Oliver, Son of Genvalt

"If there is a fire that never ceases to burn, it surely lies in the maw of a dragon." (Sarkhan Vol)

Oliver woke up in a cold sweat. For many days he had been haunted by a dream where he crept around a dark castle. Each time he passed the maid's room, the door creaked open as a long golden shaft of light crawled out onto the black floor. His mother laid on the bed moaning and crying and begging him for help. As he approached, she turned around, and her face dripped off her like candle wax, revealing a cold, gray skull.

He sighed, rubbed his eyes, and went outside for some fresh air. The enormous dragon Genvalt was perched on the crag. His lanky green tail hung down and he breathed heavily through huge nostrils. He looked sadly at Oliver and asked, "Are you having nightmares again?" The boy nodded and sat down in his curved paw. They silently looked at the moon, and Genvalt recalled with longing the night when he found two-year-old Oliver, thrown into the forest by his own father to be devoured by wolves.

Oliver was born in secret near the riverbank where his mother went to pick lilies of the valley. She was afraid that the baby would be stolen from her, because he was the illegitimate son of king Yaris. His mother Sofia was beautiful -- the mountain air gave her a healthy blush, and her blue velvet eyes enchanted the king, but he could not marry a commoner.

“Make her my personal servant!” He slammed his fist on the table, and thus ordered her to be near him from dawn to dusk. Sofia obeyed with tears in her eyes. The winter in Dinaldia was long and gloomy, and the king's retinue enjoyed drinking and dancing. Sophia brought them wine and honeyed pheasant, and in the mornings soldered them back together with pickle brine, which she knew helped with a hangover. When they got tired of the monotony of this routine, the king and his entourage would travel to the southern peninsula. They returned in the summer when Oliver was one and a half months old.

On hearing of their arrival, Sofia became nervous and confused. She concealed the baby's existence because she was afraid of the king's wrath. The cruel despot was merciless with everyone, and kept his people in constant fear. Sofia shuddered at the thought of what Yaris would do upon finding the truth.

—

If you looked back fifty years, though, things would have seemed different. Dinaldia was once a thriving kingdom ruled by dragons. Fierce and proud, they did not permit people to look upon their many possessions. Numerous kings tried to take over Dinaldia, but could not kill the dragons, as enchanted purple blood flowed in their veins. The beasts were seemingly immortal. Yaris, who owned the mountain clan of Scalpecia, was jealous of the pomp and wealth of the dragons’ kingdom, and turned to a clan of witches for help.

“Make me such chains that will enslave even the strongest of the dragons, and I will reward you with gold and power!” There was something in his voice that did not allow contradiction. Fiery-haired and stout, he inspired fear and disgust in those around him. The insidious witches helped Yaris, and the bloodiest battle of the century took place. In the end, he managed to shackle the dragons in magical chains forged by the witches’ obscene rites, and drove the beasts into the mountains, seizing the throne of Dinaldia.

The king and his cohort began to use the dragons for amusement and travel. They were humiliated, harnessed to wagons as pack animals and forced to fly to the point of exhaustion and near-death.

—

“I won't let them ruin you,” whispered Sofia to the growing Oliver as she taught him to walk. The boy had inherited her blue eyes and the softness of her movements. When he learned to run, rumors of a rambunctious, incomprehensible wildling spread throughout the castle and reached the king.

"Bring me that bastard!” He demanded and called three witches to a meeting. Sophia tried to hide him, but the child was rudely pulled away from his mother amid her desperately trying to shove him behind the furnace.

The witches summoned the image of the capture in their crystal ball, and when Oliver was brought before the king, they knew that the same blood flowed in both.

“My lord, your son will not bring you happiness,” Nostritz the witch croaked.

“My lord, kill him if you want to keep your power and might,” Lariva added.

“My lord, Sophia must pay with her life for giving birth to such an unworthy son to you,” Albina, who envied all, coldly whispered.

The king followed their advice. His hand didn't waver as he took Oliver by the shirt and dragged him into the woods like a misbehaving mongrel. Yaris abandoned the defenseless child in a snowy valley and sentenced Sofia to death.

Genvalt found Oliver when he was practically dead, shivering and delirious. In order to save his life, the great dragon slashed his wrist with a sharpened talon and shared magical purple blood with the lifeless boy. He decided that he would raise him to be a proud warrior.

