For the better part of evening, Erwan’s life returned to dirt. With a shovel he dug and with a hoe he cleared rocks, digging deep enough to keep wild scavengers away from his loved ones. Into three graves he committed their remains. Into these holes he left beloved pieces of his past, wooden toys for the children and simple jewelry belonging to Adelia. He placed her most prized possession, an iron and bronze necklace around her neck, then returned to the surface to bury his own heart beneath the dirt of his legacy.
Erwan did not wash. He had no time to wade the river and might have encountered more voltur had he tried. A bath would mean setting aside his scythe, and that he would keep forever by his side for the rest of his days. Covered in bloody filth, the farmer returned to his hovel.
Though his own possessions were few, he spent precious minutes searching for a certain chest. He found it shoved deep inside another, once belonging to his father and his before him, buried beneath clean furs and a woolen blanket. The box he drew out had no splendor, a simple pine rectangle carefully hewn by hand and constructed with iron nails.
With trembling hands, Erwan lifted the lid, setting it aside.
His father’s items were on top. These he knew well, two wedding bands carved from wood by the same hands that made the chest. One also belonged to Erwan’s mother. He set these aside. Next came a pouch with trinkets and odds and ends inside. These were also his father’s but held no value beyond sentimentality. He set these aside and drew out a single piece of fur.
This bit of leather was wrapped around a hard, flat object within. This, and everything left inside the box, were Grandfather’s. Carefully peeling back the fur, he drew out a torc, a thick necklace that fit more like a collar than jewelry. Erwan examined the segments, hard scales dug up by centuries of farmers and passed down to the maker of the choker.
“I wore this when we fought against the Roman invaders,” Grandfather had once told Erwan as a boy. “It will protect the wearer from any swing of a blade and from more frightening foes, as well.” Having now seen voltur for himself, the farmer finally understood the meaning. This torc was made of dragon scale and would protect his neck from their bites.
Erwan put it on.
The next object inside the box was a garment, but not of the usual type for a serf. Trembling hands touched the iron links, lifting out a chain metal shirt. Erwan pulled it over his head, carefully tucking the collar beneath the torc.
Ready to leave, he packed a bit of food and a waterskin, enough to carry him to Mount Sapientia. He would need no more than that if the legends were folly. He retrieved his scythe before leaving his hovel. The place held nothing for him, not after his family had perished. Before he did, Erwan pulled a burning branch from a dying fire. With tears steaming dry from its heat, he torched everything in his home that would burn.
Erwan the Bold set off to find dragons.
A bloodstained satchel hung by his side, and inside was a gift for those he would find. Not everyone knows where to find these beasts of legend, they themselves preferring roosts far away from humans and impossible to find. They do leave clues, however, to aid the worthy in their search. Erwan knew of these from his grandfather.
“Mount Sapientia,” the old man often rambled, “is home to dragons, but only the determined will find a way to climb its steep cliffs, and only the bold will be greeted atop its summit.”
Erwan had always dismissed those ramblings as myth but also ignored the old man’s stories about voltur and vampure. Those had leaped directly from legend into reality and, if this bold, young man were to take on Dominus Titus, he would require the aid of dragons. Thus he travelled to Mount Sapientia, protected by a shirt of chainmail, a wide torc of dragon scales, and armed with an iron scythe.
The mountain was reachable by foot, only a few hours south of Cardac. He would follow the river until it branched east, then would continue toward a high mountain ridge under the cover of forest. These lands were off limits to his people, considered sacred and full of ancient evils, but Erwan had always dismissed these claims as superstition. Now, given his newfound knowledge of such realities, he walked with scythe in hand, gripped firmly and at the ready.
With great caution, Erwan passed through the night without incident. As the forest thinned, moonlight showed him a bald mountain edged by sheer rock faces. They seemed to wrap this particular summit, denying approach from all directions. He recognized it at once as Sapientia, an ancient volcano many millennia quiet.
From far away the mountaintop appeared ripped away, its dark conical structure rising high above the rest of the mountains, too high to climb. From as close as he stood on this moonlit night, it was worse than unclimbable. To try would be certain death. Erwan did not even have a rope with which to try.
