Dragon's Blood - Chapter 2
The miles and months passed by in fast succession. They had traversed the great plains that were their main hunting grounds, struggled through thick tangles of forests that necessitated cutting or burning down to create a clear enough path, fought their way into a war-torn country that was left barren and kingless upon their exit, all while sampling the local bestiaries of whatever lands and locales that lay in their path. Some of their tribe were lost to battle or sickness, but many more were gained by blood binding.
Exhaustion should have taken over Sigfrith, the young man looking to have aged a few years during their months-long trek, gaining both hairs and scars that enhanced his air of maturity. Yet, as they made camp in the mountainous region of Amaz, he was ever more eager to prove his strength.
It was the sight of a faraway cave that enlivened his bloodlust. Distant though it was, the large gaping wound in the ground was clear enough to all, looking like an enormous mouth that threatened to swallow the surrounding lands.
Everyone knew what lay within the cave. The dragon made its presence clear by flying over them a few times, half obscured by clouds. It had also left a trail of craters in the shape of its feet, scorched swathes of land, and dropped enormous mounds of dung filled with animal bones, all of which gave a clear and unnerving idea of its true size.
He still remembered its roar and how it shook him to the marrow, making him feel as if he was about to fall apart from the inside out.
Gios joined him in his gazing. “Magnificent. A fitting lair and grave for such a beast.”
“Should we not attack now while it sleeps?”
The bear-man chuckled. “Overeagerness will only hasten your demise, my dear Sigfrith.” Gios mussed his underling’s hair as a father would his child’s. “Preparations will have to be made carefully enough. We only have one chance. And if that fails, we are bound to be torched to the bone or given a burial in a dragon’s turd. Besides, you have someone you should stay with before the hunt commences.”
Sigfrith ran his clawed fingers through his hair to restore its original state, then bade his chieftain good night before heading to his tent.
On his way he saw a group of his brethren pulling at the giant carriage that had joined them through half their travels, its six wheels supporting the thick and long wrapped-up thing which Gios was so often protective of. The bear-man had never said why, but always reiterated that whatever lay veiled on that carriage was more important than most of them, and that if need be, he would sacrifice their lives for its safekeeping.
He gave it a moment’s look of curiosity before heading his way, still not able to make out its contents.
Sigfrith found his tent open and lit with lantern light. He found Inan there, back turned to him, gorging herself on a steaming stew that smelled of salty meat and herbs. She was not a bit startled by him sitting behind her and laying his hands upon her thighs, right before he stretched them across the entire length of her growing belly.
“Has it begun kicking?” he said.
“Came near to kicking its way out this noon. I think hunger urged it on.” She gulped down the soup’s remainder in three sips and four bites, then licked the surroundings of her mouth clean before turning to Sigfrith.
Pregnancy had only enhanced her beauty to him, her eyes making his heart beat with the power of a great drum, and her aroma enlivening his libido to new heights. So much so that they had often received complaints from occupants of neighbouring tents. Not that he cared. Little else occupied his mind but Inan and the oncoming hunt.
“I hate you, you know,” she said with a purr.
“Why?”
“You’ve burdened me so. All because you could not control your urges.” Her hand went to his crotch.
“As far as I remember, you could not control yourself either.” He nibbled at her neck, then moved ever downward with his lips, creating a trail of kisses that ended on her belly. “But fear not. I will make sure the dragon dies, and that we will both bathe in its blood. You, me, and our child. Born anew, stronger than ever.”
“You’d better. Otherwise, I will raise this child to hate you.”
They locked lips, then lay together, Sigfrith dreaming of the oncoming hunt.
Anticipation made for easy awakening. Without a care for grogginess, stiffness, or even hunger, Sigfrith put on his armor: an eclectic collection of plate, chain, and leather, much of it in different styles and fashions. Part protection, part record of his conquests.
