The Black Dragon King and the Knight

 (Originally posted on the 10th of June, 2019)

(Photo by Orn Oskarsson - Ornosk.com)

(Note: This is something I came up with off the top of my head as part of a game. Just trying to write it down while I remember it. If I want to use it for anything other than a bit of sillybuggery it’ll need MAJOR re-edits.) 

    A long, long time ago, in a land far, far away beneath a sun-bleached sky, there was a desert of black sand. This desert was so massive, it resembled nothing so much as a vast, black ocean. And at the centre of this vast desert was a great wall of black iron. And in this great black iron wall was a pair of immense black iron gates. Atop these walls stood archers, whose power was such that they could launch one of their black iron arrows far enough to strike a tree along the farthest horizon, and accurate enough that it could pierce the heart of a hawk perched upon that tree.

    And beyond those gates was a vast tower of obsidian, with many tall, twisting towards which clawed and tore at the overhanging sky. And within the tallest of these towers was The Black Dragon King, Tirrurdakh. And within the Black Dragon King was a heart so dark it made all the rest of his domain - its black volcanic sands, and black iron walls and gates, it’s black obsidian palace with its twisted towers - seem like a vibrant field of wildflowers in comparison. For the Black Dragon King’s heart was a hollow void as fierce and terrible and unstoppable as the vast Northern Cataracts which draw whole armadas into their depths and crush them into splinters so that no speck of wood can escape. And in the furthest deepest reaches of that black heart was Tirrurdakh’s sole desire, to birth an army of sons, as fierce and mighty as dragons, but as crafty and tenacious as humans.

    To this end, The Black Dragon King scourged all the kingdoms of the world, taking for his brides the fairest princesses and greatest beauties of renown. And he brought them back with him, across the black desert and over the black iron walls, into the obsidian towers. never to be seen again. And any bride incapable of bearing for him a son such as he wished, he would devour whole.

    As you can well imagine, this practice of abduction and murder brought many great heroes and knights and sorcerers to challenge the Black Dragon King. But as each of them ventured across the black sand sea, some would fall beneath the sun-bleached sky. And their bright and shining armour would bleach and rust, and their swords would lose their lustre and their great strength of arms would decay until they had become as dust. Some would survive the sea of sand only to fall, as arrows from the King’s mighty archers pierced them through and through and through again, and they would fall, to bleach, to rust, to decay and become as dust. And some would reach the black iron walls and smash themselves against the walls’ hooks and chains and spikes until their bodies would crumple to the walls base, where they would bleach and rust, and decay and become as dust. Some precious few would manage by trickery or skill or powerful sorcery to reach beyond the walls, but would then face the terrible obsidian tower. And the vicious, bloodthirsty edges of the obsidian would slice them mercilessly until finally they would fall, all their might and power and trickery spent, to lie at the foot of the obsidian palace where they would bleach and rust, decay and become as dust, and all their power would be forgotten.

    Eventually, the Black Dragon King’s reach sought further than ever before, and he settled his greedy eyes and hollow heart upon a new kingdom and a new beauty, whom he captured and took with him back to his castle, and this princess had a champion who, as soon as news had spread of the princess’ capture, immediately sped off in pursuit.

    After many trials, the Knight entered the black obsidian desert and the cruel sun beat down from the bleached bone skull of the sky. But the Knight did not think of this, but of the blood within, that moved and was shed by the Princess’ will, and of the heart that quickened at her every word and glance. And the Knight knew that that blood could never be stilled except by the command of the Princess, and paid the burning sky no mind.

    And soon, the Knight’s passage became slowed as the black sand shifted and churned underfoot. And every step became agony. But the Knight did not think of this, but of the garden in which the Princess spent her days, amongst the bright flashes of warm, fragrant colours until the scent of their perfume became a part of her. And the Knight knew that without her, the garden would fall fallow and the flowers die and their scents be lost, and so paid the sand no mind.

    The first arrow glanced off the Knight’s helmet, but soon, like a swarm of hornets, more were coming. “This sun,” though the Knight, “seems so different from the warming, motherly embrace of the sun of our homeland, and yet it is the same. Even though it lies in an unfamiliar sky, I hope it remembers me.” Unlimbering a shield, its surface polished to a mirrored sheen, the Knight crouched behind it as the arrows fell like hail and vanished into the black sand. Standing, the Knight played used the shield to play the sunlight across the battlements, dazzling the archers. Thank you, bright mother, said the Knight softly, and then continued to advance, and paid the archers no mind.

    Reaching the black iron walls, the Knight gazed up at the jagged, blood-encrusted walls that seemed to fill the world. Thinking back, the Knight recalled the gardens, and the humble ivy. The Knight looked down at the remains of those who had come before. “They all felt this wall was a foe to be battled, but it is a path, just as any other, and what is important is to move where the wall guides your passage, not to fight it.” And the Knight moved so. The wall knew the way to the top and all the Knight had to do was follow where it led, and pay the climb no mind.

