Seravian
Androgynous Dragon
Author's note: Late entry --been a bit of a rough and kinda busy month for me. Some things got pretty rushed as a result. Including the ending. Only posted it because I wanted the participation badge I'm trying to get out of the habit of leaving unfinished things sit on my computer for weeks on end only to end up deleted.
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A ten day journey was long and harsh enough to make even the most seasoned of warriors weary. Yet it was a journey many have braved, for today marked a special occasion.
Around the makeshift campsite, nestled among a ruined structure, people of all walks of life mingled with each other. Noble knights were helping a merchant, likely looking to make a profit from the event, carry a crate. Warriors looking to make a name for themselves sat around the fire pit sharing their experiences. Some seasoned, with a fair number of battles under their belts, some a bit more green… This was one hell of a time to cut ones teeth.
The mood was fairly calm at the moment, but, a fierce battle was on the horizon. One anticipated to be harsh, brutal. Bloody.
Soon, he would arrive. A massive dragon who has earned a reputation for himself as the Storm King. Odrion. Who, true to his nickname, leveled whole kingdoms with treacherous winds and lightning, and struck fear into the hearts of those who have been lucky to avoid his ire.
Inside the main tent, General Henryk Ashe stood with his arms across his chest, looking over the map on the table for the hundredth time since this camp was built. Jaw set, brow furrowed, and gaze hardened. He has not slept in almost two days; fatigue showed clear in his eyes and the way he carried himself. Yet the noises from outside, and seeing so many people here together, energized him. He couldn't relax even if he tried.
He picked up a small rock that was placed on the map to represent where a ballista had been erect, played with it in his hand while scratching at his trimmed beard, peppered with grey, then set it back down in its original location. Bits of twigs and leaves were meant to represent troop placements, and battle strategies. The various minds that came together to come up with this operation, his included, were all experienced enough to cover all ground. Perhaps that was why he found the crude nature of the map humorous.
Three others occupied the tent with him. A portly man by the name of Johan, a well-known and fierce tactician; he had placed positions on the map before them in the blink of an eye, at just a few words. A man called Eli, still fairly new to the group, who was a bit of a mystery. And, lastly, a woman. Lady Aisha. A force to be reckoned with. Knew he way around a sword as well as any warrior he has ever met.
Henryk felt their intent gazes upon him.
For the first time in all his years, he felt uncertain. This operation was on a much larger scale than anything he has ever experienced. He was going to need to be on top of his game, showing what both he and his men were capable of.
If there were any flaws in the others' plans, he would find them and try to smooth them out to the best of his ability.
He sighed deeply, "We cannot fail."
"I agree," Eli, spoke with confidence in his voice. "And we will not." Eli seemed to be the youngest of the group, but that did not mean he should be taken lightly. He was an eager one to be sure, but his eyes showed intelligence. Experience.
Henryk pressed his lips together. "Agreeing is one thing. Confidence is one thing," he said, his attention on Eli though his words were meant for the others as well. "My concern is not with our abilities, and our numbers, but the task itself."
"From what I hear, it's just like any other beast—"
"Dragon," Henryk corrected, observing the expressions worn by the others. "A dragon is no beast. Not even close." Indeed. To compare a dragon to a mindless beast is not only folly, but an insult to all dragons everywhere. Every dragon deserved the same level of respect, regardless of where an individual one stood with human morals. "You will do well to remember this when he arrives."
"If he arrives, you mean."
"He'll show alright," Aisha spoke this time, resting her hand upon the hilt of her sword. She had a fiery look in her eyes, and her fingers looked itching for an excuse to draw that blade. "That's why we're all here after all. We've been tracking his movements for weeks."
"Indeed," droned Johan, his eyes fixated upon the map. Henryk thought he, too, might be looking for imperfections to smooth out. "I can't speak for Lady Aisha's warriors and mages, but our Diviner is rarely wrong. He saw him here. He'll come."
Eli merely hummed and shrugged his shoulders.
Attention was suddenly turned to someone else entering the tent. A man dressed in bright robes, decorated with jewelry stood before them. He carried a scroll and leaned on what at first appeared to be a walking stick, but upon closer inspection it was revealed to be a staff. One fitted with a fine gem which gave off an cerulean sparkle when the sun hit it just right.
He greeted each of the individuals in the room with a nod and a polite smile. His calm demeanor eased the tension in the air a little.
Lady Aisha was the first to speak, "What's up Neil?"
"The winds have picked up, M'lady," Neil moved over to the map and placed down his scroll. "And I have sat down with your mages, as requested. It was not easy, but I do believe we have come up with something that will work." He carefully unrolled it to reveal what looked to be a magical incantation of some sort; a powerful one, from what Henryk could tell.
"Ah, finally! You're talking about that wind shield spell, yeah?"
"Yes, I do! This incantation should provide protection against Odrion's winds. Though for how long remains to be seen. It's… finicky."
Johan frowned, "How finicky?"
Neil scrunched his face up and shrugged his shoulders, "We did what we could with the timeframe we were given. I'll leave it at that."
Lady Aisha growled under her breath, "This spell had better fucking work."
