Kyrul the Terrible

Long, long ago, in this world or perhaps another, there were dragons. That is, if you can believe such things, though I do not think they are as unreal as the modern man may claim. In fact, I think one sees them quite often. But more on that later. This story is about dragons then, not dragons now.

Back then, they had many names: dragon, serpent, leviathan, worm, and were often given titles for their great feats of strength and bravery— or cunning and greed. I suppose it depended on what kind of dragon you were, though I believe the rather rotten type was much more common than the virtuous kind, just as it is with man.

This story is about one of the rather rotten dragons. His name was Kyrul, often called Kyrul the Terrible or Kyrul the Conniving by his foes, and Kyrul the Silver Lord (he was a silverback dragon) by those who saw their cowardice as fear, and their ignorance as faith (dragons were often worshiped in that day, just as the Egyptians worshiped a jackal, or Israelites a calf).

Now the chief vice of the western dragons (for most good dragons were found in the eastern lands), as the likes of Tolkien or Lewis, or those orators of Beowulf have rightly concluded, is greed. And why is that? Well, things like gold and precious stones were, in those days, the currency of the land. Great kings and mighty lords sought after riches and beauty, and for good reason. In those days, shall we say for example in the realm of Andar (Kyrul lived in the mountains just west of its capital), the economies were not very well thought out. Trade was the main source of wealth, and routes were dangerous, due funnily enough to the dragons themselves, and if you were not in one of the heavily fortified settlements, your home and livelihood were exposed to all sorts of terrible beasties; Logrogglins, Ronkadonks, Little Watchers, Vampires, and more. This meant that people lived off of the little livestock they had within their walled cities, and they came up with all sorts of ingenious ways of growing plants. But gold and jewels were rare and prized greatly, for a mining trek to the mountains almost always meant certain death (I should say, a good few dragon worshipers would partake in that vile religion just to come near a few gold coins and take them for their own, but they never got very far with it, but more on that later). Iron brought military might, while gold and jewels boasted of a kingdom’s bravery, and the strength of their men.

All this is to say, dragons hated men very deeply for their love of gold. “Thieving maggots” they often called men. Men, unlike dragons, could forge the most beautiful and desirable artifacts and weapons from the stuff, provided they had the fire. The dragons were evermore jealous and spiteful of the craft, but they withheld the secrets of their flame, and so one could say both were at a crossroads: Men prized metal for the power it brought them, and [most] dragons lusted after gold to fulfill their corrupted nature. But men had neither the gold nor fire to craft weapons and jewelry with, and the dragons had not the beautiful, fine things they desired.

And, now that you have some context, I suppose I’d better start telling the story. So, our story opens as I said in the Realm of Andar, west of Rikenhall, one of the great halls of the chieftains and kings of that day. The Western Mountains had suffered a terrible forest fire over the summer from a spat between Kyrul and another dragon, Anglehurst. This forest would become known as the Ashwood Glade. What the fight was over, I do not know, but both dragons were scratched up pretty badly and spent that winter sulking in their caves. Perhaps it was because Kyrul had come down from the North, and Anglehurst did not take to his new neighbor, or perhaps they had both seen the craft and skill of the men at Rikenhall, and could not agree which of them should go down and burn the hall to the ground. For all their cunning, dragons can be quite silly and selfish lizards.

That spring, Kyrul’s wounds had healed up a bit, and he decided to take a prowl outside his cave (he needed to stretch his wings a bit before flying again, he didn’t want to put them out). He wandered out from his rocky lair and into the burnt forest. Snow was slowly receding as little tufts of green grass reached through them for the morning air. While the refreshing song of spring had brought signs of life back to the wood, those signs were small, the notes flat, and it mostly remained a charred, black, leafless waste.

The serpent stretched in the overcast morning. His silver scales shimmered slightly, and his belly loosed a deep, greedy growl. His yellow and red, predator eyes scanned the waste for a meaty breakfast. A couple hundred cubits away he spotted a large white stag grazing in a clearing. How delightful, he thought, his stomach churning. I have not yet tasted a pale stag such as that, I do believe I should like it for my meal. He stretched out his neck and let out a guttural growl, waking himself up. It had been a long, cold winter and he’d grown rather stiff, and his scales had grown rather soft.

He half galloped, half glided across the broken logs and slushy forest floor. As he came upon the stag its eyes widened in panic. It turned to run away, but Kyrul’s talons seared into its flesh. It fell and Kyrul prepared for his meal.

He tore into the mammal with a gluttonous delight. Why, it is simply delicious, he thought to himself, and truly it was a very special stag. All of the sudden, he felt a sharp prick on his right hind leg. He raised his head to see what it was. An arrow. Nasty, fleshy image bearers, he thought angrily. Come to steal my meal have you! He whipped his horned head around. What he saw surprised him, and the beast almost chuckled.

