The Amethyst Knight

When Arris opened her eyes, the sky was murky and blotted with falling ash. A colossal dragon flew overhead and perched on the castle’s tower. It let out the loudest sound she’d ever heard. The battlefield, covered with bloody, charred bodies and violet embers, rumbled with the dragon’s roar.

She felt trembling arms around her, holding up her body. They belonged to her friend Ren. He was looking at the dragon with a single tear streaming down the left side of his face.

“Ren,” she said in a faint, hoarse voice. “Ren.”

He looked down with wide eyes. His arms pulled away, and she Arris to the ground. Ren stumbled onto his backside. His hands were soaked dark red.

“Ren, you’re bleeding!” she managed to cry. She tried leaning up but couldn’t muster the strength.

The dragon roared again and drew their attention. Then it flew off westward. Ren’s eyes came back to Arris and blinked slowly. He was shaken, scared. It looked like he’d been crying hard. She’d known him all their life, but she’d never seen him this stunned.

“I said you’re bleeding,” she rose, unsteadily, to help him. “Where are you cut?” He crawled backward a bit. She stopped, confused.

“It’s—it’s not my blood. It’s yours,” he confessed, mystified.

She looked down at her chest plate and saw the massive slash through her armor. Her clothes underneath were sticky wet. There was no pain, though. She saw no foes nearby and peeled off her armor. She lifted her tunic, wiped away some blood, and found a freshly healed scar.

“Arris, you’re the Prae-Drac,” Ren said breathlessly.

She didn’t give credence to faith and prophecy like Ren. It didn’t make sense to her. The only thing that concerned her now was the present moment. She could hear the crackling of fire and the crumbling walls of Castle Darum. The bodies of her comrades and enemies enveloped the field. She and Ren seemed to be the only two left standing. If anyone else was alive, the dragon surely petrified them.

“Who won?” she asked.

“The dragon, I guess,” Ren answered, collecting himself.

She found her shield and her sword nearby. The blade was broken at the midpoint and nearly useless. She stowed it in her belt and unsheathed the dagger from her boot. Their camp to the south had plumes of smoke coming from it.

“We should check in at the camp. Anyone else who survived must have gone back,” she said.

There they found nothing but cinders and corpses. The General’s command tent was still alight with purple flame. The medical tent as well. This dragon was merciless.

“Are we really the only survivors?” Arris asked.

Ren emerged from his small, half-collapsed tent with a knapsack and satchel. “At least most of my stuff survived. Have you checked your tent?”

“Yeah,” she pointed to her knapsack on the ground by her feet. “What are we to do now? The war is over, and we have no commanders to report to,” she pondered. “I imagine we can go back to Herrincort.”

“And do what there?” he was taken aback. “We know what we are to do: follow that dragon! It went westward.”

“No, no. No prophecies,” Arris dismissed.

“But—“

“No,” Arris cut him off before he could continue. She didn’t want to think about the dragon or anything else. All she wanted was to go to sleep. “Greyton is the nearest town, right? Let’s head for the inn.”

“Right,” Ren responded glumly.

They walked for nearly three hours before finding the sign at the crossroads. From there, the path to Greyton was well worn and easy to follow. Ren lagged behind most of the way, sweating and panting. Arris kept a brisk pace to preserve some distance between them. She figured it was the simplest way to avoid talking about the dragon and her wound.

When he caught up to her at the sign, he asked, “Can we sit for a spell? I’ve got to catch my breath.” He plopped down on the roadside and closed his eyes. Arris took a seat on the short stone fence under the sign.

“Arris, do you have any coin?” asked Ren.

“No. What little I had in my tent must’ve been stolen.”

“Mine as well. How are we to afford rooms at the inn?”

“I could sell the amethyst from my sword,” she pulled the hilt from her knapsack. The stone in the pommel faintly sparkled in the evening sunlight.

“Are you mad?” he responded, incredulous. He rose to his feet and snatched the hilt from her hands. If he was winded before, he most certainly caught his breath now. “You must hold onto this sword for dear life!”

“Oh gods, not this prophecy nonsense again.”

“Yes, the prophecy! Are we not going to talk about it? How else can you explain what happened?”

“I must not have been as hurt as it appeared,” Arris suggested.

“You were dead,” Ren said in a manner that would brook no argument.