"Now, now," Henryk stepped in. This was no time to bicker. "I, for one, have faith in Neil and the other mages." He picked the scroll up, looked it over more thoroughly. When he was a boy, he had dabbled in magic. When he trained to become a knight, he explored it a bit further, and when he was promoted to general he came to understand it quite well. His own aptitude with magic was, frankly, lousy, but knowledge was power.
The magical markings etched upon this scroll were impressive.
He nodded approvingly before handing it back to Neil.
"General!"
Henryk turned his attention to the source of the voice, a young man who looked out of breath, "What is it?" His brow furrowed and he straightened his posture, hands clasped behind his back.
"Sir. Our scouts have returned."
"I see," Henryk's eyes hardened. "Lead the way."
He left the tent with the young man and hurried through the camp. A light breeze stirred the air, kicking up dust. The laughter and conversation from moments ago had died down and was now replaced with the fluttering of tent flaps and banners. Some people were staring at something out over the vast, open field that surrounded their ruin-camp. Others were working with the three ballistae, while others still checked and double checked their gear and made sure their weapons were sharp.
Those tending to supplies focused on making sure everything was in order. Reinforcements to the campsite as a whole were being made as well.
At the edge of the site, stood the scouts. Three in total. All of them were fairly young compared to other members of the group, standing tall and proud. Likely had agreed to scout to assuage their restlessness before the main event. They all greeted Henryk with a level of respect, in spite of their age, which reminded him that they were indeed fine warriors in their own right. If seemingly a bit eager to please.
In all his years, General Henryk Ashe never tired of the tense atmosphere the anticipation of battle brought. The unsteadiness of his breathing. The way his heart beat quicker, harder. He always found it so exhilarating. Like he was young and eager again, ready to face the world.
"What do you have to report?" He inquired, getting right to it.
The three seemed to quietly battle amongst themselves, who would be the one to speak first, before the most eager of them stepped forward and cleared his throat, "Odrion is approaching, sir. He was spotted near the ravine."
"Ahead of schedule," Henryk mused, lowering his gaze thoughtfully. But he knew. Neil had mentioned the winds picking up, and they indeed had. In fact he swore the gale was steadily getting stronger the longer he stood here. "Alright, good work. Let's not waste time, hurry and prepare yourselves for battle."
The group gave a collective nod. It was almost nostalgic. He expected one, or perhaps a few, to flat out tell him they'd lost their nerve. Yet, to his surprise, each and every one of them hurried off to make preparations. Their eyes serious and understanding.
Henryk let out a slow breath, silently wishing them luck.
Sure enough, after scrambling, and a constant string of information from the scouts, the wind picked up, blowing away anything that was not tethered down. Clouds thickened, darkening the sky, snuffing out what sunlight in the day remained. When one looked close enough, they could see flashes of light in the thick blanket of clouds.
Henryk, Johan. Eli, Lady Aisha, Neil, and two other burly men who had chosen to help out around camp rather than 'stand in a stuffy tent, huddled over a map'. Twins. Germain and Caleb. All stood on a high platform which overlooked the camp. Before them, the small army -twenty-five had been the final headcount— which had amassed over the past few weeks gathered.
The air was tinged with anticipation and a lust for battle.
Henryk felt a tap on his shoulder. Lady Aisha. She looked at him with a grin, "You should give a nice speech."
The others had the same loon upon their face as she did.
"Splendid idea," Johan encouraged. "I never did like crowds anyway."
Henryk sighed, "Very well." He took a step forward. The crowd all set their eyes upon him. He didn't think twice, and got right to it. "Warriors!" His voice boomed, loud as thunder itself. "Can you feel it? The winds are growing stronger. A storm is brewing. Soon, the revered Storm King, the dragon known as Odrion, will be upon us." The sky cracked, as if to further solidify this. "We have all seen our share of combat, pushed through many hardships. But nothing like this. For we are facing a dragon, a true legend. This battle will test us. You will be pushed to your limit, and some of you may not return alive."
He paused to gauge the group's reaction. A few nods and some murmurs, but so far no signs of anybody having second thoughts. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he swore the lightning in the sky was being influenced by the energy. He felt static everywhere. Including within himself.
"Those of you who do survive, will have a story to tell for generations," he continued. "Now, steel yourselves! My we come back alive!" Eager cheers erupted from the crowd. No hesitation or fear. Indeed, it was a good sign to see them all amped up like this. "And, may Odrion find peace…" he added, in a much quieter tone of voice.
"That was good," Lady Aisha said to him, nudging him with her elbow, to which he grunted in response.
The army set off to their tasks, making any final preparations. Just in time, too, as the clouds thickened and the wind rushed by them relentlessly. Which were soon muted by the wind shield incantation cast by Neil and the rest of the mages.
Odrion himself was nowhere in sight, but his roar shook the very foundation of the camp. It sounded like nothing Henryk has ever heard in his life. His dealing with dragons has been fairly limited throughout most of his career. Dragons were elusive creatures, and rarely delt with humans if they could help it. But this sound… this sound, which could only be described as the sound of thunder itself, combined with the grating of metal, immediately became burned into his mind.
