Chương 26: Chapter 24

Duram-Mandom Mallorn the elf Just after the initial parade, he spoke swiftly, turning his head and addressing the immense giant holding him aloft.

"Master Fjolsvoir- I had friends in this battle. Lower me, I'd like to check on them." The giant gave a long rumbling grumble at that, affirmatively, as his hand slowly dropped down. As soon as Mallorn was lowered sufficiently, he hopped off, raising a hand to wave at the giant.

"My thanks, Master Giant!"

"Let not hope strangle your expectations, Dragonslayer," the giant rumbled back at him with a knowing glint in his massive eyes.

"The old wyrms leave few survivors, it is why they are old." Mallorn stared into the giant's eyes for a few moments longer, scowling and swallowing back the lump in his throat before giving a firm nod.

"I shall." He did not know how long the fight had lasted, but his own brief battle against the crippled Malamadr had been long enough to gauge her strength. Immense, to say the least, with a speed that did not belong to a creature of her size and a strength that did. What were his allies- a thief, a bastard, a swordswoman? A noble-girl and a horse? Not one of them could best him, and he was barely swift and strong enough to best the dragon.

His hand tightened around the handle of the long-axe, half of his weight supported by its blood-slick length. The giant let out a slow nod and long, low grunt.

"A feast in one week's time, in your name," Fjolsvior declared in a titanic rumble.

"The coffers of all clans will be open to this, this I swear as Goldendoor." Mallorn would shame them if he didn't attend. He forced a mighty grin on his face.

"Dura of Gravelbrook had long words about the feasts of Erem, of the hills of honey-glazed roasts and ponds of hot bone broths. Prepare a Hadrus for me- I'm curious about their taste." The giant rumbled in an amused fashion.

"More than just Hadrus will be prepared. Prepare your stomach, Dragonslayer, a siege approaches." With that the immense giant pushed himself up from his kneel, stepping back with an earth-shaking trod and turning.

"We've both work to do, Dragonslayer, we will speak again in one week's time. Fare thee well."

"Farewell," Mallorn returned, unsure if the giant could hear him over the immense rustle of his scale tunic. He shook his head and turned, ears pulling up as he looked at the figure now standing next to his mother. A new and familiar knightess. He began to walk, axe in hand and shrouded in tapestries, step hitching as he saw the injury she bore. From mid-bicep and down, one of her arms was entirely missing. The stump was well-wrapped in bandages soaked in honey and wine, and stained in faintest blood.

His face tightened in something resembling concern as he approached. She approached in turn, steps steady and expression as firmly set as it had ever been. Plates of mithril covering the majority of her body, although not enough to hide how ample her chest was. The armored shirt cut off at the thighs, which were covered by something resembling armored garter and stockings for high-heeled greaves and sabatons. Elven armor was always slutty, the degree of which varied from person to person.

His mentor was relatively modest compared to mother's escorts.

"Titania," he called out as he approached, stopping before her and letting his eyes wander over her, in search of other injuries. Nothing apparent, it was possible that she had already healed herself.

"Rasil," she returned after a moment.

"... You slew the dragon," she stated simply, staring at him with an unreadable expression. He gave a little grin at that.

"I did. You were a magnificent tutor." She stared for a few moments longer, before her hand reached out, grabbed him by the shoulder, and slammed him against her breastplate. It would've hurt if he wasn't entirely used to her doing so at this point. A dull metallic thump rang out as she hugged him. He rumbled in an amused fashion.

"Everyone's in a hugging mood today, it seems," he mused, reaching a hand up to return the tight but very mechanical hug.

"Though- I confess confusion. Why are you even here? Did mother demand you pursue me?"

"She did not. I followed of my own volition. Your belongings were reclaimed from Dordi and the Mannish village, and your scent led me here. I smelled you upon the dragon's disguised form and confronted her at once." So she followed him of her own accord? Why? And- wait a minute.

"Who's Dordi?" he asked with a slightly baffled tone.

"A drider who had robbed you." It took him several long seconds to remember who she was talking about. It seemed so long ago now, the start of his little journey and pertaining to nothing important. A drider who had tried to tie him up and eat him. The most amusing part was when he called her fat.

"... Her? Why did you bother? It was just a bag and some supplies," he asked in a distinctly amused manner.

"She needed punishment for the robbery, attempted kidnapping and molestation, and inadequate lodgings for a noble prisoner. She was captured and undergoing domestic training in preparation of service to you." His ears folded back in an unamused manner. Yep, that was Titania alright. She took the whole punishment thing pretty seriously.

"I don't have much need for a hangabout- let her go if she's still with you. I already told her she could keep the bag, I didn't need it."

"... Very well. I'll refrain from pursuing her again. I told her to flee before the battle so it is probable that she survives unscathed." His mentor sounded distinctly reluctant to even speak of it, so he took initiative to distract her from thoughts of punishing evildoers. He pulled back and his hand gently came around to brush against the stump where her arm once sat, something she allowed with sharp eyes on his inquisitive fingers.