His weapon of choice was a spear, Sigfrith having surmised that it had more of a chance than any other type of armament to harm the dragon, as even a needle or a nail could maim one of his size; even kill with either luck or skill. A sword lacked the reach, and a hammer was more likely to bruise, that was, if the dragon’s scales did not soften the blow to uselessness. Though as he studied his weapon of choice, the tip of which was freshly sharpened and shining clean, he could not help but remember the dragon’s footprints, the loudness of its roars, and the vague glimpse he had seen soaring in the clouds. He would need to choose his attacks more carefully than ever, as a single mistake or moment’s hesitation would mean a fiery death or a quick burial beneath the dragon’s massive body.
His heart beat faster, and there was a sensation of something writhing in his gut as his fear-induced imagination ran rampant. A quick breath and thoughts of Gios, of Inan, and his blood binding did well enough to quell any further ruminations of his likely demise. And as he grit his teeth, gripped his spear, and cracked his neck, he was filled with the overwhelming certainty that he would come out victorious, just as he had done all the times before.
Exiting his tent, he was met with the sight of his tribe grouped around the large, wrapped-up thing that Gios was so protective of, each and every one of them armed and armored and looking like they were ready to conquer the world.
Their chieftain climbed onto the carriage and put his massive hands on the package sitting on it. “My brethren of the blood,” He shouted out. “My son’s and daughter’s. My hunters. And soon enough, my dragons. This day, we continue our further ascent to power and glory. This day, we etch our names in history so deeply that it would take thousands of years to wash away our deeds. This day, we shall do what no hunter has achieved before, and slay a beast so fearsome that many have looked at it as a god. Well, how will they regard us when we take its strength?”
There was a chorus of cheers so loud that Sigfrith felt shaken by it, the volume increasing as Gios gripped the cloth wrapping of the package before him and tore it open, throwing the tattered remains into the crowd, revealing the large, black, metal cylinder hidden within. Confusion silenced some, wonderment others. Sigfrith had seen its like before: A harpoon gun, though the ones he had laid eyes on were made to look minuscule when compared to Gios’ new weapon, the same way a butter knife is dwarfed by a sword, its length and girth seeming spacious enough to house three grown adults. Sigfrith pushed his way through the crowd, trying to see the thing in its entirety, then stopped when he noticed the weapon’s tip: fashioned to look like the face of some demon, its mouth wide agape, within which was a large, four-sided spearhead, poking out and looking like it could pierce even the strongest of walls.
Doubts had assailed him from the beginning of their journey. Nothing he would ever admit, nor any he had not tried to assuage, always trying to believe in the ever-certain Gios. But looking at the behemoth of a projectile before him made him feel the fool for having ever doubted anything his chieftain said or believed. He knew now, more than ever, and without any forced assurance, that their victory was certain.
“Will your madness never cease?” someone said from behind him, his voice like a loud scratch and bearing the roughness of advanced age. Sigfrith and everyone else looked in the speaker’s direction and found him hanging from atop a tall tree, too covered in shade to get a clear view, though his shortness was apparent.
“You,” Gios said, almost growling.
“The one and only.” The speaker made his way down, then waved the staff within his hands to clear a path to the chieftain. Confusion set in as Sigfrith studied the man: a hunched-over creature near half his height, greying and supported by the carved stick he used as a staff. The very picture of feebleness. Though what struck Sigfrith the most was the fact that he was blood-bound, bearing the mixed features of an old man and a mandrill, his enlarged reddened nose surrounded by blue skin making something ugly of his wrinkled face.
Yet he showed little of his age as he jumped over Sigfrith and onto the harpoon gun, which he slammed with his staff before spitting to the side.
“Quinn, my old friend,” Gios said, feigning politeness as he regarded the mandrill-man with suspicious eyes. “Come to join us once again?”