“There is a path,” his grandfather once promised, “up one face of the mountain which only reveals itself to the boldest or brave. Such adventurers must be resolute in their mission, intent on making the climb, or they will miss the brief moment in which that path is revealed. If you ever attempt this journey, do not do so in darkness or full light.”
At the time, though the thought of dragons mystified the child, Erwan had no intention of ever attempting the climb at all. He was born with a considerable weakness, a terrible fear of heights. As he grew to manhood there was no task he could not perform on his own unless it meant leaving the ground.
Only the summer before, his fear of heights forced him to hire another man to repair the thatch on his roof, earning laughter and ridicule and many villagers. Though the home was not tall, only a few dozen hands from its base, such a height would fill him with dizziness and cause his breath to cease. No, Erwan was most certainly a man of the dirt in all regard, and his feet were meant to remain fixed upon the earth.
That he sat basking in the moonlight, staring up at such a sheer rock face with determination to climb, spoke of his hatred and lust for vengeance against Dominus Titus. The farmer stared like this for most of the night, studying the stone and looking for handholds, calculating how many hours it would take to make the climb barring any incident. He concluded the trek would take an entire day if not more.
He decided to begin at first light.
It was not much longer before sunlight made its appearance, rising above his right shoulder and peeking out over the forest behind him. The mountain itself hid in the shadows, not quite ready to awaken. Erwan rose from his spot and stretched, finally feeling fatigue of his own. His shoulders and hips ached from sitting so long, a day of planting and a night of digging had worked its way into sedentary muscles.
He knew he should have slept, but Grandfather’s words and the threat of voltur had kept him alert.
Now it was time to face his fear, to scale the rocks and climb higher than he had ever dared. One misstep or slip would mean certain death, a welcome consequence that would reunite him with Adelia and the children.
I will kill Dominus Titus, he thought, those words propelling him forward. I will face these ancient dragons and demand they join me in battle against the Roman. He stepped forward just as the sun peeked out fully over the treetops.
His eyes then played a trick in the morning light, pausing his feet midstride. He strained them, once more tracing the rock face. Dawn danced upon the steep surface, leading his focus along a newly revealed zigzag of shadow. The trail led all the way to the summit.
It cannot be! he thought, seeing his grandfather’s promised path. He had to see more, needed to climb higher to confirm what he was seeing was true.
Without delay he rushed forward, found a handhold, and pulled his body upward until he reached another. In a matter of moments, he found himself resting on a ledge once invisible from the ground. It wasn’t too wide, just large enough for a large man to walk without trouble.
Then Erwan made the mistake of looking down.
Though only three dozen hands above the ground, he teetered with vertigo, his mind swimming while heart thumped panic.
Kill Dominus Titus, he told himself, as if that mantra would keep him from falling.
It worked. His mind settled and dizziness abated. From then on he kept his eyes glued to the path three to five paces ahead of his feet.
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He climbed that ridge, higher and higher, along the zigzagging path to the top. Though ancient, it held up well. Only once did he stop to rest on a larger platform that seemed intentionally carved out for this purpose. It was a cavern of sorts, but not too deep—only large enough for one human to rest their limbs far enough away from the edge. He could have napped here, if desired, and almost did.
But a nap would rob him of most of the sunlight he needed to reach the top. He kept his body alert by focusing his mind on the cavern itself. It was not natural but was not carved by human tools. Large scratch marks grooved the rock, each scrape the width of his hand, as if sharp claws scraped away the softer formations and left only the granite.
He leaned out and looked across, eyeing the next ledge beside where he rested. Before sleep could overwhelm him, Erwan continued his trek, noticing something strange the higher he ascended. The height no longer bothered him as much as it had. Several times he found he could look out over the valley below, marveling at how small the distant village now seemed. In fact, his entire life seemed inconsequential. All that occurred before Dominus Titus ripped his family away meant nothing.
I’m bound for something bigger, he told himself, running his hand along the rock wall and feeling the traces of dragon mark. I never mattered to the world but now will make a mark of my own. His mind swam with thoughts of revenge, of impaling and slicing apart the Roman overseer. Anger pushed him upward, higher toward the clouds now obscuring the summit.
