The Dragon's Riddle: Last Words

Final Part of The Dragon's Riddle

Moraye set his head back on the rock floor and breathed deeply.

“Well done,” said the dragon gravely. “You fought well for one who has taken a more detached role in the past, playing his men instead.”

Moraye turned his eyes to the dragon. “Detached? A king is not always the warrior, you know. He must also command.”

“True, not always!” spoke the dragon. “With you, not ever. You are a pitiful king and not worthy of the title. Where were you whenever peril faced your kingdom? Do you even know the names of your fallen warriors? They’re nothing to you!” roared the dragon. Fire leapt from his eyes, startling the weary king.

The king sat up. “It is true,” he said. “Many lives have I wasted while avoiding my kingly duties. According to the ancients, a king is to be first into battle and last from a retreat, among other things. The serpent looked thoughtfully at him, as if sizing him up. Nodding to himself, he said, “Your life is yours. One can only hope you learned something.”

“What of my men?” asked Moraye, but it was too late. The cavern walls faded into the bark of tall trees, and the roar of the waterfall became the gentle rustling of leaves in a breeze. Moraye stood up and walked through the forest. The faces of noble knights and warriors sent by his hand to their death appeared before him one at a time. The dying cries of each knight as his face faded chilled his spine.

This is too much for me to bear, he thought, turning his mind to more pleasant things. Now, he was returning to the royal city from a battle. It was arranged in splendor to welcome home the victorious. But, instead of victory cheers, the anguished faces of young widows stared at him in a palled silence. Widows of knights who failed to return, their accusing tear-stained eyes faced him in concert, tormenting him.

Suddenly, shouting and the clash of metal broke through the trees, striking Moraye. Shaken from his revelry, his eyes widened and his heart raced. His grip tightened on the sword the dragon had apparently let him keep.

Running to the sound of the battle, he cleared the forest edge and rushed into a meadow. A bowshot away, a battle raged. Five of his eight lost men fought against ten giant soldiers, who were attempting to flank them. Nearby two of his men lay dead on the battlefield. Another, whom he recognized as Stoln, used his elbows to drag his wounded body from the battle.

One of the enemies broke from the fray and ran to kill the battle-scarred Stoln. Struck to the heart, Moraye shouted and ran.

The enemy hesitated, looking at the newcomer. Moraye immediately fell upon him, clashing hard against the enemy. Driving him back toward the battle, Moraye fought beside his knights until the enemy lay fallen around them.

“Well done, men,” said Sir Reckel, their captain, taking care to clean his sword before sheathing it. “The cowards ambushed us and took us off guard, but you kept your wits and fought valiantly.”

Looking at the two dead warriors, he said, “If only the others had fared as well.”

“Indeed, it is a great loss,” Rafe said, “but who is the new one that joined the battle?” Rafe asked.

Looking around, their eyes settled on Moraye, clutching Stoln’s dead body.

“I tried to save him,” he sobbed to himself with great anguish. “I tried, but I couldn’t.”

Moraye's anger welled up inside him. Why? he asked himself. Why did this happen? Why did you let this happen, Leviathan? I passed your wretched test, you foul dragon. Was it too much to grant me my men?

“Leviathan!” he roared, still clutching Stoln’s body.

“Leviathan! I ask you for the lives of my warriors.”

Suddenly weary with sorrow, he quietly said, “Take my life if you wish, but spare my men.”

“Granted,” boomed a voice from behind him. Moraye turned and saw the dark-haired Stoln standing tall with the other seven at the forest’s edge.


Copyright 2002, 1996 by M. D. McKinley. All rights reserved.

First published in the third volume of http://www.ece.gatech.edu/ecesis/ in 2006.