The Elder's Curse by Andrew Walbrown (ereader for textbooks TXT) 📕

Fervalor, hearing the King’s condescending tone struck at his pride. The mock derision had awoken a feeling in Ulam, a fervor fueled by the need to shatter someone’s predetermined opinion of him. Using the emotions boiling inside him, Ulam climbed to his feet and rotated his body to address the audience directly.

“My name is Fervalor,” Ulam started as he puffed out his chest. He had come close to saying his real name, but he was able to control himself at the last second. “There are those who call me the Fearless, and then there are those who did not live long enough to call me anything. I have traveled many lands, battling and slaying the minions of all that is foul and wicked, only taking justice as my reward. I have come to you not as a warrior who wishes to trade his skill and valor for gold and jewels, but as a soldier of righteousness.”

Ulam felt a surge of pride spread through his body as he finished his speech, surprised by how easily the words came to him. Nilawen’s suggestions helped; he had pulled inspiration from books of chivalry he had read as a youth in Accaria. The fear that had once gripped him vanished rapidly, replaced by a rush of excitement. No longer was Ulam afraid of being onstage. Now, he welcomed it.

“Nice speech,” the King dismissed with a wave of a hand, “but I have heard a dozen others boast of their prowess in combat while promising to return my daughter. Tell me, Lord Fervalor was it? Tell me, precisely how you are going to defeat a dragon? Is your skin immune to flames? Are you stronger than a dragon? Will you wrestle him into submission? How about a game of wits, will you outthink your foe?”

How am I going to defeat him? Nilawen has not told me how I defeat Durkan! Oh, why did we have to perform a play based on a legend I have never read?

“I…uh…”

“Splendid! You have no plan,” the King replied. “It makes no matter, I suppose. Either you will return my Myria or you will become yet another casualty. Now go! For every moment you stand here mumbling is another minute my daughter must spend a prisoner of that wretched beast.”

“I will return your daughter,” Ulam marched towards the stage’s exit, “even if I must forfeit my life to do so.”

Applause sounded as crimson curtains with embroidered owls were drawn, signaling the end of the scene. Ulam received praise as he stepped down from the platform; his fellow stagehands happy to see one of their own performing well. It was a strange feeling for him, to be celebrated for something other than his brawn.

“I’m impressed, Brother,” Amantius said with a smile as he approached. He was still dressed in the dragon costume, though now his head was uncovered. Ulam guessed by the sweat glistening on his foster-brother’s forehead the costume was unbearably hot, especially while wearing the hood and mask. “But I’m still better than you, of course.”

Ulam grunted. “But of course. It must be tough playing a dragon; your dialogue has to be so complex. How do you determine when to roar and when not to roar?”

Amantius stared at him for a second, a puzzling look written upon his face. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.”

“He’s not.” Nilawen appeared and slammed the hooded dragon mask into Amantius’ gut. “Put this on, we are both in the next scene.”

Amantius grimaced. “Great. Just when my hair finally dried.”

“Don’t fret; it is a good thing you have to wear that hood and mask, otherwise you might sweat on me or the people in the front row,” Nilawen said as she walked towards the steps leading to the stage. “Now come, Durkan the Flamefang, drag me back to your lair.”

“Are you going to hit me again?” Amantius asked as he put on the hood and mask.

Nilawen spun on a heel, her brown hair twirling in the air around her. She smirked. “I might.”

Ulam could hear Amantius’ muffled cursing from behind the mask as his foster-brother climbed the steps, his choice of words and phrases harsh enough to make a rogue blush. On the other side of the stage, the Crimson Quartet played a dark melody that sent a wave of gloom sweeping across the theater. The bass chords rumbled inside Ulam’s chest, the sound echoing in his ribcage.

Suddenly the curtains were yanked back and Amantius took the stage, a fistful of Nilawen’s sleeve wrapped around his dragon claws. When they reached the center he threw her on top of a pile of straw, laughing viciously as she rolled around, flailing her arms. After she came to a complete stop, she glared at the dragon with pure hatred in her eyes, while removing the golden stalks of straw entangled in her hair. Ulam thought Amantius had thrown Nilawen a little too hard, perhaps out of frustration from getting pummeled in the opening scene. It bothered him slightly, though he knew if Nilawen agreed with him, she would have her revenge on Amantius in one way or another.

“What is this place? Where have you taken me!?” Nilawen, as the Elven Princess Myria, shouted.

“Mwahaha! To my mountain lair, of course, where one by one the warriors of your kingdom will come to die!” Amantius as Durkan the Flamefang replied. “And when I have killed them all and there is no one left to fight me, I will set the rest of the land aflame, including everyone within it. Everything will crumble to ash, the remnants of your people will be scattered by the northerly winds. Such will be the punishment for invading my territory: complete and total annihilation!”

“If you are so powerful, then why do you wait? Why must you lure the bravest of my people into your trap?”

“They are only brave when they stand together, united against a common foe,” Durkan replied as he stomped around the stage. “But separated they are