He almost didn’t notice the ledge when it crumbled away beneath his weight.
It was only a small section that gave out but proved enough to send him plummeting downward. Desperate fingers dug at the pathway before him as he slid, his feet and waist dangling over the side where rock had crumbled from weather and age. Tiny trails of blood smeared the ledge as he clung, scrapping and clawing for a grip. Abruptly he caught one with both hands, just as his chest swung downward.
The lower path loomed far below the farmer’s feet, dangling and kicking as his hands throbbed and ached above. If he let go he would surely have died. There was no room to catch his balance if he did not bounce completely off instead.
Erwan had to force himself to breathe, to remain calm despite his pending doom. If only his arms did not ache so badly, muscles worn out from planting, swinging his scythe, and digging those graves. Maybe it would have been easier to pull himself upward, to climb onto the path and leave the broken section behind him had he not wasted the energy on his family.
I’m so tired, he complained in his mind. If I let go, I can join them in death, can end this charade of false heroics!
The need for revenge once again surged to the forefront, giving strength enough to pull himself upward and forward with bleeding fingertips. With only hatred of the Roman to fuel him, he crawled onto the ledge, rose to his feet, and continued as if death had not tried to rob him of that vengeance.
Dominus Titus must die, he said again, over and over as if speaking the act into existence. Soon, he spoke it aloud, “Dominus Titus, of Rome, must die.”
Thus, Erwan reached the summit of Mount Sapientia.
As he topped the highest ridge, he found himself gradually descending into an ancient depression. Long ago, perhaps millions of years, the top of Sapientia had ripped away in an explosion of rocky debris that littered the valley beneath its haunches. Now, all that remained for the farmer to explore was a bowl shaped paradise.
This forest he found, warmed by the pulsing heart of the mountain, grew lush flora unlike any Erwan or any villager in Cardac had ever imagined. The broad leaves of vines and ferns thrived beneath the tall, deciduous canopy, and colorful birds and insects flittered here and there before the wide eyes of the unlikely explorer.
A roar shook the valley, a tremendous voice that trumpeted disagreement or alarm with equal annoyance. Erwan hoped within his heart the sound came from a dragon. Any other beast would bring disappointment, perhaps even enough to sway him from his quest for vengeance.
If he did not find a dragon, Erwan resolved himself to die. He glanced over his shoulder. That ledge would make the perfect jumping off point. I will jump, he promised himself. If they do not exist or will not help me. I will dive over the side and cast my need for revenge against the ground.
Another roar answered the first, one that seemed to argue feebly against the previous command. Certainly this sound came from dragons.
Erwan emerged into a clearing, an area where trees and plants refused to grow. The heat here was noticeably warmer, radiating upward from large rocks. There was also a pool, its warm water home to tiny fish darting after even smaller meals. He looked around. Here is where he expected to find dragons.
“Here me!” the farmer cried, drawing out his scythe and holding it aloft. The metal flashed sunlight except where blood still stained the iron. “I call upon dragons to aid my cause. Evil has visited mankind in the form of bloodsucking legions and posing as Roman overseers.”
The farmer, having said his practiced words, paused and waited for a response. None came forth. Neither did any dragons.
Erwan had planned for this. A trembling hand reached into his second satchel, the one borne from his farm with great care. As quickly as it went in, that hand came out again with a grisly object held by the hair. He lifted the voltur head high, letting the foulness of its stench catch full on the air, then placed it on the ground and stepped back.
“Here is proof mankind needs your aid,” he yelled so all nearby dragons would hear. Then, using the words his grandfather had taught him so many years before, he added, “I call upon the Ancient One to hear my cause and judge my need for aid!”
“Who are you to bring such vileness into our home?” a voice demanded from behind.
Erwan turned but could not find the source of the words. “I am Erwan,” he replied with back straight, addressing the dark shadow beyond the trees.
Movement flashed again behind him, this time from the opposite side of the clearing. The man whirled around to watch a long dragon, snakelike in its movement with long wings pressed against its sides. The creature moved with lightning speed, snatching the voltur head up in its teeth with a single movement before retreating beyond the pool.