“As if.” Quinn kept banging on the harpoon gun. “I came here to dissuade you from this foolishness. Not just for the sake of everyone here, but the whole of this region.” The Mandrill-man looked across the crowd, some of whom stared back with a fierceness that could be interpreted as murderous intent. “Hear me, hunters of the great western plain. Some of you know me, some not. But to you, I am a brother of blood-binding. Once I hunted alongside your forefathers, including this big lump of muscles.” Quinn hit Gios in the chest with his staff, producing a loud smack, though the bear-man showed no signs of pain. “But I abandoned the hunt and the tribe, for I foresaw a brewing madness within it. A growing hunger that was wont to devour nature itself. I saw vast swaths of land, once teeming with life, brought to ruin by overhunting. I saw the last of majestic creatures wasted for your rituals. I saw a total disregard for the balance and sanctity of nature, sacrificed at the altar of the hunt and for further strength. And now I see you come here, before the lair of a rare and fearsome creature the likes of which is ever dwindling, all of you intent on snuffing out its beauty and majesty.”
Someone threw a rock at Quinn, which he caught with one hand without seeming to have noticed, then threw it aside to where no one stood. Gios was quick to stand before the old man, arms held wide open. “Leave him to talk,” the bear-man said. “We are not hurt by speeches, are we?”
The mandrill-man jumped on Gios’ shoulders, the chieftain gritting his teeth as anger lit up in his eyes. “I sure hope not, else what I am about to say will surely cripple you.”
Quinn retched and spat upon the harpoon gun, then cleared his throat before saying: “The destruction you have already wrought upon the lands you tread on is tragedy enough. But killing this dragon will be outright devastation.”
Gios grabbed Quinn with both arms and placed him atop the harpoon gun. “We are aware of the dangers,” the chieftain said. “Thus we have come prepared.” Gios patted his prized weapon. “Destruction is assured, but so is our victory. A scant price for such kingly rewards. I mean, just imagine. You’ve seen signs of its size and power. With that, we will be–”
“Dead.” Quinn spat upon the harpoon gun once more.
Gios raised an eyebrow. “And how would a coward know that?”
“A coward I may be. But I am also a learned man. And a learned man will tell you that the power that you seek will drag you down to oblivion. Even with the most common of beasts, the risk of blood-frenzy is ever-present. What if the dragon’s strength overwhelms you?”
“There is little certainty of that.”
“Oh, then how about this: have you heard about what a dragon’s death will do to the land?”
The bear-man shrugged, and Quinn sighed.
“Legends tell of a taint emanating from a dragon’s corpse. Stories have it that they are favored by the gods, so as punishment to those who dare kill them, a curse was laid dormant within their flesh, meant to awaken upon their demise and decay. More tales tell of plagues, famines, and entire swathes of lands made barren by the curse.”
“Faery tales.”
“Even still, will you take the risk? Is your strength not enough as it is? Is it ever enough?”
There was a loud chorus of boos and derisions, some among the audience spitting in the mandrill-man’s direction, or picking up clods of dirt and rocks for throwing. Sigfrith felt himself get swept up in the swelling hatred for the geezer, as the beast-blood within beckoned for a kill, and Quinn’s throat seemed ripe for biting. Yet he could not keep the old man’s words from worming their way into whatever part of his mind produced fear, where they kindled his underlying doubts for the oncoming hunt.
“Old friend,” Gios said as he put a hand to Quinn’s back, the entire stretch of the chieftain’s paw reaching from shoulder to shoulder. The hairs on the Mandrill-man’s back rose along with his ears. “I cannot pretend to know by what means you birthed these new ideals. Though I am certain it was through no small amount of thought and reason. Nevertheless, I cannot just stop now. We cannot stop now. Look at how far we have reached with only the most common of beasts to bind our blood to, then think of where we can soar with the power of a dragon.”
“The only thing that comes to mind is an unmarked grave.” Quinn shook the bear-man’s paw off him.
“Your pessimism will not convince anyone. For we all have a shared dream. A dream of flying into the sky. A dream of scorching our future foes with fire. A dream of invincibility. We cannot throw that away based on some old fool’s horror stories.”