“Enough,” she acquiesced. They sat quietly for some time after that. Then she said, “We’ll head to the blacksmith first to sell my armor. It’s no good to me like this. Sell yours too. Greyton was friendly with Castle Darum, and it won’t do to walk around dressed in Herrincort steel. We’ll play at being scavengers.”

Ren groaned but accepted. They changed into the cleanest clothes they had, which weren’t very clean, and set out down the road. The town was about an hour away. The breeze was cool and light, so they kept a relaxed pace. One that Ren kept up with this time.

“What was it like?” Ren asked frankly.

“What?”

“Come now, don’t be coy. What was it like being dead?”

She was reluctant to say anything, as she knew Ren would talk her head off about it if she gave him any ideas to chew on. Though, she was curious and confused too.

“I don’t know,” she said finally.

“Are you dodging me again?” he huffed.

“No. Truthfully, I can’t recall feeling anything.”

“Do you remember anything before you died?” Ren asked. “Do you remember how your sword broke?”

“It’s foggy,” she hesitated. “I was fighting a big man with an axe, and I blocked his attack—“

“Right!” Ren interrupted. “Well, except for the blocking part. The axe broke your sword, and you too. Bad move, by the way. Master Amos would be terribly disappointed with you.”

“What do you mean?” she said, miffed.

Ren rolled his eyes. “Master Amos always said, ‘You always block an axe with your shield, never your sword.’ And never a one-handed sword at that! You’re lucky I lopped the man’s arm off, else he was like to lop your head off.”

“No, no, you were like to have your head lopped off by the axe man had I not grabbed his attention.”

“He was fully focused on me!’

“Not until he saw a better fighter, a greater threat, coming his way! Oh ho ho, Ren, I remember very clearly now. Thank you very much.”

“Well,” Ren paused. “We’ll never know for certain if my head would’ve been lopped off.”

It was dark by the time they walked into Greyton. Lanterns lighted the shop entrances. They found the smith quickly from the clanging steel and iron. Fifty gold pieces and ten coppers each are what they got for the armor. It was a reasonable sum—more than enough to buy them a night’s stay and some hot food.

The innkeeper was kind and obliged the request for lodging. She instructed them to the connected tavern for a meal while she prepared the rooms. The tavern was lively. Boisterous folk banged their cups together as they sang songs, to the bard’s dismay. The scent of freshly baked bread was a pleasant change from the stench of the battlefield. Arris and Ren took a seat at the bar and ordered mead and stew.

The man seated next to them was loudly recounting stories to those around him, “I heard its roar from far away. The tale on the road is that it shot bright yellow flame from its snout and scorched all the land in its path. I tell it true, the prophecy is right, and dragons have returned.”

Arris was worried Ren would butt in, so she grabbed his forearms and whispered, “Not a word. Low profile here, got it?” He nodded begrudgingly.

“They say it tore down the Darum castle with one flap of its wings, and it sent the whole lot of Herrincort soldiers running scared.”

That’s when Arris knew her worries were about to come true. Ren’s home pride was fierce and made him do foolish things. Before she could do anything to stop him, Ren was already turned toward the man.

“It was purple, actually,” Ren corrected. “The flames from the dragon’s mouth were purple. And the soldiers of Herrincort stood tall in the face of that beast.”

They both rose from their stools and stood face to face.

“Is that a northern accent I hear from you, plump sir?” the man rasped. “You dare say my stories are lies?”

“I’m merely protecting these fine people from the fictions of a southern lout like yourself.”

Arris slowly slid her hand down her leg to the hilt of the dagger on her boot. She was ready for anything. The tavern had grown quiet.

The man stared angrily into Ren’s eyes and said, “I like this one!” His laughter boomed through the tavern. He grabbed his cup and banged it against Ren’s; then, they chugged their drinks until they were empty. The other guests joined them, and soon they were all singing and laughing once again.

Arris had no stomach for heavy drinking, so she bid farewell to Ren and withdrew to her room. The innkeeper drew a bath for her, and the warm water felt so good she could cry. Once she finished washing, she examined her scar. It started just below her collar and ran down to her upper belly. It had healed a bit more since she saw it earlier, but it still stung. She rested her palms against it and took slow, deep breaths. Her lungs seemed fine as far as she could tell, and her heart was beating normally.

She tried to rest but got no sleep. The dragon’s roar echoed in her skull, and the scar across her chest burned cold and fierce. It was well past midnight, but many were still up drinking and making merry at the tavern, Ren included. She snuck out of the front door without anyone noticing.