Before long, the spell cut through the wind and thinned the clouds enough to reveal him. From far away, it was hard to make out many details. But then he swooped down, emitting great wind pressure from his wings, and one could see it: the dull, grey scales that covered his body, the black ooze dribbling out of his mouth, his feathered wings –a rarity among dragons—which commanded the winds, his lifeless eyes, and how he seemed to have a mane of disheveled, white fur around the base of his neck, and along his shoulders, down to about the middle of his back. And how that fur seemed to be electrified; one only needed to be in his presence for a second to feel the static. Energy which appeared to jump between his massive horns as well.
To call the revered Storm King magnificent was not a lie, but not quite the truth either. The black sickness in his body littered the ground, and some unfortunate people as well. Exactly when the might Storm King had succumb to corruption is unknown. Some say it happened gradually, others overnight. The records were always inconsistent and never gave a clear answer. Perhaps nobody wanted there to be one, or perhaps the truth was far more horrific than one could imagine and indecision was easier. What had once been a mighty dragon had been reduced to a monster that needed to be put out of his misery.
Henryk watched in awe as the dragon make several passes at the camp. Each attempt thwarted by one of the groups raining ballista fire upon him, or slinging magic. A ballista shot grazed the dragon's flank. His wings faltered. He roared –heavens, what an awful sound, it was worse the second time— and turned his attention toward it. The wound was deep enough to cause bleeding; thick red, mixed with black, seeped out of it. His eyes scanned the camp, searching, until they landed upon the very ballista responsible for the shot.
Not wanting the opening to slip away from him, the one manning the ballista reloaded his shots and began to take aim. The harsh winds made it difficult to keep anything steady for long. Just when the perfect shot had been lined up, Odrion vanished into the clouds. Lightning flashed. When he emerged, he was positioned behind the ballista. His claws were engulfed in electricity, making them appear much longer than they were… As if the lightning were an extension of himself, a weapon. With one mighty swipe, the ballista was torn from its fixture and both it and its operator were not merely swept away, they were eviscerated by the harsh winds and intense energy.
Sparks danced across the ground from where the lightning-claws had made contact. It should have been impossible, for there was nothing upon the ground that could be used to conduct electricity. Yet, the ground was torn asunder. All caught in the lightning were severely burned, and rendered unconscious, bodies tense.
Through the cacophony of wind and thunder, it was difficult to hear everything that was being communicated within the army. Yet somehow everyone seemed to be in sync with one another: those on the ground were following Odrion's movements, the mages were more precise with their spellcasting, and, of course, the ballista were hitting their mark more. As if the loss of a few had spurred something within them, making them more focused. As it should. Nobody wanted to see any more casualties, if they could help it.
Odrion went for the mages holding up the anti-wind spell. Hie efforts were thwarted by the remaining ballista operators taking aim and firing shots as quickly as they could. Some mages as well. The dragon danced around the efforts, until a lucky shot struck his wings. An opening which allowed a spell from one of the mages landed a direct hit to his chest.
The winds died completely as the dragon began to rapidly lose altitude and came crashing down, sliding a good thirty feet when he touched ground. A few gathered, watching. All holding their breaths, preparing for the worst. No movement, no lightning; his mane was no longer infused with electricity. But, indeed, the warriors and mages, Henryk, Aisha, Johan, everyone, knew he was not dead. He was simply been left dazed.
It didn't take long for him to recover either. Once he got back to his feet, he stretched his wings and tried to take flight, only for his now tattered wings to refuse to carry him. He hit the ground again and stumbled. Several loose feathers fell to the ground from the attempt. Now the real battle could begin, on ground. And time was of the essence. The anti-wind spell the dragon had wanted to silence was beginning to fail; those who were exerted from the effort of maintaining it had been switched in favor of someone less fatigued, but the spell could not last forever.
A young, eager warrior charged forth, without direction, sword raised, at the Storm King. Attempts to call out and stop him fell on deaf ears.
Odrion bared his teeth and swung his mighty tail around, knocking the warrior away with such strength and velocity that the sound of bones cracking could be heard. The warrior lay on the ground, unmoving. A warning to all that they very well might meet the same fate.
Lady Aisha moved in, several warriors following her guidance, attempting to wear down the dragon some more. Fatigue seemed like something foreign to the Storm King, however, for he was quick on his feet and danced elegantly around each man and woman who stood before him. His sharp claws striking with dangerous precision. Henryk sent some of his own men to aid in the effort, but in the back of his mind sensed something was off. Shouldn't Odrion be putting up more of a fight?
Something changed in the air. The spell holding back the dragon's winds was beginning to truly expire now. It was as subtle as a small change in the breeze, and it had not gone unnoticed. Odrion took advantage of this. With a flap of his mighty wings, a gale was kicked up, halting the warriors. Then, the dragon was airborne again.
This battle was far from over, but Henryk knew it had to end quickly.
Odrion threw his head back and drew air into his lungs. A few men fell for the opening. The air was expelled with such force that a small tornado had been created, sweeping the men up in its wake and tearing them asunder. Everyone ducked out of the way of the tornado, and soon discovered that it was headed straight for the mages trying to suppress the wind. A fierce battle of will ensued, only for the dragon's might to win in the end as the mages, too, were swept up into the tornado. Neil included.
