Tales from the Dark Caves

Strange Guardian

The villagers were not aware of the dragon's presence until the mountain in the north became the mountain in the west.

Perhaps it was a coincidence that snow fell, but never stuck when it hit the warm, fertile earth. Or maybe it was just luck that crops grew well every summer and livestock stayed healthy. No children died of sickness and no elderly slept cold. Perhaps they should have realized the signs sooner.

The village in the valley had a strange guardian indeed.

They never spoke of their guardian to outsiders, and those who inquired about the rumbles in the earth and the changes of the northern direction were harshly excluded. For years, the tiny village lived in seclusion.

And then the Knight of Wolfwind came. He entered the village on a blue steed more massive than any the villagers had ever seen. The sword on his hip glimmered in the morning's watery sun. The knight's face was obscured by his gilded helm. His banner was that of a wolf racing the wind. He did not dismount when the village sage confronted him, nor did he pay heed to the protesting chief's nasally warnings. He had been sent by the king's mage himself to look into the strange disappearances of the king's game in the neighboring woods, for no trophy animals of any intimidating size had been spotted there for decades, and the king was beginning to suspect why.

The knight demanded lodge and a meal for the night. It was graciously given by a fair maiden in hopes of attracting him, but the man was on a mission. All through the night, he ate and read of the great war against the dragons and their extinction. He read of the dragons whose heads adorned his king's very hall and of the evil one that was lost. And as soon as dawn crested that western peak, he was off on horseback, up the trail of spines that lead to the great dragon's skull.

At midday, he was forced to dismount, for the climb had grown steep and the path beneath his feet was slick with ice. Many times he stopped, and many times he wanted to give in, but it was against his ways. The king would not accept failure. It took the Knight of Wolfwind four days to reach the dragon's gnarled skull. As soon as he passed over the ridge that protected his great eye, the ground stirred beneath him. He clawed at a nearby scale for dear life as the sky rushed down to greet him. All he saw was the desolate, black land of the dragon's head and the unearthly blue of the eternal sky.

For centuries I have rested here. What brings the brave knight to my company?

The knight felt ill. The dragon's voice was thick and heavy in his mind and weighed in his stomach. He stammered. "His Majesty the King sends I, Sir Lockhart of Wolfwind Keep, to ward off the one that feeds in His Majesty's hunting grounds." His voice was snatched by the hungry wind as soon as it left his lips.

Doth the king wish to cause me harm?

"I do not believe so, good dragon."

Doth the knight wish to cause me harm?

"I do not think I could, good dragon."

The land rumbled beneath him, as loud as an earthquake. The dragon was laughing. Return to your good king and tell him to face me himself, if he is so majestic. I have seen worlds live and die and have rested here longer than his bloodline. Am I, so ancient and brittle a dragon, undeserving of the prey your king parades about his hall?

The knight hesitated. He was growing rather cold. "Have you thought of moving, good dragon, to better hunting grounds?"

I once lived in a cave on the storming coasts, where I collected treasures as high as the ceiling. I have been cursed here, good knight, by the mage that stands beside your king. As long as he is alive, I am bound to this village, sworn to keep in all who leave and kill those that try. It tires me, good knight. It sickens me. Kill this mage, good knight, and I will grant you all of my cave treasures and you will be rich and I will be free.

"Kill the mage, good dragon? In cold blood?" The knight almost lost his grip on the dragon's icy horn. "That is not the knight's way!"

Is it the dragon's way to idle where he is not welcome? I have lost many a kin to the mage in his past lives. Kill the mage and call upon me. I will show you the way.

The knight fumbled with his sword. "What do I call once I kill the king's mage? What do they call you, good dragon?"

Those who once called upon me are long forgotten. The dragons that once uttered my name are dead. But on the mortal tongue, my name is Hormaius the Great.

The knight set off at once, eager to walk on ground that did not move. He rolled the great dragon's name over in his mind, but the more he recalled it, the faster it faded and warped. By the time he reached the gates of Wolfwind a fortnight later, the name was gone.

He was welcomed with open arms by the king and his mage, who asked him all about the dragon and the village over dinner. Sir Lockhart could not tell them much, for it was quickly slipping from his mind. He had only one urge, and that was the kill the king's mage. He planned to do so that very night, for images of great treasure arose when he laid eyes upon the blade at his hip. He had been promised, after all. But who had promised him? What was this promise? Still, the face of the dragon faded from his mind.

At the moon's high rise, Lockhart stole from his chambers with a knife in hand. He crept down the dark, starlit corridors at a hunter's crawl, down the spiraling steps into the keep where the mage kept his study. The wooden steps grew lighter as he descended, until even the walls radiated with the mage's magic lights. He was boiling a glowing mixture of tar and gooseberries, with his back turned. Lockhart struck him down without mercy, until his blood turned the glowing mixture crimson.

It was then, standing in the fading light of the cauldron, the blood still warm on his skin, that the good knight recalled the name of the guardian of the valley village and of the books he had scoured the night before the trek.

The evil one that was lost.

Hormaius the Great.

The knight dropped the blade and staggered back against the wall. Hormaius the Great, the black-hearted dragon that warred his forces to their deaths and resulted with the extinction of his kind. The great mage Moran bound him to the earth with a curse that forced him to protect all that entered his village and ensure their wellbeing with his great, deep magics.

The knight knew he had been tricked only too late. The sky outside the study window flashed and spread brilliant shades of specter green and blue, radiating from the valley far away. A black shape lifted into the sky, trailing smoke behind him, and disappeared into the depths of space.

The dragons are born again, Lockhart's mind said, in the deep, heavy voice of Hormaius the Evil. And the mage Moran is never more.