Shadows & Sorcery #46
Ah good day, good evening, good time everybody, and welcome to the forty-sixth edition of everyone’s favourite dark fantasy flash fiction newsletter: Shadows & Sorcery!
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This week, we find ourselves in perilous combat against the Dragon of Defilement, we find a most peculiar Graveyard Temple, we take a calm trip into the Cathedral Woods, we make a quick visit to the curious Shrine Graves, and finally we learn the dark truth behind the City of Shadows…
Dragon of Defilement
Three figures entered into the heart of the dragon's lair. One was all earthen colors--olive skin, oaken hair, and verdant eyes, looking out from a rather utilitarian set of chainmail and leather. She held a wide longsword in her hands, whose blade tapered to point. Next to her, a being of steel: deep grey skin, pale grey hair, eyes of dark white with faint luminosity, and long fin-like protrusions where ears would be, and it, for elves were not like humans in that regard though answered to "he", was clad in thin shining plate. In his hands, a silver shield, and a great long spear whose coiling head ended in a point so thin as to be invisible. Behind them came a third, he wore a long navy robe with thick golden trimming, a similar mantle was about the shoulders, and he wore a soft, conical cap of dark material. A wispy white beard fell down to the chest. In his his free hand, for the other was laden with rings, was a sceptre of silver that ended in a small globe of crimson: a magician's dragonmagick source.
They were, for the moment, unseen behind the rubble of the ancient mountain ruins where the dragon made its lair. They had battled through serpent-men and dragonspawn for three days, each encounter more monstrous than the last, the wizard, Alz, having discovered the dark truth of the dragon's experiments in defilement. It was his unshakeable loathing for the monsters, as well as his control of the dragonmagick, that had won the steel elf Cru's respect, for the elves had ever been wary of mankind’s use of the enemy's power. In fact, the wizard had been indispensable in the quest, having even repaired the girl Vya's enchanted drake-strength ring, with which she had vowed to shed dragonblood.
Upon a towering monolith sat the dragon. Its long, frayed wings draped down the sides as a monstrous cloak of flesh. The tail, which split near its end into ragged feelers, lazily coiled about the great stone. But the head was the worst of all: a crown of horns, a long thin snout covered in a dozen beady red eyes, and perpetually bared teeth that jut and twisted at odd angles. Before it, upon the dusty cracked rock floor, several figures in rags seemed to be in fearful adoration. In their raised hands was a green, noxious flame--the Curseflame of the Orcs. Alz had feared as much. The dragon had enslaved a band of orcs, the cursed descendents of exiled dragon-men, and who wielded a debased Art of corruption that this dragon had somehow mastered.
Vya's hands tightened about her blade's grip, and her drake-strength ring flared to life, flooding her arms with its bestial might. She looked to Cru, and to the spear. They had one shot to kill this dragon. The gossamer spear was an elven masterwork, taken from the archives in order to put down this dire threat. It would pierce the core of the dragon with ease, but would shatter forever afterwards. They had everything to lose. The wizard began to flex his ringed hand and summon their power as he glared at the orc sorcerers. It was to be magic against magic. Only when the way was clear could the true threat be faced.
Alz the wizard strode forth, his companions keeping back a safe distance. Above, the dragon slowly turned its head, and let out a rumble that contained primal and malevolent speech. Suddenly, the rag-clad orcs stood, putrid flame in their taloned hands. "The curse! The curse! The curse!" they bellowed in unison their dread battlecry as gouts of snaking green fire were cast upon the magician. He responded by conjuring tendrils of a basilisk's all-consuming rot, choking the curseflames into sputtering embers. The closest orc now rushed forward with a snarl. Its snout was short and bestial, with bared fangs and foam flying from it. As it pulled a hand back, it began to fume with oily smoke. Behind it came the others, now unsheathing their vile weapons.
But before they could reach him, Alz thrust forth his sceptre, and from the reddish orb atop it, a great wave suddenly was spewed forth, causing small flames to dance in the waving air--the searing breath of the wyvern, the closest thing to true fire the dragonspawn could muster. The wave hit the orc as it lunged, and the creature's whole form to burst into flames, the charred remains scattering upon the ground. But the others were already upon the wizard. He skilfully blocked with his sceptre, but it wouldn't survive another hit. He sent two fingers and a thumb out in a pronged motion and summoned up again basilisk's poison, sending a thick black dart shooting into the flesh of the attacker. The moment it left his hand, the ring he had used shattered into pieces, the full power of the toxin having been concentrated into a single blast. The orc stumbled, heaved, retched, and fell over dead, curling up like a spider.