Quinn sighed, lowered his head, then jumped off the harpoon gun and onto the ground. “I suspected I would not stop you,” he said as he walked off towards the nearest tree. “Not with words at least.” The mandrill-man ascended the tree with three quick jumps, then turned to regard them all. “At least I can now say that I have tried to save you all. Not that it will silence my conscience.”
The old man climbed higher, then rumaged around in the thick leaves that surrounded him, stopping once he seemed to have grabbed a hold of something. Gios growled in startlement when the mandrill-man pulled out a long, dark colored horn, at the tip of which were several golden rings.
“Quinn!” Gios screamed as the old man put his mouth to the horn’s tip and blew into it, the golden rings shining brighter than any metal should, near blinding in their brilliance. The sound it produced was even more surprising, loud enough to make Sigfrith feel as if some invincible force was shaking his head from both inside and outside, the ground itself seeming to reverberate. But that was nothing compared to the excruciating pain it caused, like a hot needle in the ear followed by boiling salt water. They were all sent crouching and screaming and covering their ears until the horn’s bellowing abated.
Sigfrith looked to where the old man had climbed and found no one, but he did hear the rustling of leaves, which he presumed were from the coward fleeing.
He turned his eyes to Gios, who seemed paralyzed by anger, his teeth gritted and displayed in all their brilliance, his eyes reddened and open wide. “When I get my hands on him,” the chieftain said, both fists gripped closed and shaking. He took a few rapid breaths, abating his anger with cool resolve. “We have to hurry before–”
All attention was stolen from the ursine chieftain by another loud sound, this one coming from the dragon’s lair, which was now lit up by an orange glow as loud, shrieking roars bellowed out from it, enhanced by titanic echoes. There was a low tremor as the glow dimmed and the roaring stopped, but none of them were given even a moment’s reprieve, as any chance of silence was shut out by the sight of a large fiery stream bursting from the cave, as if the gates of hell had been left agape.
It was then that it flew out.
The behemoth at first burst from its cave at such speed that it looked more like a dark, giganting blur, the force of its ascent pushing up dust and leaves, creating a thick cloud that submerged the cave’s opening. The dragon pierced through the clouds above, spreading them wide apart before doing so again as it shot down at the ground, which exploded at its landing, the force of impact creating a short-lived earthquake that reached even the camp.
Then, as the billowing cloud of dust settled around the beast, Sigfrith got his first proper glance at it. Beyond large, its illustration seeming a poor, diminutive representation. The torso alone looked big enough to envelope a castle, its two legs longer and thicker than any tower, all of it covered in black scales that reflected the sun like obsidian. But then, as the dragon craned its neck upwards and breathed out a jet of flame, he saw its true length, coming near to half the distance between ground and clouds. And to top it all off was its wingspan, each one longer than the dragon itself, casting twin shadows over large swathes of the desolated forest, each tipped with a claw that looked bigger than the harpoon gun.
As he gazed at its terrifying magnificence, frozen and shaking all over, he could think of naught but the fact that he was supposed to fight that thing. He was supposed to kill that thing.
Numbness took over, and he felt as if every ounce of strength had been sucked right out of him, leaving only enough to stand and stare, his spear feeling all the heavier and close to dropping from his hands.
Then it looked to him. Looked to the camp. But as the dragon shifted its massive head and peered its glowing red eyes in his direction, a hellish fury painted all over its face, Sigfrith could not help but feel as if he was the target of its ire. And when it took its first steps in his direction, it all but confirmed his fears and filled him with the instinctive urge to run with reckless abandon.
“Shit, it’s coming here,” Someone to Sigfrith’s side said, though he was much too dazed to make out who.
“Aye, Quinn has summoned it,” Gios replied.
Sigfrith looked to him and saw the first sparks of fear in the chieftain’s eyes. “What do you mean, summoned it?” Sigfrith said.
