St George and the Dragon
It was night, the crescent moon smiling upon the black city of Silene. The old cathedral, at the center of the square, was strangely illuminated from within. The members of Order Jacobius had retired to their residences, leaving a sole acolyte to perform a litany of the evening prayers. He was clothed in a scarlet robe with a hood over his head, to hide his face from the presence of the Holy Mother, whose image was erected upon the ivory altar in the sanctuary. He was mumbling vehemently, the dim candles revealing cold drops of sweat on the skin of his upper lip.
The acolyte lifted his gaze towards the statue, whose outstretched arms bore a sense of warmth to welcome him into her divine embrace. This time, he was to be denied solace for his soul, for from her eyes flowed crimson tears of blood. Gripped by fear, he lay paralyzed on the ground, the hollow wind sniffing out the candles that stood by the sides of the pews. Darkness engulfed him, and he heard a voice, the voice of the Holy mother. He knew not if the statue or his heart had held him in deceit
Hearken, my child! Beware the hunger of the Beast!
The tall wax candles were lit once again, and the acolyte fled from the sanctuary, screaming in madness.
The palace of the Libyan monarch was embellished in distinct opulence. The walls of the King's court were adorned with paintings of heroes and saints of lore, and its marbled floor was partitioned with gold . Tapestries of apocryphal verses hung by the side of the throne. It was a magnificent place, but a vision from an acolyte brought the monarch grim tidings.
The king sat on his throne, his head perched on his fist. His wrinkled face was worn from countless wars. His eyes were dim, with the long hair of his brow covering them. His ruffled beard was long and grey, still his weariness failed to erode his health, for his sagged cheeks still retained their tanned radiance.
Cardinal Lucien walked in and bowed low before the king. He was a pious subject of unique intellect and cunning, which earned him honor among the avaricious nobles and the militant feudal lords in the kingdom. He had heard the news of the nocturnal apparition from his acolyte, whom he ordered locked up in the dungeon until his hysteria had abated.
"My Lord, it seems the nature of the matter has caused you deep unrest?" the cardinal closed his eyes and smiled.
"It does not bode well..." The king sighed. "Remember the time when we failed to take heed of the soothsayers prophecies? Our land was inflicted with ten long years of famine!"
"Yes my Lord, it is of the greatest urgency that the Beast which threatens our peace be obliterated, but we know not its dwelling, and who possesses the courage to slay it?"
The king rose from his throne and cried in despair. "Is it now that we have foreseen our doom?"
"My king, my king!" The tall steel door of the King's court was flung open, and a messenger, clothed in drabs of tattered cloth, staggered in and fell before the king.
"Massacre...All of them...Women and children of my village....It is an abomination..!" the man broke down in tears, breathing heavily.
Lucien knelt before the king and clutched his aged feeble palm. "Rest assured my Lord, for I will not rest until this curse is lifted from our land!" The cardinal hastily took his leave, and headed for the dark haunted village.
Mutilated bodies were scattered on the ground, terror struck the countenance of the corpses, as if they beheld the face of the Devil himself. Houses, made of stone and wood, were torn down or burnt to smoking ashes. The stallion that bore the cardinal on his flight to the village, trembled as it approached the Dead.
Lucien was appalled. He closed his eyes and saw the anguish of the victims. All his wisdom could not alleviate the despair that dominated the land.
"My son, o' my son, what ails you?" came a soft gentle voice.
Lucien strained his eyes into the woods. It was a shape of a woman, and she seemed to be walking closer, but the mist covered her face from him.
"The One with the mark of the Dragon shall be the redemption of your people" the voice echoed within Lucien's soul. He gazed towards the sky and smiled.
"The Divine has spoken...." He pulled in the reins and rode away.
The village of Attica, north of Silene, was dominated by the Gauls, a Germanic tribe renowned for their violence and cruelty. George of Clemens was a blacksmith, a man who spent his days forging blades upon the anvil. His mood was foul, for he annoyed all who lived near him. Even among the babarians, the man with the mark of the dragon on his chest was a pure lowbred, a crude beast unworthy of their acquaintance.
It was evening, and the black steed of the cardinal stopped in front of the blacksmith's workshop. Lucien had finally found what he wanted.
"Greetings my friend.."The cardinal dismounted and gave a decent bow.
George gave a menacing stare at the civilized visitor. He was clothed in a dark robe, upon his neck was a crucifix of bronze. George was filled with contempt for clerics who came to proselytize. The blacksmith ceased hammering and lifted the steel blade, glowing in bright amber. He dipped it into the bucket, and it cooled to a loud simmer, fumes filling the stale, rusted air.
"I am no friend of yours, but if its a damned soul you're looking for, you have come to the right place" George turned away from the cardinal, and cleaned his scalded palms with a damp woolen cloth.
"Nay my friend, but a deed worth ten thousand gold maybe of interest to you?" The cardinal smiled. He knew the desires of the man's heart, it was darker than hell itself.
"Hah! A mercernary eh?" there was a sardonic tone to George's voice. "You must be one of the ancient Pharisees!"
Lucien laughed, and it startled the blacksmith, who assumed the bout of mockery would have unshackled the cardinal's wits.
"You have cravings, don't you?" Lucien stared hard into George's face. "There are ghosts of the past that you have tried to kill. They still haunt your dreams don't they? Remember the time you were a child, and you saw its face within the cave...."
