Chapter 19 – Of Smoke and Destiny

Destiny stalked him like anything he ever faced; the relentless, determined beast would not be deterred.  No matter how far he attempted to run from it, he only found himself running into it instead.

When he was presented with the idea of traveling far beyond the reaches of his homeland, months worth of travel at least, to fight a mythological beast that would quite likely kill him and his friends, he should have at least hesitated.  His battered, situational intuition should have flared like a lit gas pocket, fiery bright and expanding at a moment’s notice at a great speed.  He should have kindly declined the inquiry, stating that his presence was required at home, where a territorial battle was ensuing and he should have been present to put down whatever madness had taken over his friend and companion, which he could see warping his mind and heart as readily as a strangler vine choked a sweet flowering vine.  But all of these actions felt wrong, like he was crossing a rope bridge and the plank normal sought with his foot for balance was certainly gone.  He caught himself not only agreeing to this foreign slaughter in the cradle of the God’s right hand, where their stewards they spawned revelled among true mortals like Gods themselves, but adamantly insisting that this journey be taken, that this injustice be sought, confronted, and met.  Another man lived inside his skin now, speaking firm and hard words his lips never seemed to know and doubt was something that he had to bury with the dead.

Who had he turned into?  Or worse… turning into?

When they turned the corner of a stout bluff that rose almost impossibly into the heavens, it was there that he saw another that almost rose so high it almost bracketed the Heavens themselves.  The air was desperately thin up there, no trees felt the madness to grow their in verdant defiance, and Runt hadn’t see the signs of the tracks of a creature for several miles.  It was so high up that even the birds didn’t come here to die.  Carved into the face of this colossal mountain side was a Stone dragon, its granite wing furled as if to meet an updraft and pull the whole mountain face alongside with it.   Its looming presence stole into Runt’s mind, taking all the fears and concerns he had about this adventure and dutifully fleshed them out so they could rest inside of his stomach like a lead weight, refusing to be digested.  And yet… he knew he had to be there.  Something called to him through those ancient halls, beckoning him as surely as the wind howled through the peaks of the lesser summits and pulled him closer.  To what?  To his grisly death?  To unearthly treasure and untold power?  To fight for the fate of mankind as the weak shouldered man who had practically shook himself into a passionate fit to convince them?  All of these things and none at the same time was what his heart told him, and yet… something else lingered just past perception, moving in the darkness like a beckoning beast, prowling in the dim light, waiting for Runt to finally risk his life to know.

He knew things that he couldn’t possibly have known on his own, for he knew them somehow as if he walked the very halls themselves millennia before.  The moment his hands rested upon the first Dragon trumpet, it’s magnificence seemed to speak through his hands; he knew it was something of incredible importance.  He attempted to rationalize it; he was a thief after all to a fashion, he merely under what value felt like, it was the weight, the texture of the artifact that called out to him, nothing more.  But yet… yet something else was calling out to him.  Softly, too softly to be discerned but clearly just the same.

He felt like a raving madman when he insisted on digging up the poor music squire’s grave.  He didn’t know what was buried there, or that it was one of the trumpets, but he knew that they had buried something of incredible value with him just the same.  It was a gift that he deserved, earned by the hours of training and performance he did for the Kings, the painstaking beauty he conjured up for them, the tales he put music to.  The look of shame and regret on Gregor’s face as they dug through the graves, Runt nearly lost his nerve and stopped digging.  But he had to find what was hidden with the small creature inside.  Why would he think he was small?  Or even have any idea?  What was happening to him?

When he laid his eyes first on the Lorekeeper, he knew that he was in the presence of an ancient; regardless of what species or breed he was.  They could have readily have taken him if they so desired but… Runt felt he deserved the respect and admiration of one who had lived through the millennia … he would sooner strike out a stained glass window than dispatch such an artist as the Lorekeeper.  Why did this lizard matter?  Was he not the supposed killer of mythological creatures?  Why did their existence seem to fascinate and trouble him at the same time?

Finally the moment he could not find an answer for still plagued him…  He knew what to do when Xana and Thayna were turned to solid ice.  His heart sank like a river stone in the ocean when he turned and saw that they were solid ice instead of merely coated by it but his mind… his mind was still and patient, his intuition calmly instructed that he needed to take them to the pool and they would recover.  He knew that it had to have some magical properties to it after they fought the slime that lived in the water, it so strange that it was alien how it moved and attacked them… But he knew it was meant to cleanse, to prepare and perhaps to heal.  