“That horn of his is a dragon’s lure. An old artifact I read about once. Said it could aggravate the creatures and cause them to come to you. Meant as a tool of war in ancient times. You send someone into your enemy’s ranks while a dragon is close enough, then have them blow it to bring fire and fury.”
Sigfrith turned back to the dragon, saw it was even closer, its mouth agape and lit up by flame. “What are we going to do now?”
“We fight.” Gios slammed the side of the harpoon gun with his hammer, then raised his voice and said: “Keep calm, brethren. This changes nothing. The hunt is still on, and victory remains within our grasp. Though only as long as we have the courage to hold it. Sigfrith, take the fastest of us and assail the dragon’s side. Distract it until we can prepare the harpoon, else it might reach us and burn all to cinders.”
Sigfrith’s breath was rapid, his entire body covered in beads of cold sweat. He had heard Gios, but the chieftain’s words slipped further out of memory the longer he stared at the approaching dragon.
“Sigfrith!”
He looked to Gios, nodded, then complied.
His next actions were done without much thought. It was as if some animating force had taken over his body and led him to each of his fastest compatriots, spoken through him to relay Gios’ order, then forced him to run at top speed towards the fire-breathing behemoth, all while at the back of his mind were nothing but thoughts of fleeing.
The closer they got, the more the ground shook. They were met with fleeing woodland critters and enormous predators, none paying them any heed, all while the forest was blanketed in periodic shadows whenever the dragon’s wings passed over them. When close enough, seeing became tough on account of the thick dirt-fog produced by the dragon’s advance, though he and the others could at that point reach the rest of the way by sound alone. It was about all they heard beside the pained crack of broken trees, each step an explosion that shook the ground with great violence.
When close enough to see the scales of the dragon’s legs, it occurred to Sigfrith that he had no idea how he was going to do much of anything against it. He looked up and down the beast’s enormity, every inch covered in scales the size of a shield, each one seeming hard enough to ward off whatever weapons they could throw at it. And even if they could break or pierce through, what good would a pin prick do? Then he remembered all the times he had stubbed his toes, as well as the pain that followed. Even the hardiest of warriors were not immune to it. Perhaps not even a dragon, especially when those stubs were in the form of over a hundred stabs. Not enough to kill or even maim, but as a distraction, it was better than anything else that came to mind.
“Attack its toes!” he shouted at those around him.
They all heeded and followed his lead, Sigfrith being the first to take his spear to jam it deep into the gap between claw and toe. Even as he stirred the spear around, the dragon paid him no heed. Though as more of his compatriots joined in and pin cushioned its entire foot, the dragon stopped its advance, hoisted its leg up, then stomped it harder than ever before.
Sigfrith was sent skywards by the force, his entire body feeling limp, which for a moment led him to believe that all his insides had been turned to mush. But as he landed and rose with only a dull pain enveloping him, those fears subsided. Not all had been so lucky, as near half of his original force lay immobile on the ground, some surrounded by pools of blood, and few of those still alive writhed on the ground, screaming in agony as they spat red and scratched at their chests.
Sigfrith paid them no heed, looking instead for his spear, which he found half buried by rubble. “Again!” he shouted upon returning the armament to his hands.
Those still standing joined him in assailing the dragon’s foot once more. Sigfrith made sure to stab with greater fury, increasing his speed and force, burying his spear’s head into the dragon’s flesh more times than he could count. Then, when he felt the dragon raise its foot, he jumped off and ran as far away as he could, his compatriots following suit.
Ten more died the second time the dragon stomped. It made sure to kill its assailants by digging its bloodied foot into the ground before tearing it up into an explosion of dirt and rocks, covering all around it in upturned soil. Sigfrith had found a large tree that was more than enough to shield him from all but the earth-shaking impact of the kicks. But with each of the dragon’s attacks, he heard more screams of fear and pain from his fellow hunters. That was until all that passed through his ears were the sounds of destruction and the dragon’s roar. He glanced around and found only corpses, some half-buried, others freshly added to the pile.