"Malamadr took your arm, I'm guessing?" he asked with a little scowl, barest touches as to not disturb the injury.

"She did, taking advantage of the less fit among our number. I lost it pushing one of your allies beyond the reach of bladed earth," Titania explained emotionlessly, face half-buried in his neck.

"One of my allies?" he said in a relieved manner.

"I'm grateful beyond words, I would not have asked that of you. You had little reason to save them, especially not at cost of a limb, but I'm thankful you did." Titania did not respond, only tightening the hug. A twisting dread welled up in his breast, and his ears pulled back. A morbid curiosity overtook him, even as the potential answer made his hands curl into fists. It took only a moment for him to work up the courage to speak the next question.

"... Titania… They are alive, are they not?" he asked quietly. The sounds of cheering were distant for several long seconds. All he could hear in the moment was his mentor's soft breathing. Her silence was his answer.

"... I see," he eventually responded.

"I was not swift enough," Titania stated plainly. If he didn't know her well enough, he'd think that her statement was an excuse for allowing them to die. That would be typical of elves. But he knew her long enough to know how little her expressions ranged, and the missing arm was more than enough evidence of great effort on her part.

"You're missing an arm." He cleaved through his building emotions at once.

"You did more than I would've asked of you."

"It was not enough," Titania performed another apologetic not-apology. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. He was quiet for a few moments.

"Take me to their bodies." She hesitated, slightly tightening her grip on his body.

"... Titania. Take me to their bodies," he demanded a second time, arms shaking slightly as he dropped the hug entirely. It took several moments before she responded.

"... Their deaths were not clean," she explained, voice low, steady, and eyes focused on the ground. What a horrifying thing to say.

"I will not ask again," he responded sharply, voice low and cold. After a few long moments, she nodded against the crook of his neck, pulling back and allowing the hug to fall apart.

"... Very well. They should be among the corpses still…" He was feeling lightheaded. A pressure was building in his heart and sending steam through his veins. Thump-thump, thump-thump. A curling knot settled in his gut and an expression he could no longer keep track of on his face. — The stench of death was thick in the air here, on the southern side of the lake shore, where the wind was strongest and kept the miasma mostly at bay.

Even with the efforts of the wind, the stench was enough to make nosehairs curl and eyes water. The corpses left in the wake of the battle were immense, both in quantity and in scale. First lined were the corpses of goblins, numbering in the hundreds if not thousands, pulled out of collapsed rubble and put in long shoddy rows and stacks, mostly by other goblins under the barking orders of dwarves and trolls with great clay tablets and long metal styluses in hand.

The rubble of the battle was being moved by trolls and giants, who hefted the immense rocks away and sorted them into large piles that ringed the corpse-fields. Planning for future reconstruction, no doubt. The next group of corpses were of dwarves and trolls, numbering maybe a hundred in total. All of them laid out on fine tapestries and hastily-erected altars rapidly re-constructed from great slabs of rubble stone.

Trolls with hammers and chisels churned through rock to cut rectangular slabs in only a handful of minutes, the excess hauled off by dwarves and added to the piles. A great giant-corpse was laid out in the distance, dwarfing much of the shoreline as it was pulled up onto a collection of the finer slabs and rapidly prepared for funerary rites. The industry was admirable, in a distant manner.

The last group of corpses were anything not-Dwarven or goblin, mostly humans laid out on already-prepared sheets of cloth and mostly smooth ground, the corpses kept free of any scavengers by dwarves with crossbows- crows and vulture-lizards and rats all skewered the moment they tried to approach for nibbles, insects kept at bay with dozens of smoky torches, and a team of Dwarven and Trollish clerics traveling between bodies to ready them for burials.

The dwarves had been kind enough to lay Lucia's body near Drana's body. Neither Rayne nor Dura were among them. They still lived, most likely. As Titania had warned, their deaths were not clean. Mischievous Lucia had been bisected, then bifurcated, her body severed into roughly four shoddily- butchered cuts. Not even cuts either, one split from her hip to her lower ribs and the other from her groin, out the side, and then through the bicep.

Heavy bruising around the cuts indicated a blunt weapon had been used, a severing that occurred mostly through weight of impact rather than the finery of the edge. Her mouth was stained in blood, and her hair slick with sweat. Her thin rapier sat next to her on the linen, blade snapped in twain and handle twisted. He had made love with his woman, even as much as she tried to smother him afterwards. He had laughed with and at her, teasing words and amused glances exchanged as they traveled.

His flat eyes wandered over to the body of Drana. Dutiful Drana, laid upon a hasty altar, her torso a ruined mess of holes and scraps stained with rock-dust, clay, and blood. Her arms were thoroughly bruised and mangled, twisted in on themselves, and one of her legs severed entirely at the knee. Her claws were chipped off and her scales covered in so many tiny scratches that they became smooth again. He had not known her long, a day maybe, but she had been willing to fight and kill alongside him despite that.