Again, he could have discerned it in a different way, that the steps were meant to baptize or to bath but it seemed to have something more to it than that, something sacred.  It was a shot in the dark but he was desperate.  He needed to save them, especially Xana.  They had survived so much together, done so much together, he just couldn’t think…  No.  There had to be a way.  When he watched Xana spring back to life, struggling back and forth like a stunned trout caught in the hands of a bear as she came to her senses in Gregor’s hands, the look of sheer amazement and wonder in Gregor’s eyes as hope poured into his face.  Relief filled him to the brim, laced with his own personal shock and confusion; HOW DID HE KNOW THIS?!  HOW??  She should have been lost, she should have been gone… and yet, there Xana was because he knew that it was their only chance.

And now he stood before the Great Doors to the Vault.  He knew it was the Vault; there was no other way it couldn’t be.  The arch that loomed overhead with its staggering level of detail, how it echoed the outer-holdings except instead of fear and a treacherous ledge, it was designed with pride, prestige, and valor.  Something that one would design in reverence as much as a warning to those who mistook benevolent respect for weakness.  And he understood this on a level that he couldn’t quite figure out.

His hands shook a bit as he was able to open the doors and peaked his head inside.  He felt the age of the air that stood still as a mountain in the room as his eyes adjusted.  It was massive, holding thrones for each of the Kings and as his eyes moved from right to left, there in the far left… his heart stopped.  He felt like a mouse that had wandered into the lion’s den by accident when the King’s booming Draconic thundered across the room, clearly directed at him.  His eyes were as large as orc axes as he begged Nelea to join him and translate.  He wanted to bow, to rest his forehead on the ground to give the King of the North the respect he deserved but he knew that this would not do; he had a mission, it must be completed.

He had known that ancient ruler was going to be larger than life, but he never knew that he would be this large.  Sunken in, withered, and emaciated, he resembled something more like a collection of debris under cobwebs but yet… the titan’s eyes were sharp and alive between the dust and age.  His throne was the size of a mining lift, the jewels bracketing it were the size of an ox’s heart and unfathomably more rich.  The world had moved on a thousand times over since this court was held with pomp and circumstance but still it was just as dangerous.  Runt knew he could kill him just as easily as he would a gnat, if not more readily so.  And yet, Runt knew that he had to face him.

Soon the party joined them and through the assistance of Xana, they were able to explain their purpose and interest.  His heart nearly seized on him twice as the conversation carried on as he could understand bits and pieces of it, based on the inflections and context.  His tongue felt sore as he attempted to mimic the movements in the past but his mind kept up as best as it could.  The King of the North shifted under his veil of time, asking questions in the guttural but fluid tones of Draconic; Xana responding comfortably as possible, all things considered.

His attention was suddenly peaked when he heard what he assumed to be a reference to the Dragon Trumpets.  He fumbled with the sack, his hand already untying the straps to reach inside of it to sneak the first of the trumpets.  He could tell there was hesitation, both in Xana and Thayna’s behavior but he need they were sacred, essential to this quest and he was near feverish to bring them out, to present them the way a child shows a parent a bauble they found, seeking their approval and respect.  When the King confirmed their use and that they needed to be cleansed in the Shrieving pool (that’s what it is called!), Runt was practically beside himself in urgency to do so forthwith.

The party did as the King requested and returned as quickly as they could.  No one had the nerve to maintain their presence of the King while they did so, even though not everyone was needed to cleanse the Trumpets.  Runt placed them in a row in front of the King, like he was assembling an audience of greatness before him.  He caught himself looking back…  Why was he behaving this way?  He never gave such attention or consideration to anyone?  Before he could complete his thought, the voice of the King of the North drifted into his thoughts like a aberrant fog.

He bowed his head in thanks but then raised his eyes as his voice followed.  Words, once foreign and strange started to have more and more meaning in Runt’s head, as the King spoke, he could almost clearly understand what he was saying.  What needed to be said before action was taken, so it was understood.  The King wheezed and coughed, his massive hand resting briefly against his chest.  After he recovered, his gaze started to glower, his hand reaching in such a manner that Runt understood universally.  Between the motions taken and what he could make out of what the King said, Runt understood completely what was about to transpire.  

The King had given his life to shape, protect, and control the Dragon Vault, and did so with Pride.  And like any good warrior, he wanted to go out in the throes of battle and in which the mortals that have come to his Kingdom would prove their worthiness to enter the Vault.

In the back of his mind, his heart spoke, saying it would be an honor to die by this beast’s hand, but not today.