“Anyone there?” he yelled out in between the dragon’s kicks, doing so five times, receiving only silence as an answer.
It was then, more than ever before, that fleeing permeated his thoughts. He had the perfect opportunity. Anyone who could witness his flight was likely dead. And he was sure to be presumed fallen himself by everyone back at the camp, presuming they survived as well. The dragon was sure as hell not likely to notice him, and he was fast enough and still possessed of enough energy to make a fair bit of distance between himself and it. All he had to do was run. Run and live.
But he thought of his tribe. He thought of all those they had buried on their way to the dragon’s lair. He thought of the wars and battles they fought to reach it. He thought of Gios, ever so defiant in the face of impossibility, probably still believing himself one step away from victory. But most of all, he thought of Inan and the child she carried, and of the shared beauty and power they would all derive from the dragon’s blood.
Sigfrith tightened the grip around his spear, breathed in deep, then, when the dragon stopped its assault, he turned once more to face it.
But what he was met with was not just its foot, for it had deigned to lower its neck and peer its enormous head down to look at the destruction it had wrought, where it had found him, the last remnant of its nuisance. They locked eyes, Sigfrith transfixed by fear, the dragon looking like fury made flesh, its mouth open and displaying an arsenal of sharp teeth and the orange glow of its fire.
As the fire’s light brightened, and the dragon opened its mouth wide, Sigfrith closed his eyes and hoped that he would at the very least not suffer.
But what he heard next was not the roar of fire. And what he felt was not the overwhelming heat of its inferno. He heard instead a loud crack followed by the dragon’s ear-piercing howl of pain. And as he opened his eyes to see the source of those sounds, he felt nothing but triumph.
A long harpoon stood lodged in the dragon’s side, its blood seeping through and forming a crimson lake beneath it. The behemoth then seized its shrieking and turned to where the harpoon had been shot from, fire growing in its mouth. But before it could find and burn its target, another harpoon shot through the air, this time hitting it right in the eye. The dragon flailed about for a brief moment, right before crashing into the ground, Sigfrith narrowly avoiding its neck when he jumped away.
It took in a few more breaths before leaving Sigfrith in silence. The hunter then laid a hand on his prey, felt its heat, and waited for as long as patience allowed, just in case it moved once more. But as moments passed, the dragon remained still, and Sigfrith sat down beside it.
It took a light slap from Gios to wake him up, though anything considered light by the bear-man’s standards was more powerful than anyone else amongst them was capable of. So, coupled with the disorientation of exhaustion and fresh awakenings, it took him a while to see anything but a blur and remember much of what had transpired before his sleep.
But as he cleared his eyes and saw his entire tribe surrounding him, right before turning them towards the dragon’s carcass at his back, the fog that obscured his recollection faded to nothing.
“You did it,” Sigfrith said, his voice raspy, every word producing a dull pain in his throat.
“We did it.” Gios grabbed him by both shoulders and shook Sigfrith, causing a headache that felt like his brain was banging around loose within his skull. That was followed by a full-throated cheer by everyone around him, the cacophony enhancing the piercing ache he felt all over his cranium.
But he joined them nonetheless, stopping only once he spotted Inan amongst the crowd, after which he ran to her on sore legs that felt on the verge of breaking with each step. Once they were both in each other’s arms, her belly poking at his and her sweet smell making its way into his nose, he let the tears flow. He knew not why he cried. It was not sadness, or even joy. Just a release of some confused mix of emotions that washed over him with overwhelming force.
He collapsed upon letting go and watched on as his tribesmen stripped themselves of their armors and threw down their weapons, a few among them digging away at the dragon’s underbelly with pickaxes and hammers, the rest carving one another with the marks of the blood binding ritual.