George clenched his fist, threw himself at Lucien and gripped the cardinal's shoulders in violent outrage. He was a huge man of immense stature, molded from years of working on the blades.
"Who are you and what do you want?" his voice was soft, but it was one of insanity, a forgotten wound within his psyche had been torn open once again.
"You...You are the one the prophecy spoke about. You saw the beast! Your parents were ravaged by it. Now is your time for revenge."
George's eyes burned with unquenchable hatred. The cardinal had found him, the child who faced the Beast and lived, for his time had not yet come.
It was night in the cave. His parents, were nomads who resolved to spent the night away from the violent storm. Deep within the heart of the cave, it came and it tore them apart, man and wife, taking them away from him...He neither cried nor trembled, but he saw it, its face its power. It raised its claws to maim him, but the mark on his chest caused it to move away, as if it saw a symbol of power greater than itself. The child took hold of his father's sword, and walked away.
"It has returned...." George put his hands down. "I have waited long enough for this day. Take back your offerings of gold and silver. For I will not rest until I have sought it out and slain it with my father's own blade. This is my solemn oath to you."
"Very well...It lies in the woods of Libya, that was where our townsfolk perished." The dark rain clouds had congregated upon the land as claps of thunder resonated over the sky. The cardinal rode swiftly away upon his horse, leaving George alone in deep contemplation. He went in to his room and opened the old wooden chest. In it lay the blade his father named and wielded as a warrior. It was a magnificent weapon, the steel held its luster and shine, the amber hilt was crafted to perfect symmetry. George took hold of the sword, he could feel the fury burning within, his heart joined to the sole memory of that night in the cave.
The journey to the Libyan woods was long and arduous. George crossed the Storm mountains, whose black peaks were buried in snow, and the strong winds relentlessly impeding his quest. He traveled with little, a knapsack for food and his sword slung on his bag was all the blacksmith carried.
He reached the Libyan woods after thirty days. It was once an enchanted abode, where beast of every kind could find their rest, and graze the fields during the first blooms in spring. Now all was left were charred corpses and dead oaks, and the specter of death filled the air with its stench.
There was a solitary path bearing the footprints of the Beast. The flora and fauna around it had been trampled to deformity. The path streaked far into the foot of a hill, according to the Cardinal, the cave beneath was the dwelling of the Beast. George made every move with great caution, fearing his footsteps would arouse the fury of the enemy.
A shuffling noise within the bushes aroused his attention. He peered hard into the thick undergrowth behind him. He was being followed. It was not the Beast, for the creature was small, and had mustered the art of concealment. Its two eyes glowed in the darkness, and when it knew it had been unconvered, it stepped out of the bushes to face the blacksmith.
It was a satyr, a goat-man. One of the ancient creatures that old men spoke of in tales. It had the face of a man, but it had horns and a goat's body. It walked with a strange limp, for its hooves could not hold the weight of its shoulders.
"By the Gods!" George exclaimed. "The likes of your kind were only heard in stories told by charlatans!"
"Nay, my friend," replied the creature. "We have learnt to hide away from Man, because his mind has become deluded to the effects of our power. Nevertheless, your desire for the creature has led me to you."
The creature grinned menacingly at the sword on his back. The look in its eyes greatly disturbed the him. George grabbed hold of the creature's neck and held it up in the air. The satyr struggled in pain, its green eyes turning a bluish pale.
"Now tell me, what is your intention?"
"Mercy!!" gasped the creature, choking in his own words. "Mere strength alone will not destroy it! Only the blood of my race upon your blade will overcome!" Its legs were kicking wildly in the air.
George put the creature down. He felt a strange pity for it. The creature was right, they were a dying race, hidden away from the ambitions of man. The satyr took his sword, and slashed its own wrist. An emerald radiance grew from the blade
"It is done," the creature said, and leapt away into the shadows.
He wanted to call for the creature, but it had vanished from sight. It was getting dark, and the mouth of the cave was up ahead. He had no light to start a fire, but years of wandering had adapted him to walking in the night.
There came a roar, and tremors shook the ground, causing George to momentarily lose his foothold. He gripped the hilt of his sword, and it shone with the light once more, guiding the path ahead of him. He bolted towards the cave, and at the mouth, before him, stood the Beast.
It was clothed in black scales. It possessed a towering neck that soared high up into the hill, but craned down to face him. Its breath was of fire, and its eyes the gateway to hell itself. It spread its wings, embedding the woods in darkness.
It rained fire on George, and he dodged the flames, rolling on the ground. The claws of the Beast smote him, and he struck his sword to fend of its attacks, the light of the blade glowing with greater power every moment the Beast laid eyes on it. He hacked off its right limb, and the Beast screamed in madness, spitting flames of anguish. The abdomen, it was exposed. He pierced the sword into it, and the blood spilled out into his face.
The beast struggled violently. It flung him away, his head hitting the trunk of a bald oak tree by the hill. As the emerald light pierced from its body, it shriveled, wings peeling away into dust, the body decapitated with a violent explosion.
George opened his eyes. It was dawn. Sunlight penetrated the forest canopy and for the first time in many years, green leaves sprouted anew from the dark tall trees that once haunted the woodlands of Libya.