    Finally, the Knight stood before the Obsidian Tower. It soared overhead like a ragged wound. A tear ran down the Knight’s cheek. Placing a hand tentatively against the tower’s side, it felt as though it were made of a thousand tiny razors. “Oh great mother sky,” whispered the Knight, “this is a terrible making. No wonder you are so filled with tumult with this unspeakable wound pressed into you. It is no wonder your cloud-children do not come here, that you may delight in them. Nor that you have no tears remaining for this place.” A second tear joined the first. “If you help me to unseat the creature who crafted this dreadful weapon, I vow that it shall be destroyed. Take these, my tears in promised that it shall be fulfilled.” And with that, the Knight was carried to the very top of the tallest and most twisted tower, and paid its obsidian walls no mind.

    Venturing within the Tower, the Knight saw riches and wonderments beyond reckoning, and sights of such opulence and luxury as to dizzy the senses. And at the heart of all, atop a throne of gold, surrounded by his chained brides and his army of dragon soldier-sons, Tirrurdakh, the Black Dragon King.

    “You,” bellowed Tirrurdakh, “have ventured further than any hero before you, but will go no further. Your tricks are done, your weapons are gone, your energy is spent. You have nothing remaining and am such a small thing before me, I could destroy you with a thought. “But, as you have been so much more resourceful and tenacious, if you bind yourself to me, I shall spare your life that you may become one of my archers.”

    The Knight was puzzled. “You say you are powerful, but you are weak. You say you are large, but you are small. You say you could destroy me with a thought, but you do not even know who I am. How can you destroy something without even understanding the merest fraction of its being? That would be like spilling a cup of water and claiming that by doing so, you have conquered all the world’s oceans. A cup of water is a very little thing but not, I think, so small as you.”

    Tirrurdakh was dumbfounded. No-one had ever spoken to him in such a way. Had the Knight not crossed his desert? Had the knight not seen his archers? His great iron walls? His mighty Obsidian tower? Could he not now look about him and seen his treasures and wonders? “But these are not you,” replied the Knight, “These are merely things. Could not someone else be seated just as easily upon this throne? Do I not stand here in your tower? Beyond your desert and your walls? Does any of that make me any more you, or any less me?”

    Tirrurdakh indicated his army of warrior-sons and his harem of brides, “Then what of these? My sons, the greatest army the world has ever known, and my wives, the greatest beauties of a hundred hundred kingdoms?”

    “But these,” responded the Knight, “are as much part of you as any other possession. Do your wives not wish you dead with every breath? Do your sons feel love for you? And should you die, will any one of them remember you with love or affections? Will they speak fondly of you and carry your name to those yet unborn? Are any of these people a part of you, or are they merely more things you may hold onto only as long as your grip remains firm and your eyes keen?”

    Tirrurdakh stood and spread his wings wide. His eyes were filled with fury and his face was a mask of rage. His great claws gouged foot-deep furrows in the marbled floors. The brides cowered away from his wrath and the warrior-sons glanced curiously at one another. The Knight did not move. “Do you not see this?” snarled Tirrurdakh, “Each of my claws is larger than you, you tiny thing. My wings blot out the sun and stars. My roar can lay armies to waste. My talons can tear cities asunder, and you call me ‘little thing’? I have lived a million of your lifetimes and I shall live a million more long after your grandfather’s grandfather is dead and dust and forgotten,” As he spoke, coils of pungent, grey smoke coiled between his teeth and the floor rumbled, “Against that, what are you?”

    “I am love and sorrow,” replied the Knight. “I am family who feel pride and love and fear for me. I am friends who love me for all I am, for all my strengths and weaknesses. I am the masters who have trained me and whose names and work I carry on in all I do. I am the teachers who have instructed me and whose lessons I endeavour to be worthy of. I am all those I have ever met. I am all those who have come before me without whom I would not exist, and I am all those who will come after me who would not exist if not for me. I am joy and anger and fear and longing and surprise and pain. I am an unbroken line. Whether or not people know me or not, love me or despise me, I am a part of them, as they are part of me. What do you have to compare?”

    Tirrurdakh released a booming gale of laughter. “I have been opposed by so many. Heroes and warriors, rogues and holy men. Sages and Scholars. Masters of ancient sorcery. I should have expected it would only be a matter of time before someone thought to send a fool! You speak of an unbroken line, well, I plan to shatter that line into splinters. When my army and I rule this world, my merest command shall be law. It is I who shall command the sun to rise and fall, and the seasons to come and go. I who shall cause history to be written and history to be forgotten. And when you are forgotten what will all your acts of kindness and cruelty matter? It shall be as though you had never existed. All that you are and will ever be, erased by the merest flick of my claw. I congratulate you, fool. For a moment, I almost imagined you had something worth hearing, but the time for foolishness is done.” He grinned, and raised a claw, and the Knight clapped and smiled.