She had made her stand with him against the goblins, not a moment of hesitation before. And apparently, she was willing to die fighting for his sake. Or perhaps just to kill Malamadr, either was possible. He didn't know her well enough to declare her motivations. Her sword, her grandfather's sword and key to her inheritance, the sword that her future husband was intended to wield, was likewise utterly destroyed. Blade twisted and then snapped and left in four large pieces.

The gold upon it was stained brown and black, and the edges were chipped and ruined beyond repair. He did not know how long he stared at their corpses, expecting tears but finding his eyes dry. A friend's passing should be followed by sorrow, but he only found more and more anger instead. A cold burning rage in his chest and a black writhing in his gut, the kind that turned tears into steam, steam that filled his head and made his vision sway.

A senseless fury with no appropriate targets, for the one to blame was already dead at his hand. Childishly, he wanted to declare it unfair. He had known them for all of a month, a day in Drana's case. They shouldn't have cared for him enough to fight to the death for his sake. They should've run, run and lived so that he could speak with them again. Lived so he could boast of his victory and rub it in their faces. Lived so that he could bask in their annoyed expressions and grudging praises.

But they had stood and fought, fought in a battle so far beyond them that the only possible outcome was death, fought for his sake against a leviathan evil. Did they know they were sure to perish if they fought, or was it a complete miscalculation on their part? Who the hell looks at a dragon and declares its death? Instead of fleeing from the danger and allowing others to fell it? His grip on his axe tightened. Ah, that's right wasn't it? They chose the same thing he did.

The only difference was that they weren't him. They were Lucia and Drana, and they simply weren't strong enough to survive that battle. That was the long and short of it.

"I should have savored her death more," he eventually declared, voice tight with a furious grief.

"I didn't know it at the time, but I was not seeking revenge solely for myself, but revenge for my friends as well." He tilted his head slightly downwards.

"My satisfaction at that moment was entirely insufficient." Neither Titania nor his Mother said anything in response.

"I should've…" he started again, before trailing off as his fury choked out his words. He came to a stop and forced himself to breathe, long and calm inhales that ventilated his rage and cooled his heart. Eventually, he steadied himself to speak again.

"A lesson learned. I'll enjoy killing the next one more." His ears were folded back and his eyes unblinking, the corpses of his allies laid before him and reeking of death.

"... You do not need to maintain your composure, Rasil," his mother quietly announced behind him. He turned a half-eye towards her, to see her quiet and almost-sad expression.

"... None will mock you for tears. I will not allow it." He stared at her for a few moments longer, before turning back to the corpses.

"... I keep searching for tears, mother, but all I find is fury," he responded quietly, before giving off a tiny, humorless, loathing laugh.

"What a horrid friend I am. I can't even weep at their deaths." Three arms embraced him from behind, and he allowed it. His mother and mentor both offering comforting pillars to lean upon. The fairy stretched her arms out wider upon his head, hugging him as fearsomely as she could manage. But he didn't need their support, even as weak as his legs were. The handle of his axe kept him standing.

"Mallorn! Mallorn!" A familiar, terribly tearful voice called out in the distance. The clop-clop of recognizable boots on well-trodden earth told him who it was. He pulled away from the hug and turned to face the voice. Dura, followed rapidly by a gaggle of dwarves and trolls he didn't recognize, tears in her eyes. He forced the rage from his face and let a grin take over, stepping forwards and kneeling slightly with an arm outstretched.

Dura did not stop, instead just jumping into a massive tackle that knocked the wind from his lungs and sent him rocking back before he stabilized in a kneel again. She rubbed her face rapidly against his chest, gently stabbing him with her horns again and again.

"Stupid-Idiot-Kidnapped-Moron-That-Dragon-You-Almost-And-Daddy is-And Lucia-And-They wouldn't-And-" An endless stream of half-legible words and wails came from the dwarf woman clinging onto his chest and practically hanging from his neck. He gave a stuttered laugh.

"You- Ahah! Dura! I'm not going anywhere! I killed her- I killed the dragon." What followed from Dura's mouth was an illegible stream of blubbery and angry dwarvish as she raised her legs and gave his upper torso a full-body hug. An angry, tearful hug.

"I told you didn't I? No matter what waited for us in Erem?" he asked gently, ferocious smile on his face. She quieted down at this, before letting out a hiccupy response.

"W-what wasit?"

"I'd win," he declared. There were a few moments of quiet, before she gave a tiny, wet snort.

"S-shut up and hug me with b-both hands, idiotstupidelf." He laughed, setting down the golden axe as he wrapped his other hand around her. She continued to softly cry against him, even as she rocked between sorrow and relieved laughter. He maintained the gentle chuckles, even as tiny, almost invisible tears began to well up in his eyes. Look at him, crying like this. How infuriating.