With the winds whipping around them, Henryk and Lady Aisha looked at each other. Johan and Eli were nowhere in sight. They, too, must have been swept up by the tornado.
No time to think. Their shield was gone, and the dragon's winds were growing stronger. Thunder cracked. Lightning coated his mane and feathers again. Henryk stole one last look to Lady Aisha and charged into the eye of the storm.
Odrion roared. Lightning struck the ground. Very few warriors remained standing, but those that did joined Henryk in what he hoped would be the final assault. He shouted, his sword at the ready. Quite literally throwing caution to the wind. The powerful winds would sweep him off his feet at any give moment; he wondered if the dragon was toying with them, now that he had cut their numbers down so much.
With some stroke of luck, he noticed one ballista remained. Damaged, but usable. As he and a few others began working to keep the dragon busy, one man had sneaked off to get it ready. The one mage that survived the annihilation of his peers, despite the fatigue etched upon his face, worked to do all he could to keep them safe from the harsher winds. An effort that seemed like a losing battle, with just one person. However, his magical prowess proved to be admirable, competent. It was just enough to give them a fighting chance.
One minute, Henryk was dodging lightning. The next, hot pain seared his body and he was laying on his back with his thoughts all jumbled up.
He heard a growl, and suddenly felt himself being dragged away. Moments later, Odrion, claws coated in lightning, slammed the ground. A deep impression was left on the earth. He was thankful for whoever it was that saved him from becoming a gory puddle beneath the dragon's paw.
As he lay on the ground, trying to recover and will his body to move, he watched several men take advantage of the dragon being on the ground. It was a clash of steel and claws. One man was unlucky and got knocked away by the dragon's tail. They coordinated with each other. Their swords at last connected with his hide –hidden by the deceptive mane, those scales on his neck especially were tough as steel. However, the injuries he'd sustained from ballista shots and magic had weakened him significantly. One blade had managed to cut just right.
Henryk managed to get back to his feet in time to see more blows being landed on the dragon. His blood, and more of the black sickness within him, oozed out.
A peculiar thing happened. Those who had gotten the sickness on them suddenly dropped and began writhing in pain. Armor was melted, skin exposed. Any skin it touched suddenly rotted away. A quick, yet excruciating, death. If this was what it did to humans, Henryk could only imagine what was happening within Odrion.
The lone mage lost consciousness, having overexerted the remaining dregs of his energy.
Henryk was alone with three others, left to face the dragon. He took in a deep breath and stared him down, gazing deep into those cold eyes of his. The others stood by, awaiting orders. He was able to take some comfort, seeing the dragon breathing harder than he had been, and the fact that his winds had died down. Now needed to keep precious air in his lungs, unable to expel it liberally, no doubt. Both sides were taking a moment to gather their strength before continuing the fight.
Then, a shot zipped through the air. The dragon had noticed, and tried to get away, only to be struck in the shoulder. Another shot tore through his wing soon after. The Storm King, enraged, spread his wings and tried to take flight. He could not.
That was when Henryk gave the order to charge. He and the three others all went for the dragon at once. Lightning nipped at their beings, yet they remained undeterred. They pushed onward, avoiding claws and that damned tail. One man pierced Odrion's eye. The dragon let out a horrible cry and swiped him away. Another managed to land a blow on the less-armored part of his neck. Another cry, and Odrion thrashed his head. Henryk barely escaped being gored by the dragon's horns.
One of the twins, who Henryk had thought was dead, jumped into the fray with a battle cry, wielding an axe. He struck a blow to the side of the dragon's head.
Henryk shouted something to the three with him, and they all followed. Blow after blow was delivered. Head, neck, chest, anywhere they could strike. Until, finally, the dragon stopped moving. The winds were no more.
As the dust settled, everyone still alive gathered around. Silence fell over what remained of them, and their camp for a long time. Either nobody knew what to say, or was still trying to grasp what had happened. What they had managed to survive, if by the skin of their teeth. Indeed, this was going to be something to tell for generations… Yet it did not feel that way at all. There had been too many casualties. The silence also served as moment of grieving.
Nobody dared touch the dragon's corpse, but something had to be done about it. Leaving it in the open like was not idea. Animals that feasted on dragons existed, and any of them could stumble across the corpse. If one of them decided to make a meal out of it, the sickness could spread to them. Or the plants and fauna around the area for that matter.
"Burn the body," Henryk said wearily. When it doubt, just use fire. He certainly had no interest in hauling the corpse back to the capital.
Nobody argued with him.
Dragons are not easy to burn, as they are inherently resistant to fire even when not aligned with flames and heat itself. Odrion burned slowly. The entire night, the survivors watched the pyre. Some of them began humming an old hymn, saved for funerals. It was somehow fitting.
Three days later, with the dead buried and the dragon's ashes scattered by the winds, the survivors went home.
General Henryk Ashe recounted the battle to many a young soldier when he returned. He officially retired two months later, and continued to teach and retell the story (sometimes with exaggerated or changed bits) for years, until sickness took him and he passed peacefully in his sleep with his two daughters and his son by his side.