“Let’s get this off of you,” Inan said as she loosened the straps of his armor. Upon the removal of each piece, he felt a freshness as the sweaty skin and fur beneath were cooled by the light breeze. Inan then began carving him as well, Sigfrith returning the favor upon the completion of his marks.
The first gash in the dragon’s gut was opened. A small waterfall of dark blood leaked out and soaked the nearby soil. Everyone reacted with a collective retch and by covering their noses as the odor that escaped from the behemoth’s gut was beyond what any of them had smelled before. Sigfrith knew the smell of rot. It had leaked into his nose near a hundred times before. And he knew how a fresh kill was supposed to smell as well. He had even smelled the collective stench of thousands killed on the various battlefields they had made their way through, their bowels loosened upon death. But none of it compared to the putrefaction that emanated from the dead dragon. Like a hundred corpses left to ferment in feces and urine, mixed in with the sickly earthiness of moldy food. The smell stung not just his nose, but his eyes as well, near blinding in its intensity. And he was supposed to dive inside that thing. He was supposed to eat a few bites of it.
“Come on now, don’t let a little stench deter you,” Gios said as he walked to the gash. “We’ve come so far and lost so much. Would be a shame to stop now.” He dove straight in, his enormous frame disappearing in the fresh, leaking wound.
More followed his lead, each and every one rushing to join their chieftain. Sigfrith rose and tried to rush there, but was halted by a fresh jolt of ache that stung his back.
“Come on now,” Inan said as she supported him on one shoulder. “They might eat up the entire thing if we don’t hurry.”
As the two hobbled to their prize, Sigfrith looked to the dragon’s head and noted the javelin that poked out of one eye. He then let the trail of blood that leaked from it lead his sight to the tall tree that stood below. At first, he thought that he was still disoriented. But as he rubbed both eyes and peered at the tree, he saw that it had turned grey, a discoloration that reached up to its leaves, which had blackened and wilted.
He thought of Quinn then, and of the tale he had told. And as he studied the tree and the surrounding flora, he saw more evidence of the Mandrill-man’s words. More decaying and wilted leaves and flowers. More greying grass and mushrooms that looked melted. That sight and the ever stronger smell of the dragon’s innards caused Sigfrith to barf and stop in his tracks.
“Don’t stall, Sigfrith,” Inan said as she pulled at him. “I want to feel its power as soon as possible.”
Sigfrith grabbed her arm. “I…I have a bad feeling about this. Let’s wait a bit, alright?”
“Wait? For what?”
“I just think we need to see what happens to the others. There’s something wrong about this. I can’t say what, but I just feel it. Just look over there?” He pointed to the greying tree.
Inan looked at it for a second, then rolled her eyes. “Don’t get cold feet now.” She then pulled her hand free and rushed to the gaping wound in the dragon’s gut.
“Inan, wait!” Sigfrith tried to run after her but was slowed by the ache in his legs. So by the time he reached the bleeding gash, the lion-woman had disappeared inside. Sigfrith breathed through his mouth, but could still taste the malodorous fumes that leaked out of the dragon. Then, while fighting the urge to puke his guts out, he reached a hand into the gut and pulled himself inside.
It took him only a second to jump out. But it was not the smell or flavor that deterred him, but what he saw. They were too dark to make out, but their shapes were clear enough for Sigfrith to get a sense of danger from them. Hundreds of misshapen, giant, winged abominations that bore only the slightest resemblance to the human form. He could still hear them, their low growl sounding like they were breathing through a gravel-lined throat.
He was about to go back inside to retrieve Inan when the first of them stepped out of the dragon’s gut, Sigfrith’s eyes widening at the sight of him.
His legs were thick trunks, each one mangled and looking melted, with black scales covering patches of his grey flesh. His arms reached down to the ground, one as thin as a branch with a single claw at the end, and the other thick with mismatched and misshapen muscles. His torso was the worst, one shoulder thicker than the other, bits of scales growing and falling in rapid succession, his chest looking caved in and torn apart in the middle, and he had a set of wings on his back that lacked most of the necessary membrane to fly. Not that the spindly things could carry his frame. But even so, Sigfrith could recognize him, as his face still bore some of his original features, though much of his teeth had grown past the bounds of his lips and his eyes had taken on a crimson hue.