The final orc looked with terror and rage, and roared a curseflame into its hand, but it was anticipated. Vya had ran low and rushed forward, leaping upon the orc and severing its arm cleanly. Rotten blood and sickly flame erupted from the stump, and Vya was about to go in for the kill when Alz sent another wave of wyvern-heat at it, turning the beast to ash. The two shared a shocked glance, but didn't hesitate. They looked to the dragon which had uncoiled itself and crawled down the monolith. It was big, not a colossus but perhaps a little larger than a particularly grand carriage, well over twice as long, and it was thin and wiry. It rose its head up, murmuring imprecations in a tongue that to this day still sent shivers through the heart of any human who heard them.
But not so the elves. Cru had snuck forward, feather-weight silver shield ready, and had taken aim at the beast's chest. The rage of his ancestor-gods burned throughout him, of the primordial wars his forefathers had waged against this scourge of scourges. Alz had stood in dark rapture. Something of that ancient awe that once kept mankind under dragon slavery sometimes stirred in the breast of a magician, they who spend their lives perilously close to godlike power. It was only when Vya had ducked forward, already shaken of her more than justified horror, sending her blade deep into the dragon's forelimb, did he awaken himself and go to the aid of his comrade. Such determination is what had won her the respect of the steel elf, a people notorious for their pride.
Its head shot down to gaze at her, but she dodged the swipe it made as she retracted her sword. It was about to lunge at her when Cru gave out a warrior's call, something to match the dragon's own arrogant pride. Each of its dozen eyes independently darted to the elf. It held for a second before bowing low and spewing forth a jet of flame in which danced manic shadows--defiled fire that would test the purity of the silver shield. Cru found himself physically pushed back by the force, almost knocked off of his feet. The attack was returned by Alz who had conjured up his own drake-strength talisman and sent forth another wave of wyvern-heat in a tight cone. It shot into the dragon's eyes, causing it to rear up, roaring its vile flames into the air.
This was it. This was the moment.
The three looked to each other for confirmation.
Mere seconds passed. Cru cast the burning, rotten silver shield from his arm with a thankful prayer to the spirit of its maker, and wheeled around to the front of the dragon. Vya was calling out oath after oath, bounding forward as the dragon looked down with bleared eyes, thick smoke billowing from its maw. She leapt past it with a battlecry, her blade biting deep and causing a gush of black blood to spill from its side. She smiled to herself, her vow complete.
While the dragon was stunned, moreso from the shock of her daring than the pain, Cru had stood up, and held the spear as far back as he could. He gave himself only a second, but he savoured it. This is what the elven race had been born to do. He only whispered his full name, but he knew the dragon heard it. Even in this dank place, the spear-head's tip shone, and as his eyes left its fine form for the last time, with the grace only the martial art of the steel elves could muster, he threw the spear towards the inner core of the dragon.
A streak of silver lightning was all it saw. The final roar was a bellow that sent a shockwave through the ruins, dust raining from the ceiling far above. The spear emerged from its back in a crystal shower, luminescent cracks cascading across the entire weapon's surface. The dragon stood up and twisted about as the spear crumbled into pearlescent ash. It fell back against its monolith, crushing the corpse of an orc under its taloned limbs. A horror that had as a stain upon time felt its dark eternity slip away, and looked with unfathomable hate upon the children of those it had one personally warred with and enslaved in a time unthinkable. And then, it was gone.
The wizard Alz walked cautiously to its corpse. He gazed at the wounds in its side and chest. Dragonblood. None more potent a source of power in the world...and none more deadly. He raised his wyvern-heat sceptre high and brought down its full force upon the corpse of the dragon, sending an almighty crackling blast of searing force upon it, causing the dead horror to erupt into flames, and the sceptre shatter into pieces. Cru smiled, though Alz didn't know it. The wizard looked to his companions and gave a tired, but content nod to Vya.
The trip home would be long, but good.
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