And then they, too, made sure their father's encounter with the revered Storm King was not forgotten.
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A ten day journey was long and harsh enough to make even the most seasoned of warriors weary. Yet it was a journey many have braved, for today marked a special occasion.
Around the makeshift campsite, nestled among a ruined structure, people of all walks of life mingled with each other. Noble knights were helping a merchant, likely looking to make a profit from the event, carry a crate. Warriors looking to make a name for themselves sat around the fire pit sharing their experiences. Some seasoned, with a fair number of battles under their belts, some a bit more green… This was one hell of a time to cut ones teeth.
The mood was fairly calm at the moment, but, a fierce battle was on the horizon. One anticipated to be harsh, brutal. Bloody.
Soon, he would arrive. A massive dragon who has earned a reputation for himself as the Storm King. Odrion. Who, true to his nickname, leveled whole kingdoms with treacherous winds and lightning, and struck fear into the hearts of those who have been lucky to avoid his ire.
Inside the main tent, General Henryk Ashe stood with his arms across his chest, looking over the map on the table for the hundredth time since this camp was built. Jaw set, brow furrowed, and gaze hardened. He has not slept in almost two days; fatigue showed clear in his eyes and the way he carried himself. Yet the noises from outside, and seeing so many people here together, energized him. He couldn't relax even if he tried.
He picked up a small rock that was placed on the map to represent where a ballista had been erect, played with it in his hand while scratching at his trimmed beard, peppered with grey, then set it back down in its original location. Bits of twigs and leaves were meant to represent troop placements, and battle strategies. The various minds that came together to come up with this operation, his included, were all experienced enough to cover all ground. Perhaps that was why he found the crude nature of the map humorous.
Three others occupied the tent with him. A portly man by the name of Johan, a well-known and fierce tactician; he had placed positions on the map before them in the blink of an eye, at just a few words. A man called Eli, still fairly new to the group, who was a bit of a mystery. And, lastly, a woman. Lady Aisha. A force to be reckoned with. Knew he way around a sword as well as any warrior he has ever met.
Henryk felt their intent gazes upon him.
For the first time in all his years, he felt uncertain. This operation was on a much larger scale than anything he has ever experienced. He was going to need to be on top of his game, showing what both he and his men were capable of.
If there were any flaws in the others' plans, he would find them and try to smooth them out to the best of his ability.
He sighed deeply, "We cannot fail."
"I agree," Eli, spoke with confidence in his voice. "And we will not." Eli seemed to be the youngest of the group, but that did not mean he should be taken lightly. He was an eager one to be sure, but his eyes showed intelligence. Experience.
Henryk pressed his lips together. "Agreeing is one thing. Confidence is one thing," he said, his attention on Eli though his words were meant for the others as well. "My concern is not with our abilities, and our numbers, but the task itself."
"From what I hear, it's just like any other beast—"
"Dragon," Henryk corrected, observing the expressions worn by the others. "A dragon is no beast. Not even close." Indeed. To compare a dragon to a mindless beast is not only folly, but an insult to all dragons everywhere. Every dragon deserved the same level of respect, regardless of where an individual one stood with human morals. "You will do well to remember this when he arrives."
"If he arrives, you mean."
"He'll show alright," Aisha spoke this time, resting her hand upon the hilt of her sword. She had a fiery look in her eyes, and her fingers looked itching for an excuse to draw that blade. "That's why we're all here after all. We've been tracking his movements for weeks."
"Indeed," droned Johan, his eyes fixated upon the map. Henryk thought he, too, might be looking for imperfections to smooth out. "I can't speak for Lady Aisha's warriors and mages, but our Diviner is rarely wrong. He saw him here. He'll come."
Eli merely hummed and shrugged his shoulders.
Attention was suddenly turned to someone else entering the tent. A man dressed in bright robes, decorated with jewelry stood before them. He carried a scroll and leaned on what at first appeared to be a walking stick, but upon closer inspection it was revealed to be a staff. One fitted with a fine gem which gave off an cerulean sparkle when the sun hit it just right.
He greeted each of the individuals in the room with a nod and a polite smile. His calm demeanor eased the tension in the air a little.
Lady Aisha was the first to speak, "What's up Neil?"
"The winds have picked up, M'lady," Neil moved over to the map and placed down his scroll. "And I have sat down with your mages, as requested. It was not easy, but I do believe we have come up with something that will work." He carefully unrolled it to reveal what looked to be a magical incantation of some sort; a powerful one, from what Henryk could tell.
"Ah, finally! You're talking about that wind shield spell, yeah?"
"Yes, I do! This incantation should provide protection against Odrion's winds. Though for how long remains to be seen. It's… finicky."
Johan frowned, "How finicky?"
Neil scrunched his face up and shrugged his shoulders, "We did what we could with the timeframe we were given. I'll leave it at that."
Lady Aisha growled under her breath, "This spell had better fucking work."
