Dragonslayer, Inc.

After you’ve journeyed for long enough, there are things you come to account for: walking for most of the day, not having a nice place to sleep at night, having to fight off creatures you had only previously seen on TV. The days repeat themselves. Your mind adjusts accordingly. What was once abnormal becomes normal.

But you don’t account for the loneliness. It’s not noticeable at first, just a little pit at the bottom of your heart that you chalk up to some other, more easily fixable factor. When the weather warms up and the sun shines like a million beacons, you feel better, and you forget about it. But it doesn’t go away. Holes never do, not unless they are filled up, and out here in the middle of this vast continent, far away from civilization, they never are.

Traveling with a group does not solve this problem. It’s better than going it alone, but you cannot shake the feeling that the world has abandoned you. There are no safety valves. If you want to go home, you either have to complete your journey or quit and ingloriously slog back, neither of which sound appealing or even possible.

It was worse for us because of the insidious notion that we were heading to our deaths. Our starting thirteen was already down to nine, with three having been killed, and with Curam still so far away, we knew that we were not all going to survive the trip.

On the day we paid our respects for our fallen companions, we felt lonelier than normal. We had stopped at what is called a Travelers’ Cemetery.

There are several of these across the grand unpopulated expanse that is the majority of this continent. When a traveler dies during a journey, it is impractical for the remaining travelers to carry their body the rest of the way and disrespectful to leave it behind, so these sprung up as a form of compromise. The remaining travelers would take the body of their fallen comrade to one of these cemeteries and bury it.

Makeshift and nondescript, they are unglamorous. There are no bouquets or wreaths, and there often aren’t even tombstones. When there are tombstones, there aren’t that many, and they are grimy, cracked rocks that often aren’t even imprinted with a full name.

We did not have the bodies of our fallen comrades. Ironwall had forgotten about this Travelers’ Cemetery, and by the time we reached it, we were miles from the cavern and did not want to go back to pick up the bodies. Our story was not uncommon, said Ironwall.

The first Travelers’ Cemetery was established by the first Dragonslayers. That’s not surprising to me. What is surprising is that in the centuries since, we have not found a way to improve the system. Then again, how would we?

One of the myths I rid myself of during my journey is that progress is inevitable. Humans tend toward progress, but if there is no path forward, no progress will be made. It’s a simple enough concept, but it’s one that I had until then deluded myself about. Sure, I reasoned, I couldn’t think of a way forward, but there had to be someone who could.

When I realized I was wrong, I got depressed. Part of growing up is realizing that oftentimes, the answers you want don’t exist. The ‘real world’ wasn’t as smart or savvy as I had made it out to be. That wasn’t to say I couldn’t learn from it, but the invisible barrier I had pictured between me and it simply was not real.

Sorry.

I’m getting off-track.

Thinking about my trip to that Travelers’ Cemetery puts me in an almost uniquely somber state of mind. Standing before the bones of those dead travelers, I felt as though a hole had opened up around me. The mauling chaos of life and the squawking squalor of death struck me like dark meteors come to exterminate the planet.

Let me take a breath.

Okay. I needed that.

To our credit, we memorialized our deceased brethren as best we could. We made holes and placed in them the best stones we could find, stones we marked with their full names, dates of death, dates of birth as best we knew, and quotes we felt defined who they were in life. Ironwall did most of the work, having both a carving knife and a fair degree of knowledge concerning the deceased Slayers.

“It’s not enough,” he said, “but it’s something.”

Afterward, he asked if there was anything we were willing to donate to the gravesites. I searched through my stuff but found nothing worth offering. I’ve never been a big collector.

Machen was, however, and he offered a bottled sample of the flammable pigment on the cavern walls, as well as knick-knacks, souvenirs, semi-precious gemstones, and other things no reasonable person would bring on a journey.

For a second or so, I thought he was gonna give up his annoying gold chain, but it was not to be. He gripped it tight, bowed his head, whispered a few words under his breath, and stepped back.

Just then, the aunt-like Slayer broke down and began engaging in histrionics about not going back for the bodies. A couple other Slayers followed her lead. Insults were hurled. Accusations were made, most of them at Ironwall, whose face showed no expression.

Machen was about to explode into rage at the ‘whiners’, but Steph spoke before he could and said basically what he was going to say better than he could have said it, telling off the purveyors of gloom while preserving the sanctity of the cemetery.

“Hey,” she said, “if you’re gonna cry, cry about the lives that were lost. Three Slayers died. Show some respect. The bodies don’t matter. It would have been a nice show of respect if we had been able to recover them, but that wasn’t the way things turned out. What matters is that we honor who they were and who they wanted to be. Their lives were cut short. It is a tragedy, and there many ways to react to it. Nearly all these ways are good and acceptable- there is no one reaction that would perfectly fit everyone’s feelings. However, this is not a time for needless complaining, so I suggest that you stop.”

They stopped.

