Dragon's Heart

With trepidation in their hearts but courage on their faces, the Monggol stepped into the inky blackness of Destard dungeon. The dark was suffocating, made worse by the sulphurous heat that hung on the unmoving air. On the edge of hearing, echoes grumbled like distant thunderclouds - or perhaps murmurs of something much worse. There was no breeze, no sign of life, yet the rock underfoot seemed to pulse with menace.

Haruchai drank deep of the bitter black liquid in his canteen. A moment's shudder and suddenly his sight became keener, the gloom lifted from black to grey. The three nomads stood in a huge vault, a cavern so big there was no visible end. The rock face was featureless except for some grotesque stalagmites growing drunkenly from the floor.

Haruchai saw some strange striations in the rock, deep gouges as if something with giant claws had sharpened them on the living stone. The sight brought him back to the task at hand. Earlier this night, the Quagan Ogodei had suggested they hunt for that noblest of beasts, the Dragon. Such a quarry would bring great honour to the ayimag and he felt it was time that young Haruchai faced a test of manhood. With the enthusiasm and over-confidence of the young, Haruchai had jumped at the chance.

Now he sat on his faithful mount, Jaga, next to Ogodei and Dogei Matur and felt less confident. His companions were both tsereg, full warriors of the ayimag entitled to wear the bolod dugulg or metal armour. As a young unaga, Haruchai was permitted only his studded leathers and an old tin helmet. To prove himself in such feeble protection was the highest glory of the Monggol. Only when his courage was unimpeachable would he be allowed to wear the bolod dugulg and fight in the press with the other tsereg.

Haruchai doubted not his courage but felt fear at perhaps letting his comrades down. He had become skilled with the spear, and with the kryss and shield, but now he was called upon to rain arrows upon the ayimag's foe whilst his elders held its eye and stabbed it in the heart. He hoped his skill with the bow, though a skill every nomad was born with and practised every day, would prove equal to the wondrous beasts within this cavern.

It was not long before his questions were answered. The Monggol rode deeper into the cavern, searching for signs. Spoor was everywhere, of drake and dragon, but no sign of the beasts themselves. Suddenly, from behind a bubbling pool, a grey-brown wing flapped the air and Haruchai was face to fang with his first drake.

Instinctively he raised his bow and loosed an arrow at the beast's glowering eye. It struck home, and within seconds his friends were upon the recoiling lizard, hacking through its leathery hide. Haruchai, controlling his horse with tiny leg and foot movements that enabled an almost telepathic understanding between Jaga and him, manoeuvred around the battle to avoid the drake's vicious claws whilst shooting arrow after arrow into the dying creature's heart. With a great roar, the drake collapsed in death.

The Monggol shouted their victory cry in exhilaration: "URAGSHAA!" Ogodei looked around carefully, his long experience warning him that their celebration would be sure to wake other denizens of this airless place. But nothing stirred. Puzzled, he led his ayimag deeper into the caves, down into the blackness.

As they descended, the air grew thicker and more cloying and the stinking heat increased. Yet still nothing stirred in that murk. Finally, Ogodei announced that they had come to the lair of the Ancient Wyrm - Haruchai's heart missed a whole beat at the mention of that legendary creature. Surely, death was at hand?

The lair was empty. Being young and foolish, Haruchai boasted that the old lizard was too scared to fight the Monggol. His elders smiled and laughed at his bravado - the sometimes senseless courage of the ayimag which made them such fearsome warriors. Then, near a lava pit, a sizzling inferno jumped out of the molten rock - and shockingly, made its way towards them.

Haruchai had seen fire elementals before and knew they were as vulnerable to an arrow in their gut as any orgh. With practised ease, he made a fiery hedgehog of the elemental as his companions chopped it down. He rocked a little when hit by the creature's awesome magics, but wrapped a bandage on the burns with increasing swiftness. As the living torch exploded in death, another took its place, and then another. The ayimag despatched them all with practised team work. As unaga, Haruchai was allowed to collect the unwanted "sparklies" or gems.

Perhaps they were becoming too confident, perhaps the gods simply enjoy a good game with their pawns. Whichever, the ayimag rode back to the huge cavern, bantering and teasing each other like children. They rode into the gloom and Haruchai stopped a moment to collect some arrows fallen on the ground. The voices of his companions grew fainter. He looked up suddenly, an acrid, acidic scent in his nostrils, like a crushed lemon. He narrowed his eyes into the gloaming, and immediately knew something was coming, something terrible, for Jaga twitched nervously under him. Jaga always had a sixth sense of when his master was out of his depth, and short of shouting out a plea to run, the horse was making it clear they were in seriously deep waters.

A moment later, Haruchai saw the cause of his horse's fear. Staring at him with un-natural intelligence, a huge dragon took form out of the darkness. It's hide was deeper red than the fires of the living hell, and those eyes - dsolig! those eyes shone with an amber light like two pools of molten gold. As he stared, Haruchai felt a momentary belief that the dragon regarded him almost with affection - until it dawned on him that there was an unfathomable contempt in its dark heart. What he saw was a faint pity.