"Now, now," Henryk stepped in. This was no time to bicker. "I, for one, have faith in Neil and the other mages." He picked the scroll up, looked it over more thoroughly. When he was a boy, he had dabbled in magic. When he trained to become a knight, he explored it a bit further, and when he was promoted to general he came to understand it quite well. His own aptitude with magic was, frankly, lousy, but knowledge was power.
The magical markings etched upon this scroll were impressive.
He nodded approvingly before handing it back to Neil.
"General!"
Henryk turned his attention to the source of the voice, a young man who looked out of breath, "What is it?" His brow furrowed and he straightened his posture, hands clasped behind his back.
"Sir. Our scouts have returned."
"I see," Henryk's eyes hardened. "Lead the way."
He left the tent with the young man and hurried through the camp. A light breeze stirred the air, kicking up dust. The laughter and conversation from moments ago had died down and was now replaced with the fluttering of tent flaps and banners. Some people were staring at something out over the vast, open field that surrounded their ruin-camp. Others were working with the three ballistae, while others still checked and double checked their gear and made sure their weapons were sharp.
Those tending to supplies focused on making sure everything was in order. Reinforcements to the campsite as a whole were being made as well.
At the edge of the site, stood the scouts. Three in total. All of them were fairly young compared to other members of the group, standing tall and proud. Likely had agreed to scout to assuage their restlessness before the main event. They all greeted Henryk with a level of respect, in spite of their age, which reminded him that they were indeed fine warriors in their own right. If seemingly a bit eager to please.
In all his years, General Henryk Ashe never tired of the tense atmosphere the anticipation of battle brought. The unsteadiness of his breathing. The way his heart beat quicker, harder. He always found it so exhilarating. Like he was young and eager again, ready to face the world.
"What do you have to report?" He inquired, getting right to it.
The three seemed to quietly battle amongst themselves, who would be the one to speak first, before the most eager of them stepped forward and cleared his throat, "Odrion is approaching, sir. He was spotted near the ravine."
"Ahead of schedule," Henryk mused, lowering his gaze thoughtfully. But he knew. Neil had mentioned the winds picking up, and they indeed had. In fact he swore the gale was steadily getting stronger the longer he stood here. "Alright, good work. Let's not waste time, hurry and prepare yourselves for battle."
The group gave a collective nod. It was almost nostalgic. He expected one, or perhaps a few, to flat out tell him they'd lost their nerve. Yet, to his surprise, each and every one of them hurried off to make preparations. Their eyes serious and understanding.
Henryk let out a slow breath, silently wishing them luck.
Sure enough, after scrambling, and a constant string of information from the scouts, the wind picked up, blowing away anything that was not tethered down. Clouds thickened, darkening the sky, snuffing out what sunlight in the day remained. When one looked close enough, they could see flashes of light in the thick blanket of clouds.
Henryk, Johan. Eli, Lady Aisha, Neil, and two other burly men who had chosen to help out around camp rather than 'stand in a stuffy tent, huddled over a map'. Twins. Germain and Caleb. All stood on a high platform which overlooked the camp. Before them, the small army -twenty-five had been the final headcount— which had amassed over the past few weeks gathered.
The air was tinged with anticipation and a lust for battle.
Henryk felt a tap on his shoulder. Lady Aisha. She looked at him with a grin, "You should give a nice speech."
The others had the same loon upon their face as she did.
"Splendid idea," Johan encouraged. "I never did like crowds anyway."
Henryk sighed, "Very well." He took a step forward. The crowd all set their eyes upon him. He didn't think twice, and got right to it. "Warriors!" His voice boomed, loud as thunder itself. "Can you feel it? The winds are growing stronger. A storm is brewing. Soon, the revered Storm King, the dragon known as Odrion, will be upon us." The sky cracked, as if to further solidify this. "We have all seen our share of combat, pushed through many hardships. But nothing like this. For we are facing a dragon, a true legend. This battle will test us. You will be pushed to your limit, and some of you may not return alive."
He paused to gauge the group's reaction. A few nods and some murmurs, but so far no signs of anybody having second thoughts. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he swore the lightning in the sky was being influenced by the energy. He felt static everywhere. Including within himself.
"Those of you who do survive, will have a story to tell for generations," he continued. "Now, steel yourselves! My we come back alive!" Eager cheers erupted from the crowd. No hesitation or fear. Indeed, it was a good sign to see them all amped up like this. "And, may Odrion find peace…" he added, in a much quieter tone of voice.
"That was good," Lady Aisha said to him, nudging him with her elbow, to which he grunted in response.
The army set off to their tasks, making any final preparations. Just in time, too, as the clouds thickened and the wind rushed by them relentlessly. Which were soon muted by the wind shield incantation cast by Neil and the rest of the mages.
Odrion himself was nowhere in sight, but his roar shook the very foundation of the camp. It sounded like nothing Henryk has ever heard in his life. His dealing with dragons has been fairly limited throughout most of his career. Dragons were elusive creatures, and rarely delt with humans if they could help it. But this sound… this sound, which could only be described as the sound of thunder itself, combined with the grating of metal, immediately became burned into his mind.
