or concern about the old man was simply another wave in a vast ocean.
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