KILGHARAH: VALIANT RESCUER OF DUDES-IN-DISTRESS

It is only when I walk past the scene of my fiery arrival, that I notice that the tunnel is full of paintings.

Murals.

That’s what they’re called when they’re on walls, right? Yeah. Well, the tunnel’s full of ‘em.

It’s kinda like the Sistine chapel; if the Sistine chapel was a tunnel and had lots of separate paintings, instead of that one huge finger pointing thing where everyone is naked for some reason.

It’s pretty cool, though. Not the Sistine chapel, no, this tunnel; the murals are nice.

They’re also obviously a chronicle of the history of some sort of butterfly people. Or, at least people with butterfly wings.

And, not to be an irrational skeptic here, especially considering that I myself am a firebreathing, amphibious, warm-blooded, flying lizard who can talk and was human until like a month ago, but, I’ve got to say, the existence of butterfly people, who can—if I’m understanding these paintings right—use magic, is way down there on my list of believable shit.

I look around; paintings of people with colourful wings shooting lightning from their fingertips, cleaving hills in two with the swing of a sword, splitting the earth just by stomping really hard.

It chills me, all of it; scares the ever-loving fuck outta me, because, the one time I met people who seemed like they could do shit like this, I watched them kill a dragon.

Yeah, sure, Dragon Mama had taken them with her, but the fact remains that they’d killed her. And if they’d been smarter about it, they probably would have survived too.

And now I’m trapped here, in this place that seems like it has many more people who can do all that and probably more.

Suffice to say, I’m not feeling very cum-fucking-table about my current situation.

There’s a vain hope that these paintings are just that, paintings. The vivid creations of an imaginative mind. Or perhaps that these butterfly people whose history they chronicle are long since exist.

But like I said, it’s a vain hope.

There’s no substance to it, because I know that, while possible, it’s unlikely.

It can’t be anything but. Not with what I’ve seen, and not with what I am.

The voice comes again.

“Please, help me.”

I stare in the direction it comes from for several seconds, then I sigh, and, after a moment, continue to walk forward.

‘I swear to God,’ I mutter, ‘when I find this motherfucker, I’m going to bite off his dick and spit it down his fucking throat.’

I pause.

...Okay, that one’s too weird, I decide.

Needs some workshopping.

Let’s see. What if I bite off his dick, but then I—no, no, no biting of his dick.

Instead, why don’t I—

Aha!

‘When I find that motherfucker, I’m gonna rip his dick off and shove it down his fucking throat.’

Boom! There we go.

And with that settled, and my mood mildly lifted, I continue down the tunnel.

—❈—

“Help me, please.”

Wait, is it just me, or is this kind of—

“Please, help me.”

No, it’s not just me. It is.

“Help me, please.”

... The next one will be ‘please, help me.’

“Please, help me.”

I knew it! The cry for help’s artificial. A recording, most likely. Same words, same tone, right on time, every time.

The fucking thing’s a loop.

I stop walking, simply taking a moment to process the implications of this.

A loop implies, almost indubitably, that this is in fact a trap. Someone, or something, is trying to get me somewhere, and honestly, they’re doing a shitty job of it, whoever they are... whomever?

Whatever, the point is, if they really want to get me rushing somewhere thoughtlessly, then all these dark holes in forest floors, and creepy, subterranean tunnels with paintings of superpowered butterfly people are really not helping their cause.

And that’s before I factor in the obviously canned cry for help.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Ugh! It just sucks that I have nowhere else to go.

I swear, as soon as this tunnel splits, I’m heading in whatever direction the voice isn’t coming from.

Not that I’ll get the chance from the way things are looking though, because if the steadily brightening golden light coming down the tunnel is any indication, then I’ll soon be wherever the voice wants me to be.

I sigh, then, slowly, and with even more caution than before, continue making my way forward.

Even though I’ve been walking for several minutes, between my small size and my well-deserved caution, I haven’t actually covered much ground.

Although, to be perfectly honest, I don’t think I would still be moving particularly fast even if I was bigger and less cautious, because the simple truth of the matter is that my dragon body is just not that good at walking.

Climbing? Sure. Swimming? Absolutely. Walking though? Not so much.

Maybe if I was the six-limbed kind of dragon (i.e. four-legged and with two wings sprouting from the back) it would be better, but I’m not. I’m the bat kind instead. I have two hind legs, and my forelimbs double as leathery wings.

And while looking this way does give me more range of motion in my forelimbs than I suspect I would have otherwise, it leaves me with the walking speed of a drunk tortoise, and my one attempt at running left me fucking depressed.

Kinda makes a guy miss having human legs, to be honest.

After all, humans, for all their flaws, are great walkers. I mean, damn, those motherfuckers can trek.

Literally did it across an entire planet.

I will admit though, that flying beats walking any day of the week. Wings are fucking awesome.

Which makes it even more annoying that I can’t use them here, since if I fly then I might not be able to react quickly enough if some horror movie shit pops out at me like a fucking jack-in-the-box.

The voice comes again.

“Help me, please.”

And this time, I’ve just about had it.

‘Oh, shut up, already,’ I scream in annoyance, only to almost die of a heart attack when there’s a sharp gasp from down the tunnel.

Wait, was that...?

“Hello?” a voice, a male voice, the male voice that has been calling for help this entire time, says.

Holy shit. There’s actually someone down here.

