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

foolish, every individual believing they will be the one to claim the reward for rescuing you. You see, Elfling, this was my plan all along: to use their greed and thirst for glory against them, to divide and slaughter.”

“You’re a monster!” Myria yelled.

“I’m the monster?” Durkan replied, sounding disgusted. “I have lived in these mountains for centuries, long before your people arrived. This land once belonged to my family; there was a natural order to things, balanced and fair. But then Elves and Humans began to settle, cutting down forests, polluting rivers, and wantonly slaughtering anything in the way of ‘civilization.’ There are animals that have long disappeared from here, the casualties of senseless greed and ignorance. As stewards of the land, we dragons fought back, driving away the Humans after a war that killed half our race. But in the north, your ancestors were left unchecked, and they grew too powerful for us to defeat. We became the hunted, and one by one we were killed, including my entire family. I watched with my own eyes as my parents were killed, my father died protecting my mother and me, while my mother died shielding me from a barrage of arrows laced with poison. I am now all that remains of the Flamefangs, as your people had called us. A once proud tribe, now reduced to an orphan of a war forgotten by time.”

By the Gods, Amantius, where did that come from? Ulam thought as he watched. He peeked around the corner of the barrier to see the expressions on the audience’s faces, many of whom looked sympathetic to Durkan’s story. Is this no longer a heroic legend about Fervalor the Fearless, but instead a tragic tale of the end of the Flamefangs? Even Nilawen looks perplexed.

The Elven Princess sat open-mouthed on the pile of hay, her demeanor alternating between horror, sadness, and shock; although the last of which may have been Nilawen’s personal reaction instead of Myria’s.

“I…I am…so sorry.”

“No matter how sincere your words may be, the time for apologies has long passed.” Durkan pivoted and marched towards Myria. “Now stand aside; the first victim approaches.”

Durkan ran to the side of the stage, hiding behind a wooden prop painted to look like a boulder. As he did so a man appeared on the opposite end, strutting across the stage until he reached the center, a smug look on his face. He was dressed as a warrior, even wearing a real shirt of chainmail, with an iron-painted wooden sword dangling from his hip. Like Ulam and many others, he wore fake ears to signify that he was an Elf as well.

“At last, I have found you!” The newcomer exclaimed. “Come, my lady, I shall take you to safety!”

“You must go from here!” Myria yelled. “Durkan will be back at any moment!”

“Do not be afraid, I will not let you suffer any longer! The beast is no match for my might and valor!”

“RAWWRRR,” Durkan’s voice rumbled like thunder as he emerged from his hiding spot. “Think you can steal my prisoner, do you?”

“I will not only rescue Princess Myria but also take your head as a trophy!” The warrior drew his sword and hacked at Durkan, who laughed at the strike.

“Such toys cannot pierce my scales,” Durkan said as he grabbed the sword and tossed it aside. With his other hand, he wrapped his claws around his enemy’s throat and began to squeeze, the warrior’s eyes widening in horror.

“Spare me, please!”

“Spare you?” Durkan guffawed. “You come into my home and boast about making my head your trophy, and you want me to spare you? Such arrogance from one so small.”

The dragon punched him in the gut with a claw, acting as though he was ripping out the warrior’s insides. The actor playing the dying Elf let out a death-cry so genuine his voice reminded Ulam of the ambush in Silverwood Forest, an event he had not thought about in quite some time. Almost three years have passed. I wonder how often Amantius thinks of that night? How often does he think of Morganna? Makes no matter, I suppose; we cannot change the past.

When Ulam’s attention returned to the stage he saw the dead warrior at Durkan’s feet while Princess Myria remained on her pile of straw, sobbing audibly. How does Nilawen conjure tears so quickly?

Two more warriors ran onto the stage next and fought a brief skirmish against Durkan, the dragon dispatching them just as easily as he had their predecessor. They were followed by bounty hunters, rangers, poachers, and a litany of other Elves seeking fame and wealth. It did not matter how many did battle with the dragon, nor how skillful they were, every challenger met the same fate. They came until the stage was littered with the bodies of the defeated, while Durkan the Flamefang stood in the middle of the carnage, roaring victoriously.

“Everything is going according to plan,” Durkan said as he surveyed his handiwork. “Soon only the sick and elderly will be left in Syrenshara, leaving it completely vulnerable to my vengeance!”

Myria pointed at one of Durkan’s wings, made lopsided from the combat onstage. “You are injured; one of your wings is almost detached.”

Though he was too far away to hear, Ulam imagined that Amantius was unleashing an avalanche of curses from behind his mask. Durkan then helplessly tried fixing the floppy wing on his back until he became so frustrated that he gave up. “I have had worse pains.”

“Here, let me help you,” Myria stood and walked across the stage. She grabbed the wing and straightened it, attaching the clip to Durkan’s back. “How does that feel?”

“Better. It pains me to thank an Elfling, but you have my gratitude. I will go now, to find food and drink for you. Do not even think about leaving this place; I will not be so gentle if I must kidnap you once again.”

Durkan stomped off the stage, leaving Myria alone. The princess turned towards the crowd, her