She walked around the town for a while. Some of the homes still had candles lit inside the windows. The clang of metal could still be heard from the smith’s shop. Eventually, she came across the faith’s temple and decided to go in. It was warm inside. Scented candles covered the altar and hung from the ceiling. They provided dim light, just enough to keep the darkness away. The benches were cushioned and upholstered with deep blue velvet. She took a seat and cradled her head in her hands.

“Arris, you’re the Prae-Drac,” she recalled Sam saying on the battlefield. She had no idea what to make of what happened to her. She didn’t feel like a prophetic warrior. There was no burning sense of greater purpose within her. She wanted to be a knight from a young age, and she got her wish. War left a bitter taste in her mouth. Now all she wanted was to be done with fighting. She figured maybe she could go home to Herrincort and find peace as part of the city watch. If dragons really were returning to the earth, though, peace would merely remain a dream.

“Trouble sleeping, child?” asked a cleric who emerged from a back room. He was old and gray, with white hair kept rather well. His robes were simple.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Well, the Gods don’t rest until their followers do,” he said with a humble smile. “Would you like to chat?”

“Sure, cleric.”

“Call me Thom. What keeps you up?”

“These stories about a—a dragon.”

“Ah yes, we’ve heard tell of a great beast flying over some other towns. Just this afternoon, someone told me that a dragon created a sound so loud and vibrant that it knocked homes clean off their foundations. It is unclear if these are merely drinking tales or tales told just to get a rise out of another. The faith has stories of dragons, but they are ancient and, truthfully, many of the higher clergy dismissed those stories before I was born.”

She knew how it would sound if she’d told him what happened to her, but she wanted to know. Ren would’ve told her all he’d known if she hadn’t cut him off. She wanted to hear it from the source, or as close to the source as she could get. Thom would have to do. “I’m sorry to say that I’ve been a poor follower of the faith, Thom. I know little of the stories told in orations. My friend told me that when he was a boy, he loved hearing about dragons and the Prae-Drac.”

“Children do love that one,” Thom admitted. “An adventurous story about a warrior who woke from death when dragons returned to the skies. The warrior would lead an army to slay the dragons and bring peace to the realm. There’s plenty there for children to dream about.”

“It’s just a children’s story, then?”

“Well, it’s true that some of the old prophecies mention this warrior.”

“Do you have much confidence in prophecy?”

Thom pondered for a moment. “There have been many attempts to foresee the future. Sometimes it’s as simple as being able to predict when storms will strike. Others are—not so simple. The faith would have you believe that the ancient foresight is true and proves our communion with the gods. Yet, truthfully, the higher clergy conveniently leave out the many written prophecies that don’t pan out.”

Arris was shocked by Thom’s frankness. She hadn’t met many clerics, but the ones she had met were consistently slimy and craven.

Thom continued, “In my perspective, prophecy is only as good as the relative comfort it provides. If it does not leave us feeling empowered or optimistic, then it is well to leave it alone.”

“So you think the Prae-Drac is an empowering prophecy?”

“In some tellings, indeed. As we said, it has inspired many children to pursue greatness. Yet, the seldom told versions of this warrior’s story warn of grave darkness.”

“Darker than dragons?” Arris propounded.

Thom took some time with his response. Arris couldn’t decide if his consideration was an ill omen.

Finally, he said, “When I was much younger, the faith sent me to accompany explorers on their expeditions across the seas. The voyages attracted adventures and mercenaries alike. These were tough folk, hardened from battle. But they were no match for some of the creatures we encountered. I’ve seen a mammoth with tusks as long as the bench you sit on, and it tore through twelve soldiers with ease.

If the tales of the dragons are true, one does not need to be clever to understand the devastation they could cause. Even I cannot say how swords, faith, or even the blasphemer's sorcery can defeat one. Yet, it may be easier for some to face the task with the belief that the gods will imbue a knight of our meager species with a power mighty enough to slay dragons singlehanded. I must say, I’m inclined to hold that hope in the face of peril that overwhelming.”

“What if the warrior doesn’t want that power?” asked Arris.

“That does sound like something the gods would do,” he laughed. “I think, if the prophecy were true, the Prae-Drac may struggle as many heroes do. But they will continue in spite of the struggle, because they know what must be done.”

Arris found Ren at a dining table the following day. He was eating bread and stew. He’d saved a spot and a meal for her and motioned for her to sit across from him. When they finished eating, she said, “Come now, Ren. We’re heading westward.”