Before long, the spell cut through the wind and thinned the clouds enough to reveal him. From far away, it was hard to make out many details. But then he swooped down, emitting great wind pressure from his wings, and one could see it: the dull, grey scales that covered his body, the black ooze dribbling out of his mouth, his feathered wings –a rarity among dragons—which commanded the winds, his lifeless eyes, and how he seemed to have a mane of disheveled, white fur around the base of his neck, and along his shoulders, down to about the middle of his back. And how that fur seemed to be electrified; one only needed to be in his presence for a second to feel the static. Energy which appeared to jump between his massive horns as well.
To call the revered Storm King magnificent was not a lie, but not quite the truth either. The black sickness in his body littered the ground, and some unfortunate people as well. Exactly when the might Storm King had succumb to corruption is unknown. Some say it happened gradually, others overnight. The records were always inconsistent and never gave a clear answer. Perhaps nobody wanted there to be one, or perhaps the truth was far more horrific than one could imagine and indecision was easier. What had once been a mighty dragon had been reduced to a monster that needed to be put out of his misery.
Henryk watched in awe as the dragon make several passes at the camp. Each attempt thwarted by one of the groups raining ballista fire upon him, or slinging magic. A ballista shot grazed the dragon's flank. His wings faltered. He roared –heavens, what an awful sound, it was worse the second time— and turned his attention toward it. The wound was deep enough to cause bleeding; thick red, mixed with black, seeped out of it. His eyes scanned the camp, searching, until they landed upon the very ballista responsible for the shot.
Not wanting the opening to slip away from him, the one manning the ballista reloaded his shots and began to take aim. The harsh winds made it difficult to keep anything steady for long. Just when the perfect shot had been lined up, Odrion vanished into the clouds. Lightning flashed. When he emerged, he was positioned behind the ballista. His claws were engulfed in electricity, making them appear much longer than they were… As if the lightning were an extension of himself, a weapon. With one mighty swipe, the ballista was torn from its fixture and both it and its operator were not merely swept away, they were eviscerated by the harsh winds and intense energy.
Sparks danced across the ground from where the lightning-claws had made contact. It should have been impossible, for there was nothing upon the ground that could be used to conduct electricity. Yet, the ground was torn asunder. All caught in the lightning were severely burned, and rendered unconscious, bodies tense.
Through the cacophony of wind and thunder, it was difficult to hear everything that was being communicated within the army. Yet somehow everyone seemed to be in sync with one another: those on the ground were following Odrion's movements, the mages were more precise with their spellcasting, and, of course, the ballista were hitting their mark more. As if the loss of a few had spurred something within them, making them more focused. As it should. Nobody wanted to see any more casualties, if they could help it.
Odrion went for the mages holding up the anti-wind spell. Hie efforts were thwarted by the remaining ballista operators taking aim and firing shots as quickly as they could. Some mages as well. The dragon danced around the efforts, until a lucky shot struck his wings. An opening which allowed a spell from one of the mages landed a direct hit to his chest.
The winds died completely as the dragon began to rapidly lose altitude and came crashing down, sliding a good thirty feet when he touched ground. A few gathered, watching. All holding their breaths, preparing for the worst. No movement, no lightning; his mane was no longer infused with electricity. But, indeed, the warriors and mages, Henryk, Aisha, Johan, everyone, knew he was not dead. He was simply been left dazed.
It didn't take long for him to recover either. Once he got back to his feet, he stretched his wings and tried to take flight, only for his now tattered wings to refuse to carry him. He hit the ground again and stumbled. Several loose feathers fell to the ground from the attempt. Now the real battle could begin, on ground. And time was of the essence. The anti-wind spell the dragon had wanted to silence was beginning to fail; those who were exerted from the effort of maintaining it had been switched in favor of someone less fatigued, but the spell could not last forever.
A young, eager warrior charged forth, without direction, sword raised, at the Storm King. Attempts to call out and stop him fell on deaf ears.
Odrion bared his teeth and swung his mighty tail around, knocking the warrior away with such strength and velocity that the sound of bones cracking could be heard. The warrior lay on the ground, unmoving. A warning to all that they very well might meet the same fate.
Lady Aisha moved in, several warriors following her guidance, attempting to wear down the dragon some more. Fatigue seemed like something foreign to the Storm King, however, for he was quick on his feet and danced elegantly around each man and woman who stood before him. His sharp claws striking with dangerous precision. Henryk sent some of his own men to aid in the effort, but in the back of his mind sensed something was off. Shouldn't Odrion be putting up more of a fight?
Something changed in the air. The spell holding back the dragon's winds was beginning to truly expire now. It was as subtle as a small change in the breeze, and it had not gone unnoticed. Odrion took advantage of this. With a flap of his mighty wings, a gale was kicked up, halting the warriors. Then, the dragon was airborne again.
This battle was far from over, but Henryk knew it had to end quickly.
Odrion threw his head back and drew air into his lungs. A few men fell for the opening. The air was expelled with such force that a small tornado had been created, sweeping the men up in its wake and tearing them asunder. Everyone ducked out of the way of the tornado, and soon discovered that it was headed straight for the mages trying to suppress the wind. A fierce battle of will ensued, only for the dragon's might to win in the end as the mages, too, were swept up into the tornado. Neil included.