Staring up at him, a few feet away from Kyrul’s claws, was a small, freckled, scruffy, red- haired boy, probably six or seven years of age. His blue eyes widened as big as dinner plates. The dragon’s jaws twisted into an evil grin. I did not expect dessert with my morning meal, he thought to himself, eyeing the little boy and licking his lips.

“Hello, child,” he said with feigned kindness. “What is a young man like yourself doing in this wood on a morning such as this?” Kyrul took that foolish pleasure of playing with his food before he ate it, a nasty vice that would catch up with him in the coming paragraphs, as he had quite forgotten about the arrow in his leg.

The boy didn’t reply, but continued gazing. He lifted up his hand and gestured at the dragon. At that moment, another arrow pierced Kyrul’s softened hide, and then another and another. Kyrul turned in fury, letting out a mighty roar. His wings swept the grove and blew the child backward. Three archers revealed themselves from behind trees, and a fourth man with a chain roped it around the dragon’s jaws. Three more men on horseback and two with spears and dogs rushed to the scene. A hunting party. A great commotion followed; one of the archers met his end at Kyrul’s mace-like tale as it gored him and flung him into a tree, and a spearman’s stomach was ripped open by the dragon’s claws, his entrails spilling out on the forest floor. The remaining men managed to wrestle the beast into submission. Of course, the boy was picked up by his father, a burly man with a crown on one of the horses, and given to Boman, his most trusted servant, also on horseback.

Now here I should do some explaining. These were the men of Rikenhall, specifically some hunters and their chieftain, and the two men on horseback were his personal bodyguards, of whom was Boman. In that day and age, men did not live very long, and fathers taught their sons to hunt and fish and skin a wolf as young as they could. Paka, the red haired boy, was the son of the Chief, and had been brought by his father on the hunt; specifically, the hunt for the White Stag— a mythical sort of creature in the eyes of men. The White Stag was said to give blessing to those who could catch it, and Boman had suggested the Chief ask for the protection over his hall; they had sustained a brutal attack from an enemy clan in the south, and though they had emerged victorious, the Chieftain did not think another battle would be favorable, especially as Boman had narrowly saved his life in it. Of course, they were not very thrilled that a dragon had used the stag’s blessing for breakfast. Furthermore, the fact that curious little fellow Paka had snuck off when his father’s back was turned, and had almost been himself killed, had put everyone in a rather salty mood. Boman, being a man of prudence and honesty, had strongly held that the Chief not bring his son on such an important mission.

“Nonsense!” the Chief had replied nonchalantly. “It will make a great tale for the boy in his old age!”

Being also a man of honor and silence, Boman said nothing more.

After a great deal of struggle, Kyrul stopped shaking against the chain. He breathed heavily; he was rather out of shape. The men lifted spears, prepared for their killing. The Chieftain gave his son a dirty look and a smack across the face. He handed him to Boman and turned to the dragon.

“Serpent,” he boomed proudly. “Behold your conquerors, the mighty men of Rikenhall. May this day be remembered as the day we slew one of our foul foes, the destroyer of the white stag, who the brave men of our halls hunted for many moons.” He lifted his sword to strike the beast. “Any last words, vile worm?”

It should be said, dragon’s inward thoughts and outward appearances rarely align. Inside, he felt a mix of panic at the men’s entrapment of him, and knowledge of his own frailty. He needed time to become strong again, time to harden his scales for battle. He also felt a deep sense of hurt-pride and anger— how dare these feeble creatures entrap me, the terrible tragedy of men, the mighty Silver Lord. But though he was proud, he was not so unwise to show his true disposition. Instead, he answered with a cool and smooth demeanor.

“Oh great Chieftain,” he said, lowering his head in false reverence. “I have heard tell of the mighty men of Rikenhall, not two leagues east of here I believe? I have admired your people’s mighty works of beauty from afar. And I believe I owe you a tremendous debt, as I have unknowingly slain your prize game. I humbly make an offer of payment for my error, that is, should the great Chief humor me.”

The dragon made a look so solemn and meak, you’d think he’d lost his wings. The Chieftain, though he didn’t trust the serpent, was a proud man himself, and easily flattered by his subordinates. He decided to hear the serpent’s offer.

“Go on, worm.”

“Well, your honor,” the dragon said with inauthentic concern. “Your people are truly the

finest craftsmen of the land, both in architecture and weaponry; do not think my keen eyes overlooked the fine curves lining these arrows, nor the craft of your hilts and scabbards. But alas, your arrows and spears are tipped with sharp stone and your swords of stolen iron, for you know not the secret of fire and smithing. For my life and as payment for your stag, I humbly offer my services and knowledge to teach you the ways of metal making, and to protect you from your enemies, human or beast. I will make your hall strong and mighty.”