Oliver grew up in a cave and considered himself the son of dragons. From an early age, he studied magic and ancient languages, internalizing the tools he’d need ​​in order to take revenge on the cruel despot of Dinaldia.

“Dear boy, you will exhaust yourself,” Genvalt said, watching Oliver try to turn his dinner into gold as he studied the art of alchemy. “Why do you need gold? We have the holy grail and we don't need anything,” complained the dragon. A mountain of sweets swelled on the table, beginning to overflow.

“Look how limp you are, Genvalt!” The humans stole all the wealth of the dragons, Oliver thought, and this scoundrel thinks he's stronger than us!

“Oliver, they are soulless murderers, you need to be wiser still.” Genvalt was masterful at reading his thoughts, but the boy did not listen to him and stood his ground obstinately. Sometimes it seemed to the dragon that Oliver would begin to breathe fire himself.

When he turned fifteen, Oliver demanded his own army. The green shiny scales on the dragon's neck stood on end when he learned about such intentions. “You sow hatred and certain death, my son. You have the lavender blood of dragons in your veins, and so you are indestructible, but any mortal who fights against the royal army can say goodbye to his head.”

"But what am I to do, Genvalt?" I want to give the king the torment to which he doomed my mother and remove the chains from my brothers -- Oliver’s head swam with confusion.

“Did I teach you magic in vain? Apparently you didn’t understand anything at all…” Genvalt turned away and lowered his wings in disappointment. “The spell of binding can only be removed by he who cast it on the dragons. If you kill the king, you will enslave us forever.”

Oliver put his head in his hands and sobbed so loudly that the birds at the entrance of the cave fluttered in fright. He will never agree to disenchant you, he thought. He embraced the dragon and buried himself in its soft neck, which smelled of forest and spruce resin.

“By copying a tyrant, you turn into his weaker shadow. Is this what you wanted all these years?”

Oliver shook his head sadly and stared into the flames of the hearth. He did not understand what Genvalt wanted from him. He felt vexed with himself, a desire to give up on everything and leave. The black charcoal stalk in the fire became thinner and collapsed, scattering hot sparks around it.

"He must pay for the suffering he caused," Oliver decided.

“All right, my son. The hour has come when I must show you the Hexed Tome,” Genvalt sighed. “Be careful, many dragons have lost their wits after reading it. It is written about terrible things, about tortures from which even my blood runs cold. After knowing, you won't be the same.” Oliver looked up at him and said nothing.

—

They left the cave and flew to a secret hut, where, behind a sideboard in the kitchen, there was a soiled library, which only the most enlightened knew about. The book was hidden inside an old cookie tin. Its dusty pages smelled of rot, and crumbles of butter cookies were stuck in the heart of the binding.

Oliver thought he would finally feel relieved that his revenge was near. Reading about torture, however, his hands became frail like cotton. Now he didn't know if he was capable of hurting another. It had never occurred to him how thorny death could be. There was a lump in his throat as he studied.

He took the book with him and placed it under his pillow. Genvalt was right, he didn't like the idea of ​​violence, he didn't want to be like the king. He began to cry weakly and did not remember how he fell asleep.

The next day, he wanted to give the Hexed Tome back. He left their cave, but Genwalt was not in his usual place. “He’s in the woods, of course,” thought Oliver as he started preparing breakfast. Leaning over the hissing cauldron, he thought about how naively he wanted retribution. He thought of his mother, and remembered her warm touch and the love he felt when she sang to him before bed -- soft, lilting tones.

Several hours passed, and the blue shadow at the foot of the mountain had moved to the west. Oliver was anxious. Genvalt had never left without saying goodbye.

—

Suddenly he heard the sound of a bugle echoing over the castle’s high wall. Trouble! Oliver knew that this sound meant the beginning of the Blood Games. Annually, the king chose two dragons, and forced them to fight among themselves. To this end, he fed them a devious potion that completely stupefied magical creatures and made them easy prey for entertainment.

Genvalt would never allow Oliver to attend the games. However, something told him that the dragon was in danger, so he took the book with him and headed towards the castle. On the way, he whispered to himself that there was nothing to worry about. Genvalt probably did not want to wake him up, he must have flown to the neighboring village for some ointment. He met a friend and was invited to visit. That explains it.