“Gios?” Sigfrith said as he approached his chieftain.
The man looked back without expression, then opened his mouth to let loose a guttural yell, right before he rushed towards Sigfrith, both arms flailing about.
Heedless of his pained muscles, Sigfrith ran away, stopping only to regain possession of his spear. Not that he would need to flee much, as Gios had collapsed on the way, now forced to crawl towards his target. Running around him allowed Sigfrith to see why, as the bones in the chieftain’s legs had shattered and were poking out of his mangled flesh. That did not seem to pain him much, as Gios continued growling and yelling, not a bit of which resembled human speech.
Sigfrith was about to end his misery when he heard more noises coming from the dragon. The rest of his tribe were leaking out, all of them transformed in the same way his chieftain had been, and all looking just as frenzied. Some began attacking the ones closest to them, but a few launched after Sigfrith, who ran away just long enough for his assailants to break apart and become immobile.
The forest had been filled by a mad chorus of his transformed tribesmen, all crawling on the ground, broken and screaming out of some insanity-induced anger.
But only one of them demanded attention from Sigfrith, as he found Inan lying amongst a pile of other transformed monsters, all of them ripped apart, their blood coloring the claws on her arms. She looked back at him, her eyes red, enlarged, and looking ready to burst, her legs made squat and thick by the transformation, allowing her to only travel by hoisting her thickened body with her elongated arms. But she soon stopped and began clawing at her gut, now distended to a point where it looked on the verge of exploding, then stopped and let out a loud shriek of pain right before spitting out a mouthful of blood.
As she collapsed on the ground, something ripped out of her stomach.
Sigfrith had been robbed of any will to continue, so he stood immobile, shaking, a trickle of piss leaking down his leg. But as his child rose from the pool of its mother’s blood, he cried out, grief deforming his face.
It waddled towards him on stubby legs, a mangled claw on each one. Its torso was bloated and covered in black scales, and its arms were short and misshapen, with bits of bone sticking out. But unlike any of his transformed brethren, that newborn’s face bore no resemblance to a human, as none of the features of its parents had survived the transformation. It was all dragon, down to its long mouth, row upon row of thick teeth, and, of course, the two mismatched red globes it had for eyes.
The longer Sigfrith stared at it, the more anger flooded to the surface, drowning out all sorrows. And without thinking, he pointed his spear at it and rushed the thing. He let out a painful scream as he pierced his spear into one eye, stopping all of its movements within seconds, then left his weapon within his child’s skull as it collapsed on the ground.
It was then that he noticed. It began as a slight pain in one arm, but it had grown quite a bit, at first beyond his worries due to the onslaught of his transformed tribesmen. But now with everyone either dead or immobilized, he had a moment to look down at his arm and see thick patches of dried dragon’s blood, and the muscles beneath that were growing at a rapid rate. His legs were similarly afflicted, the first bits of scales poking out.
Sigfrith was quick to retrieve his spear, its tip dulled by repeated use. But it would have to do, as although he knew not what it felt like to go through the entirety of his brethren’s transformation, he was certain it was no way to live nor die. So he pointed the spearhead at his heart and allowed himself to fall upon it, his bodyweight doing much of the work, allowing every inch of the spear’s cold steel to pierce through.
Many a tale had been told of that valley in later years. Tales of malformed and maddened monsters that roamed about. Tales of a dead forest, left dessicated and rotted through. Tales of a dragon’s skeleton surrounded by strange bones that bore little resemblance to any animal or human. But each and every one of them carried the singular message that no living thing should venture there, lest they would either die or be turned into just another abomination by the dragon’s curse.
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