    “There!” the Knight shouted gleefully, “There you are! The one tiny thing which is you!” Tirrurdakh’s claw paused in midair, “Your silly ambition!” The dragon paused. “Don’t you see?” the Knight continued, “I am quite a small thing, but in my small number of years, with my limitations, I’ve learned and grown and lived until my heart is full, but you’ve done the opposite. Your heart is a hollow, dry well, with a battered and neglected bucket in which you keep your ambition. You’re so terrified of allowing yourself to feel anything, you’ve purposefully destroyed everything else. I may be small, but you’ve made yourself small.”

    A deep rumble began within Tirrurdakh’s gullet, “This has been a new experience for me, fool. But it is one I shall never repeat. In all my years, you are more of an irritation than any other so-called hero, but the novelty of your continued existence has worn thin.”

    “Very well,” replied the Knight, “but before I die, I should give you this.” The Knight offered up a small, wooden casket, “It is a trifling gift, but as you say, I have precious little else.”

    Tirrurdakh gestured and one of his sons came to collect the casket. The Knight handed it over with a small bow. The Dragon took a deep breath and sighed. “You disappoint me, fool. Is this some trap or magical death curse? I have had almost every variation cast upon me and am quite immune. 
    “Not at all. Quite the opposite if truth be told,” replied the Knight, “I have named if gift and gift it is. It’s... a restorative. As I said, there’s a lot of you that’s been destroyed. I return it to you. You may do with it as you will.” Tirrurdakh grunted, “Look within.” 
    The warrior opened the box and glanced inside. “It’s water,” he sniffed, “Salt water.” 
    “Water, fool? Have you lost your wits in your desperation?” 
    “Not at all. As I say, it’s the parts of you that have been destroyed. I doubt it’ll mean much to anyone else.” 
    Impatiently, Tirrurdakh gestured for the soldier to bring him the box, “I shall indulge you this final time, fool. And then, I believe, it shall be time for dinner.” The Knight nodded.

    At first, it was just salt water as the guard had said, and Tirrurdakh almost felt disgusted at himself for indulging such a futile and desperate ruse, but then, there was the sensation of a wind picking up. As the Dragon King peered into the box, he realized he couldn’t see the bottom of the box. The water was the deep, dark blue of the Northern Sea before a storm. He leaned forward. It was... such a small thing... it couldn’t possibly be that... deep. He grimaced in an unfamiliar pain that began deep in his chest and spread throughout his body. He tried to glance away, but suddenly, the Knight’s face was right there and it was so large. “That’s sorrow,” The Knight said, with a wry, sad smile, “It can be quite overwhelming all at once.”
    The Knight’s hand rested gently on Tirrurdakh’s shoulder, “I’ll be here the whole time. I’m not going anywhere.” Tirrurdakh tried to throw away the box, but when he looked down, his hands were empty. He tried to call for his guards, but he was no longer in his throne room. Is was just he and the Knight, wind howling around them and the ground rolling and lurching beneath them. There was a dark, blue-grey sky above them. He tried to flee, but there were vast, towering waves all about them. 
    “Where are we?” shrieked Tirrurdakh over the wind. 
    “We’re exactly where we were,” the Knight replied, “We’re just seeing it from a different angle.” A wave crashed over them and they were in a dark, cold world. Terrible currents swirled around them and Tirrurdakh could sense there were... things out there. Vast, unknowable things. He could still feel the Knight’s arms around him, and wanted to ask, “What was happening?” but his voice was choked off in his throat.
    In his head, he could hear, “It won’t be long now. I’m here. You’re not alone.”
        Eventually, it ended. The Knight knew it would, and paid it no mind. 
    Back in the Kingdom, the Princess had been restored to her parents as had her fellow abductees. The Obsidian Towers, bereft of Tirrurdakh’s sorcery had crumbled into jagged heaps of black shards. The Dragon King’s sons had gone their separate ways, the King’s dreams of a world-conquering army scattered. The Knight sat in a fragrant palace garden gazing out at the rich colours of the sunset.

    “The King has decided to present you with the opportunity to pay suit to me; once we have had the chance to get to know one another, of course,” said the Princess.
    The Knight nodded, “This is a rare honour.”

    “Not really,” the Princess replied. “Tirrurdakh’s sorcery means that I am only capable of producing half-dragon children, which makes me less than suitable for a political marriage. So in the absence of being a diplomatic bargaining chip, I am now permitted to select my own suitors. Provided they don’t mind half-dragon children.”

    The Knight smiled warmly. “I don’t suspect that will present a problem,” she replied.