With the winds whipping around them, Henryk and Lady Aisha looked at each other. Johan and Eli were nowhere in sight. They, too, must have been swept up by the tornado.
No time to think. Their shield was gone, and the dragon's winds were growing stronger. Thunder cracked. Lightning coated his mane and feathers again. Henryk stole one last look to Lady Aisha and charged into the eye of the storm.
Odrion roared. Lightning struck the ground. Very few warriors remained standing, but those that did joined Henryk in what he hoped would be the final assault. He shouted, his sword at the ready. Quite literally throwing caution to the wind. The powerful winds would sweep him off his feet at any give moment; he wondered if the dragon was toying with them, now that he had cut their numbers down so much.
With some stroke of luck, he noticed one ballista remained. Damaged, but usable. As he and a few others began working to keep the dragon busy, one man had sneaked off to get it ready. The one mage that survived the annihilation of his peers, despite the fatigue etched upon his face, worked to do all he could to keep them safe from the harsher winds. An effort that seemed like a losing battle, with just one person. However, his magical prowess proved to be admirable, competent. It was just enough to give them a fighting chance.
One minute, Henryk was dodging lightning. The next, hot pain seared his body and he was laying on his back with his thoughts all jumbled up.
He heard a growl, and suddenly felt himself being dragged away. Moments later, Odrion, claws coated in lightning, slammed the ground. A deep impression was left on the earth. He was thankful for whoever it was that saved him from becoming a gory puddle beneath the dragon's paw.
As he lay on the ground, trying to recover and will his body to move, he watched several men take advantage of the dragon being on the ground. It was a clash of steel and claws. One man was unlucky and got knocked away by the dragon's tail. They coordinated with each other. Their swords at last connected with his hide –hidden by the deceptive mane, those scales on his neck especially were tough as steel. However, the injuries he'd sustained from ballista shots and magic had weakened him significantly. One blade had managed to cut just right.
Henryk managed to get back to his feet in time to see more blows being landed on the dragon. His blood, and more of the black sickness within him, oozed out.
A peculiar thing happened. Those who had gotten the sickness on them suddenly dropped and began writhing in pain. Armor was melted, skin exposed. Any skin it touched suddenly rotted away. A quick, yet excruciating, death. If this was what it did to humans, Henryk could only imagine what was happening within Odrion.
The lone mage lost consciousness, having overexerted the remaining dregs of his energy.
Henryk was alone with three others, left to face the dragon. He took in a deep breath and stared him down, gazing deep into those cold eyes of his. The others stood by, awaiting orders. He was able to take some comfort, seeing the dragon breathing harder than he had been, and the fact that his winds had died down. Now needed to keep precious air in his lungs, unable to expel it liberally, no doubt. Both sides were taking a moment to gather their strength before continuing the fight.
Then, a shot zipped through the air. The dragon had noticed, and tried to get away, only to be struck in the shoulder. Another shot tore through his wing soon after. The Storm King, enraged, spread his wings and tried to take flight. He could not.
That was when Henryk gave the order to charge. He and the three others all went for the dragon at once. Lightning nipped at their beings, yet they remained undeterred. They pushed onward, avoiding claws and that damned tail. One man pierced Odrion's eye. The dragon let out a horrible cry and swiped him away. Another managed to land a blow on the less-armored part of his neck. Another cry, and Odrion thrashed his head. Henryk barely escaped being gored by the dragon's horns.
One of the twins, who Henryk had thought was dead, jumped into the fray with a battle cry, wielding an axe. He struck a blow to the side of the dragon's head.
Henryk shouted something to the three with him, and they all followed. Blow after blow was delivered. Head, neck, chest, anywhere they could strike. Until, finally, the dragon stopped moving. The winds were no more.
As the dust settled, everyone still alive gathered around. Silence fell over what remained of them, and their camp for a long time. Either nobody knew what to say, or was still trying to grasp what had happened. What they had managed to survive, if by the skin of their teeth. Indeed, this was going to be something to tell for generations… Yet it did not feel that way at all. There had been too many casualties. The silence also served as moment of grieving.
Nobody dared touch the dragon's corpse, but something had to be done about it. Leaving it in the open like was not idea. Animals that feasted on dragons existed, and any of them could stumble across the corpse. If one of them decided to make a meal out of it, the sickness could spread to them. Or the plants and fauna around the area for that matter.
"Burn the body," Henryk said wearily. When it doubt, just use fire. He certainly had no interest in hauling the corpse back to the capital.
Nobody argued with him.
Dragons are not easy to burn, as they are inherently resistant to fire even when not aligned with flames and heat itself. Odrion burned slowly. The entire night, the survivors watched the pyre. Some of them began humming an old hymn, saved for funerals. It was somehow fitting.
Three days later, with the dead buried and the dragon's ashes scattered by the winds, the survivors went home.
General Henryk Ashe recounted the battle to many a young soldier when he returned. He officially retired two months later, and continued to teach and retell the story (sometimes with exaggerated or changed bits) for years, until sickness took him and he passed peacefully in his sleep with his two daughters and his son by his side.
And then they, too, made sure their father's encounter with the revered Storm King was not forgotten.