As Oliver approached the castle, the swarm of the crowd deafened him. Frantic people jumped in place and clamored for bread and circus acts. They were swirling handkerchiefs aggressively, and it looked like they would trample each other if the show didn't start.

The gates opened with a thud and the dragons came out. Oliver's worst fears began to come true. Not himself, Genvalt stood at the podium with thick foam at the mouth and a gleaming red ribbon wrapped around his neck. Opposite him stood his friend Shtoso, but both of them, like drunks, could not recognize each other. They furiously dug the ground with their claws, leaving deep furrows in it.

Oliver's blood roiled and seethed.

The referee waved his flag and the battle began. The dragons gnashed into each other with their teeth, carving bright purple wounds on their sides and back. Powerful and huge, they tried to fly into the sky, but the chains kept them grounded. Every lunge they took shook the earth. The stadium was flooded with magical purple blood, and people licked themselves hungrily, trying to smear it on their faces and necks.

Oliver suddenly realized that he had been acting like a fool for days on end. He reproached himself for this weakness of character. Mercy no longer seemed to him an advantage.

He removed a pendant given to him by Genvalt. It was the tusk of a snow cheetah, which was supposed to bring good fortune. Putting it in his palms, he closed his eyes and blew on it. After that, he opened the spellbook and said, “Havada melado. Un gekado forstrato. May inkor furtada”.

The pendant glowed blue. Oliver ran up to the podium stealthily. Small and nimble, he slipped between the guards and placed the pendant around the king's neck. Immediately, he felt two knives thrown at his back, piercing through him. The deceived guards smirked in satisfaction, but the smile faded from their faces at the sight of the off-color blood gushing from his wounds. Frightened by the realization, they backed away.

The king turned and looked at Oliver. The contented grimace still remained on his face, but his cheeks began to turn a sour green.

“It's a necklace of death, my lord,” Oliver leaned towards him hissing. “It chokes slowly, gradually thrusting spikes into the artery. Your witches are powerless against me, and if they resist, they will get the same for themselves.” Oliver turned to look at the royal retinue, but saw everyone slowly creeping away. The crowd noted the resemblance of Oliver’s face to Sofia, and were aghast that he had risen from the dead.

The king fell to his knees, and in pain tried to pull the necklace off. However, this caused the spikes to gouge deeper and he screamed monstrously, his eyes bulging, pupils fixed to the sky.

“One spell can save you and only I know it. However, the price for it is great!” He felt himself becoming gravely serious and loud. “You must free all the dragons and leave Dinaldia!”

Yaris rolled on the ground and shouted incoherent babble. He extended his hands to Albina, but she only kicked him briskly with her gnarled foot. Then he began to reach out to Lariva and Nostritz, but they shied away in fear and backed up to the stairs.

Nobody wanted to help the despot. Oliver pulled the knives from his back, and his wounds healed over as if nothing had happened. He sat on the king’s chest and brought a blade over the eyes of Yaris. The king squeaked and croaked. “I agree!” Oliver pulled him to his feet.

When the podium became quiet, everyone realized that they had forgotten about the dragons. With bated breath, they watched every move of Oliver, who kicked the king in the back and led him to the arena.

After weakening the curse on the necklace of death, Oliver ordered Yaris to remove the chains from the dragons.

Yaris threw his hands and said “My son, my dear, you would not kill your own father!”

The boy replied, “The blood of the dragons flows in my veins. You killed the human in me.”

Yaris lowered his eyes and fell silent. He was still trying to find words to get out of his situation, but suddenly the crowd began to throw all kinds of detritus. Even they have turned against me. Defeated, Yaris stretched out his hand to the warring dragons and spoke. “Langus pomerengus fortunas.”

As though animated, the chains flew off from all the dragons of Dinaldia with a roaring crash.

Oliver ran to Genvalt, who wasn’t under the spell of forgetfulness anymore, and hugged him tightly. Genvalt smiled and closed his eyes, and Oliver listened to his labored breathing beneath a mountain of torn scales. He knew that the great dragon’s time had come to an end. The seconds seemed to stop for them to share a final, unspoken goodbye.

Suddenly, Oliver heard a clatter behind him, and saw Yaris running at him with a dagger produced from his blouse. Genvalt shuddered with the last of his strength and doused him with flames. Terrified, the crowd fled in fear as everything around turned to dry, gray ash.