“Hello? Is someone there?” the voice comes again.

It’s croaky, disused, and the amount of hope in it tugs at my little, reptilian heartstrings.

“Please, if you’re there say—”

‘I’m here,’ I say.

The voice catches, and then whimpers. He’s crying.

Fuck.

‘Hold on, I’m coming,’ I say, and before I can even think about it, I take to the air, zipping down the hallway.

I’d suspected that I was close before, but with my much faster speed from flying, I realise just how close.

All it takes is one more bend down the tunnel, and suddenly, I’m in a cavernous room awash in golden light from above.

The room is huge and round, with a dome-shaped ceiling that seems to be made of some kind of glowing, golden crystal.

At the cardinal points on the wall, or at least, arranged in such a way that they’ll form a cross if you link them, are three wide openings that, from what I can see, lead into tunnels like the one I just flew out of.

All of this is secondary though; secondary to the skinny boy who’s been chained to the floor in the cage in the exact center of the room.

His hair is long and matted; his only attire, a simple pair of cloth trousers, is ragged and barely hanging on around his skim waist. His face seems to be caked in several layers of dirt and who knows what else, but his eyes, his eyes are bright. Alight with hope and desire like I’ve never seen.

I fly to him.

‘Holy shit, are you okay? No, sorry, stupid question. Of course, you’re not okay. I meant—’

The boy begins to laugh.

It starts low, small, then quickly devolves into a hysterical cackle.

‘Um, are you okay?’ I ask, stepping back a bit.

The boys laughter peters out slowly, and he just stares at me, eyes glistening with tears that cause gross, muddy tear tracks to run down his face.

“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on, young dragon,” he says.

I blink, then preen a little under the praise. ‘Well, not to brag but, yeah, I am pretty amazing, aren’t I?’

The boy laughs again, much more tamely this time.

“That you are,” he agrees with a small smile.

The moment of levity is nice, but it quickly passes.

‘What happened to you?’ I ask, and the boy’s face darkens under a shadow of immense rage. The ground trembles around me, and the crystal ceiling brightens.

Okay.

‘Or, you don’t have to talk about it. Really, it’s cool. Not my business.’

The boy sucks in a deep breath, and the tension in his muscles relax as he lets it out.

The ground stops shaking, the crystal dims down to as it was before.

What the ever-loving fuck?!

The boy speaks finally. “I was a king,” he says.

Oh.

‘Really?’ I ask, not really disbelieving, but certainly surprised. And not only because of his current circumstances but also because, even through the face full of dirt, he doesn’t look to be much older than fifteen. Sixteen at most.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” the boy asks, smiling. It’s a sad thing.

‘A little bit, yeah,’ I agree. ‘What happened?’

The boy sighs, bitter and tired, then says; “The same thing that always happens; some people protested my birthright.

“We fought. I lost.”

Oh. I blink. Oh shit. Is this like a Baahubali thing?

I observe the caged boy.

Yeah, this is totally like the Baahubali thing, isn’t it? Classic brother killing (or, I guess in this case, locking up) brother for the throne type of thing.

I almost shake my head. Some fucking people, I swear to Jesus.

Before I can dwell on it any further, the boy’s eye find mine, his beseeching.

“Please,” he says intensely, “free me. I’ll give you anything. I’ll do anything. Just please, help me.”

The look in his eyes is... insane.

I swallow, a little overwhelmed by it.

‘Jesus, dude,’ I finally manage to say, ‘you don’t have to promise me heaven and earth. Of course, I’ll help you. I’m not gonna just leave you here.’

I observe the thick, sturdy bars of his cage, then the chains that bind him; one on each ankle, one on each wrist, and one around his neck.

Fucking hell. What kind of asshole chains up a person like this after locking them in prison?

‘Okay, try to stay back. I don’t want to risk burning you,’ I say, moving into position to torch the bars of his cage. I’ve never melted metal before, but I’ll bet good money that I can.

“No,” the boy says. “Not the cage.”

He points up.

“Burn the gem.”

I look up at the roof, then back at him, the guy who’s caged.

Meh, whatever. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.

I brace myself, taking a good stance, then I stoke that, by now very familiar heat in my chest and let loose.

A constant stream of golden flames jets from my mouth. It slams into the crystal ceiling, and the world groans, like an old, rickety chair being sat on.

The ceiling grows brighter, and I can feel it. It’s fighting me. Fighting my flames. This motherfucker doesn’t want to burn.

Well, fuck that. I’m the dragon. I decide what burns.

NOW BURRRNNNNN!!!

My flames change, becoming tinged with red, and exploding with a heat and weight ten times greater than before.

The ceiling cracks. It’s light flickers once. Twice. Then it explodes.

I cut off the flames immediately.

God fucking hell, my throat feels sore.

Dafuq? I thought I was immune to fire?

The boy’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.

“You did it,” he says, almost sounding like he can barely believe it. “You actually did it.”

I begin to make some witty reply, but then the boy looks at me.

There is something nakedly happy, cruel, and wickedly vindictive in his expression.

Wait, I wonder. Were his eyes always red?

“Thank you, young dragon,” the boy says. “I will never forget this.”

And then he transformed.

Oh, Kilgharah, you fucking idiot.

—❈—

In the island of Bliss, in the Temple of Goot, the Jewel of Tereema, used three thousand years ago to seal a great evil, exploded.