The Chieftain was pricked. For the Rikenhallers were not as honorable as the dragon’s flattery presupposed, and they had enemies. A rival kingdom to the south, and an angered but flightless dragon to the far north who they had shot down seven years prior. Smelting would not only mean craft and riches, but also advanced weaponry. The Chieftain had decided. He lowered his sword to the beast’s nostrils.

“Swear fealty to me, serpent, and I shall grant you your life.”

“I swear fealty to you alone, oh mighty chieftain.”

Now, one may think this a rather foolish thing to do, to which I would say, yes of course it is foolish. But, keep in mind, no man of Rikenhall had ever spoken to a dragon in conversation such as this, and they had heard tell of the occasional ‘good’ dragon crossing through, and the Chieftain thought this must be one of those very dragons. Boman thought otherwise.

Indeed, Boman’s spirit was stronger than most, for unbeknownst to them, and to us until recent times, Kyrul had begun working his dragon magic; a magic so vile it reaches into the hearts of those with similar vices, and subtly make pawns of the unsuspecting sinners. Boman lacked the hubris of his lord, and thus was not so easily twisted.

“My lord, what happens should the beast turn on us?”

“Do not fret, dear Boman. We shall have twenty seven guards around the beast at all times, and the first thing we shall smelt is an iron chain to keep him tethered.”

“But my lord, what if he should aid our enemies?”

“Nonsense, man. There shall be no offer made to our new servant that will exceed ours. For we shall soon possess the gold and metals of this land. Think of the benefits! No enemy will stand against us.” Unlikely, I know. It’s hard to say if this was Kyrul’s magic or not at this time, for the Chieftain's arrogance and desire for power often spoke for him.

They led Kyrul back to their village rather easily. Of course, convincing the town’s folk of his utility was a more challenging task. For sake of time, I will give you a summary of what happened:

Upon bringing the serpent to the gate, many were in disbelief and shock. They thought that their Chief had gone absolutely mad. He ordered his guards to silence opposition and doubled his protection should any usurpers arise. He gave many speeches and promises of the usefulness of a dragon, and after several months the people slowly but surely grew used to the idea; the magic at work.

During these months, Kyrul taught the men of Rikenhall to smith and forge, and he led many expeditions (always chained, mind you) to his lair to retrieve and mine gold and iron and jewels. Kyrul was careful, however, to withhold the secret of fire from men, ensuring he was its sole source. It wasn’t long before the men had crafted fine iron blades and golden coins with inscriptions of poetry and songs on them. They used their new tools to mine stronger stone, and raised up a new hall in the middle of the town. Truly, Kyrul kept his promise to make the hall ‘strong and mighty’.

By then, his spell was nearly complete, and the people of Rikenhall had been firmly swayed; they couldn’t imagine life without a dragon. They said things like, “How modern, how brilliant!” and “I shouldn’t want to belong to any other clan than Rikenhall, for how sensible are we to turn our foe into our greatest ally!” To celebrate, the townsfolk imported strange and powerful wines and drank themselves into foolishness almost every night. They began to forget the way of their fathers, and the Chief led them in all sorts of vile practices that I won’t go into here. One could say they had become dragon worshippers, though they could not admit that to themselves, for they did not know. They were in a dark smoke, unaware of Kyrul’s crooked malice enticing their greed and corrupting their hearts. All the while Boman did not trust the beast. Despite the progressive chatter, opinions, and indulgent practices, he held fast to his clear judgement and knew that the dragon was up to no good.

With their newfound wealth and power, Rikenhall became a formidable force. They signed treaties with the men of the east, and with the Foxmen in the Great Plains. Eventually, the clan of the south made plans to attack. Upon receiving this news (from spies I suppose) the Chieftain had his men prepare for battle. Somehow or other, Kyrul overheard this, and requested an audience with the Chief. Boman attended.

“Oh great Chief,” the dragon stooped. “I have heard from my guards and the chatter of your hall that your enemies mean to overcome you.”

“You speak truthfully, serpent. They come now this way on horseback, and I have heard tell they have found an ally in a great sorcerer. I do not anticipate the battle will be a swift victory.”

“Do not feel the need to share your inward heart with this foul beast,” Boman said. “His forked tongue speaks only half of his true intent.”

“Perhaps,” Kyrul whispered to the Chief. His scheming mind did not miss an opportunity, and he was now confident in his hold on the Chief. “But perhaps not. Have I not served faithfully, oh lord? Has your worm not been honest in his dealings? Has your servant not protected your people and made your Hall the mightiest in the land?”

“Indeed you have, loyal creature,” the Chieftain admitted, almost in a vacant voice with eyes, slightly yellow, glossing over.