We moved on, and I was glad. When I looked back and couldn’t see the cemetery, I sighed in relief. Nevertheless, I wish I had spent more time there. I wouldn’t see another cemetery for a long time.

I wish I could say that was because no one else died, but that is not the case. While the memorials we performed at the Traveler’s Cemetery were nothing special, Ironwall was right. They were at least something.

Some of those who died later got nothing. They deserved respect. They deserved honor. They deserved an elaborate funeral with fountains and flowers and attendees measuring in the tens of thousands, with a full orchestra playing an elaborate requiem and all their friends and family singing their praises. They got nothing.

The landscape got rougher as we went along. We tried to stick close to the western shore, but when that became impossible, we were forced to meander close to Rolar Desert. I could see dunes rising from the eastern horizon and lurching back and forth like a pack of pouncing predators. The desert sand was gray-black, looking as though it had been drained of all life and meaning. I got close enough to pick up a handful of it.

This was a decision I regretted. The sand was dry, brittle, and scratchy. Simply holding it marked up my hands. I tried to toss it away, but the grains dug into my skin. I couldn’t be rid of it no matter what I tried. Hearing my desperate efforts, Ironwall poured water on my hands. The grains detached.

I thanked him. He asked me if I had learned my lesson. I said I had, and that was that. We kept on walking as if nothing had happened. In time, we managed to turn back west. The desert receded before disappearing like a mirage.

Clouds gathered, blotting out the sun. Shadow set upon us as we crossed from one hillside to another through a low-lying, narrow passage. The ground was hard. It was as though we were walking on metal. The passage was thin, so we had to move single-file. It was claustrophobic. Ironwall’s broad shoulders brushed up against the sides of the passage.

Arriving at the other hillside, we were spotted by a cast of hawks. They flew off, bating their wings as if to ward off a storm of unwanted insects. As I waved to them, their cries grew faint before disappearing altogether.

We could still make out their bodies, which looked like red dots skimming the bottom of the cloud line. They were moving quickly, leaving us to wonder the magical locale they were in such a hurry to get to.

“Some place warmer,” I said.

“Any place but here,” contributed Machen.

When day turned to night, we arrived on the south bank of a frozen river. The ice was already thick enough to make crossing feasible. Not far ahead were the Mulsor Highlands. We were getting closer.

We considered crossing the river, but as inky blackness sunk in and the winds sunk their teeth into our skin, we retreated behind a raggedy patch of shrubbery and set up camp. Ironwall was the only one who wasn’t cold. He kept saying, “It’ll get colder.”

A red-face Slayer asked, “Can’t we postpone the trip up north? Isn’t there a beach we could hang out at?” Gaunt, he had lost twenty pounds since journey’s start.

I thought Ironwall was going to laugh this off, but he thought about it for a second, formulated a mature response, and said, “You have my sympathies, but we’re racing against the clock. Our only chance to slay the dragon before it causes widespread destruction is to kill it before it leaves Curam. The fact that it’s stayed there so long already confirms my hypothesis. Ice dragons love icy mountains, and Curam is the iciest mountain of them all. I bet our dragon’s from Curam actually. That would be logical. Either way, the chances of it stopping for a prolonged time anywhere else are minimal.”

“We could hide out in Natura and wait for it to come,” said Machen.

“No way,” I retorted. A fire lit in me.

“I was just being practical,” he said. “The dragon- what did you call it?”

“Icithan.”

“Icithan might be interested in your city.”

“I know. That’s what I’m afraid of. Let’s get him before then.”

“We could get your family out first.”

“Out where? They wouldn’t be safe.”

“Enough,” said Ironwall.

“Let me just say one last thing,” said Machen.

“Allowed,” said Ironwall judiciously.

“Whatever we decide to do, let me just say that if we don’t kill the dragon before it leaves Curam, it’s gonna come to Natura. If you ask me, it’s a Claci Basin dragon. It lived in the caves underneath the water, and now that the water’s no more, it’s angry. I know it’s a crazy theory, but it explains everything, especially why this huge dragon was never seen before. And what’s the nearest major city to Claci Basin that Icithan hasn’t attacked? Natura.”

“That is a crazy theory,” said Ironwall dismissively. “Your arrogance is showing. But that doesn’t matter. I’m here to put my foot down on your plan. We’re not letting the dragon attack Natura. Putting aside the myriad of complications and judging your proposal from a purely practical viewpoint, it doesn’t make much sense.” He took a long deep breath that rose from the center of his diaphragm. “We’re not retreating south. We’re not waiting for spring. We’re forging on ahead.”

“And once again,” said Steph, “Machen and Coran have an argument, and Ironwall comes out the victor. Funny how that works.”

Ironwall made a counter, and she countered back. They were probably saying clever things, but I wasn’t listening anymore.

I had curled myself up next to the shrubs. The gales had died down, and I could feel the cool air of the night resting on my body like a blanket. Even in amidst the conversation, I could hear my own, solitary heartbeat.

Thump. Thump. Thump.