All this took place in less than a heart beat. Even as he pondered the dragon, Haruchai's bow was lifting and the notched arrow shooting towards his adversary. And then, for the first time in his young life, Haruchai gulped with shock. The arrow simply bounced. Jaga anticipated his master's command a full second before it had occurred and bolted. Just as well, for the dragon's claw was already rending the air and would have torn open the nomad's chest a second later. Even the concussion from the near miss was enough to half crush the fleeing warrior, and then he felt his skin charring from his bones as a wall of flame enveloped him.

Biting his tongue to stop from screaming in agony, he dodged Jaga around the huge cavern, wrapping bandages on his blistered skin and trying desperately to shoot arrows into the fearsome beast which pursued him. He managed to scratch it once or twice, but it was clear it was not slowing, nor was it in danger of dying at all soon. He recovered his wits and reduced the pain of his wounds to a bearable level. He realised that with skill and care, he could avoid the beast's massive claws - but was still subject to its powerful breath. He had just decided upon his strategy when Jaga drew up short, nearly pitching him onto the ground.

He snapped his head forward, about to curse his mount for the dragon was bearing down on them. Yet, Jaga was no fool. In their path stood another dragon, licking its lips. Behind it stood a drake, deferent to its more powerful cousin but still keen to sample nomad. Momentarily, Haruchai felt fear rise like bile. Then the thought flashed through his mind that one unaga would not make any sort of meal for these three giants. He guffawed with laughter at the image. The dragons stopped, astonished by his lack of respect. Thus have the Monggol survived their greatest dangers, by laughing in the face of the Reaper.

Haruchai urged his horse to the left, shooting behind him and at least hurting the drake. As he galloped through the gloom, not once did he think to escape from the cavern and live. His comrades were in here somewhere, and they might enjoy a death struggle with these lizards. He came upon them on the far side of the cavern, despatching a couple of drakes. "Sain bainuu!" came the greetings, but Haruchai simply grinned and pointed. The fearsome trio crashed into view.

The young Monggol was pleased to see that even Ogodei looked stunned. He rode on, still shooting, and beginning to get a feel of the dragon's vulnerabilities. He was hitting it square now, but still his shafts barely wounded the beast. At least it bled, he thought grimly. Ogodei and Dogei sheathed their weapons and hefted their own bows. The three Monggol pelted the great lizards with a withering hail of arrows, and for the first time, Haruchai could see doubt in the beast's eyes.

Dogei swung his horse behind the murderous procession and impaled the drake on his kryss. As it died, one of the dragons turned on him and crushed him against the rock. With horror, Haruchai saw his friend's spirit rent from his body. Dogei's sacrifice was not in vain. The drake was dead, the dragons wavering. Ogodei rode to Dogei's body whilst Haruchai led the beasts from the scene.

Now his arrows were hurting the dragons, and they seemed to pant and labour, the terrible breath now little more than a summer scirocco. Still, those claws were much in evidence, and Haruchai had just seen their raw power. Suddenly, both dragons stopped, blood cascading onto the rock floor. The brown lizard groaned mightily and flapped its gigantic wings. With open-mouthed astonishment, Haruchai saw it take flight. It was fleeing!

He took aim, but the red dragon had charged towards him once more and he was forced to shoot at it in an attempt to slow it. Its claws raked into him, tearing off his burnt skin. Desperately, he turned Jaga away and escaped its clutches. Away to his left, there was an almighty crash and a death roar that shook stones from the cavern roof. Ogodei had managed to successfully beseech the Stone Ghost to re-unite Dogei's spirit with his body and then shot down the fleeing dragon.

With renewed determination, now he knew these beasts could die, Haruchai shot arrows into the approaching dragon. Ogodei and Dogei were shooting as they caught up, but Haruchai now stood his ground. The huge beast stumbled under the rain of death, but its eyes were locked on his. It stepped towards him, dragging its huge bulk, leaving a river of blood in its trail. He forced his own gaze into those noble orbs, so full of courage and determination he felt the tears run down his face even as he shot another arrow into the beast.

It must be dead, it should be dead, but the dragon kept coming, kept itself from death by sheer force of will. The giant face approached his, snarling with anger. Like a man possessed, Haruchai kept notching and shooting, notching and shooting even though the dragon now stood less than a yard away. Their eyes held one another, warriors born embraced in the moment of truth. One would die in the next heartbeat, but their struggle, the comradeship of blood, the salute to courage seen and given, these things passed between them.

Then another shaft from one of the ayimag buried itself deep in the dragon's heart and the struggle was over. Haruchai saw the fire in those brave eyes suddenly go out, and a second later the dragon crashed at his feet.

A long moment passed, and then the three nomads raised their weapons high in silent salute to a great and wondrous adversary who fought and died with the courage of a Monggol. Later that night, they hunted more drakes and dragons, took grievous wounds and dealt death. The stories and boasts flowed back at the Tosgon as freely as the kumis they drank in honour of their foes. But truly, nothing would ever compare to that time when Haruchai fought his first dragon.

© 2001 Pól-MichelSeachra AnDaingean