“And I only wish to continue my service and prove my worth, oh noble one,” the snake continued. “Allow me to once more make an offer.”

“Nonsense!” Boman interrupted, jabbing him with the butt-end of his spear. “We’ll have no more of your bargains, devil!” Kyrul cowered and writhed in pain.

“Silence!” the Chief exclaimed, pushing Boman to the ground. His other bodyguard held a spear to Boman’s neck.

“Great Chief,” the dragon smiled. His forked tongue twisted in unholy delight. “Rebellion against me is rebellion against you, oh wise one, and by extension Rikenhall’s place in the Realm. Your servant has forgotten his place. He is an adversary to the throne! Surely he sees his own will as higher than thine’s. Beware the usurper.”

The Chieftain’s heart was taken by the dragon spell, and he was filled with a cancerous rage.

“You shall not speak for your Chief, Boman the bodyguard. You are hereby, excused from your post, and banished from Rikenhall.”

Boman was dragged out of the town and left on the outer walls. His wife and daughters had fallen prey to the dragon’s magic, and did not come with him, but left to drink in the great hall. He began west to find solitude and grieve in a cave or near a river in the Ashwood Glade.

“Mighty Chieftain,” Kyrul continued, his cunning now apparent to any not under his spell. “To continue my offer: I might aid thee in your war against the southlanders by flying overhead and wreaking havoc on their infantry and calvary, and by killing this sorcerer should he appear. If you were to let me loose today, I would have time to stretch my wings and grow accustomed to flying once again.”

The Chief conceded, and Kyrul was released from his shackles. He spent the next two days stretching and flying over the town, and feeding on its livestock. While many were too far gone under his magic to care, the few who remained in their right minds, mostly the poor, voiced their grievances.

“He cannot eat our pigs and goats! What shall we feed our families with?”

They were, of course, banished. One man refused to leave his dragon spell-stricken family, and was executed and fed to the beast.

After three days, the men of the south arrived. Kyrul spotted them two miles away, riding quickly on horseback. The Rikenhall warriors rode out on iron chariots. The dragon went ahead of the warriors and began hailing fire upon the southlanders. He lifted horses into the air and bashed them into the infantry. The iron swords and bows of the men of Rikenhall proved far superior to the southlanders’ crude weapons. The battle appeared to be won. And then the sorcerer appeared.

In the center of the fray, an enormous black cloud exploded. Small fractals of lightning struck the iron of the Rikenhall warriors. The sorcerer cast down many men in a slew of his staff. The iron armor of the men electrocuted them, and the bolts from his staff jumped from man to man. The fallen multiplied with great speed. In the black smoke and confusion, Kyrul was nowhere to be found. The battle was lost.

“Retreat! Retreat for your lives!” the Chieftain cried out in agonizing cowardice, first in the charge back to the great hall. The southerners chased the surviving men back to Rikenhall. The Chief arrived first, and was met with a great and terrible sight.

Rikenhall was in flames. The elderly, the women, the children, all fled for their lives. Those who were the most gripped by Kyrul’s spell rushed into burning treasuries to salvage their gold. In the great hall cowardly nobles and promiscuous women drank and sang as it burned down to crush them. Smoke billowed high into the air, twisting and turning, almost as if it enjoyed watching the town burn. The flames leapt with evil joy, skipping merrily and singing their crackling song, laughing as they danced upon the ruin. Kyrul flew to and fro overhead, cackling with delight.

The Chieftain let out a great cry and rode fast into the town. For a moment, it seemed the dragon’s curse was broken, as he thought not of his hordes of treasure or his mighty hall, but of his Chieftess and son. He rushed to their home, only to find collapsed rubble and ashes. A small, charred hand reached out from a golden statue of the Chief that had fallen over, killing Paka. The Chieftain fell to his knees, broken.

The rest, as I conclude, is history. The Chief and his men met their fate at the hands of the southlanders, and Rikenhall burned. Kyrule was quick to work his spell on the southerners, and, with the aid of the sorcerer, slew his enemy in the mountain, Anglehurst. The taste of victory was fleeting for the southlanders thereafter, as Kyrul killed and ate every one of them, and left the sorcerer’s body torn in half at the burned gate of Rikenhall’s ruin. Kyrul then went into a deep and greedy sleep, marinating in his finely crafted wealth, and haunting the charred halls. He had achieved what the dragons of that age desired most; finely crafted gold and the destruction of the men who made it.

But this story, while somber and seemingly dark, does not end here. There is always a good born out of the labor pains of evil. Hidden away in caves, living off of the land, Boman and the remnants of Rikenhall began building a new hall. Boman became the chieftain, remarried, and had many sons, and the town grew in virtue and size. But he did not forget the evils of the serpent, and swore that he would return to Rikendale, and face the beast that had wrought such death and destruction: Kyrul the Terrible.