An aerouant, Erwan realized, recognizing its long body and swishing tail. A protector of its kind. It took up an aggressive stance as three more creatures appeared. These were smaller, standing on hind legs like humans. Strong arms reached behind their bodies, webbed with wings ready to make flight. They stood behind the first and he seemed ready to defend. These he recognized as wyvern.
“What say you, Dregal,” the voice from the trees asked the aerouant. “Is this human worthy of your aid?”
The long creature scoffed, sending a puff of smoke into the air. “Most certainly not,” he said with a bit of disdain. “I can smell his unworthiness from here. He has not a shred of dragon blood, and what smears his body is from the abomination.”
“Perhaps another will claim him,” the voice suggested, but no other aerouants appeared. To Erwan’s irritation all the dragons laughed in unison, as if the voice had made a joke. The two beside Dregal then narrowed their eyes at the farmer, swirling pools of fire that seemed to condemn his very existence. “Very well,” the voice decided, “be on your way, human.”
Erwan had paid close attention to the exchange, wondering at the words of Dregal. How could a human have dragon blood? he wondered. Standing taller and planting his feet in defiance he demanded once more, “I call upon the Ancient One, to…”
“I know, I know,” the voice roared, “to hear your cause and judge your need for aid! Well, you have been judged unworthy and your need for aid is moot. You killed at least one of these abominations, surely you can kill more. Voltur hardly seem worthy of our time.”
“My fight is against more than just voltur,” Erwan explained. “A vampure killed my family, turning them into…” he broke off, choking down the words he tried to form. “Draining them dry,” he finally managed. “I need the Ancient One’s help,” he begged. “I don’t know much about dragon rituals, but my grandfather said that only the Ancient One can judge a human’s worthiness. I care not for the concerns of this aerouant, nor the little ones. I plead only to the Ancient One.”
Dregal scoffed a second time, this time followed by rumbling laughter. “He knows nothing at all, this human.” The beast then spread his wings, beating them fiercely before rising up into the sky. As he fled southward, the other dragons followed.
“He is right,” the voice cautioned Erwan. “Dragons do not fight, we are too few in number for that and rely upon the aerouants for protection. Dregal is the fiercest of all, usually hungry for a fight but has judged you unworthy.”
“I demand the Ancient One judge me, not that worthless Dregal.”
“The Ancient One has judged you and found you bold and daring but also pitiful and misguided. You will not earn his aid either.”
“You don’t understand. This vampure, he is Dominus Titus, the Roman overseer of this region. He is the embodiment of evil, the…”
“I don’t care if he is Goro himself,” the voice said dismissively. “Go now, human, and return to your home.”
“I have no home to return to,” Erwan admitted, his voice full of defeat. Abruptly he paused. “Goro… Who is Goro?”
“Never you mind Goro.”
“I’ve heard that name,” the farmer said thoughtfully. He had heard it recently. If he could only remember where.
The voice laughed. “That name is ancient, more ancient even than me. Surely you heard it in one of your silly legends.”
“No,” Erwan said defiantly. “I’ve heard it recently, from one of the voltur, in fact! ‘Goro is risen,’ he said.”
The voice no longer answered, deep in thought or sick of Erwan’s presence. Either way his silence mocked the farmer, sending him off the way he had come.
The trip had been wasted, not a single dragon would aid his quest. He stepped into the forest and made his way to the southern cliff, thinking the entire way of where he would go and what he would do. There was nothing for him now, neither in Cardac nor in Aventicum. He had no home at all. He kept walking until he had risen to the top edge of the sloping crater and looked over the side.
“Forgive me, Adelia!” he screamed over the side, his voice echoing into the valley below. I must jump, he realized, and no one would care. I am worthless to Adelia, Rupert and Racinda. Pathetic and completely unworthy of life.
Thus, Erwan the Lamentable leaped from the cliff, his tear-filled eyes locked on the dirt waiting below. He did not cry out, nor did he flail his arms against the wind rushing by. He had accepted his fate, soon to join his wife and children in death. Final thoughts were of them.