Dragonslayer, Inc.

“Is that it?” I asked.

We had been in the Ezek Ruins for three days. Machen hadn’t changed much. He had gotten a little less gloomy, and he had even laughed once, but looking back on it, I believe his change in temperament could be attributed to the weather, which had taken a substantial turn for the better. It hadn’t been even partly cloudy, and the temperature was comparable to that of a nice early fall day in Natura.

I left him behind when I went exploring. I was looking for the city’s secrets. I wanted to know how it had been destroyed, and I wanted to know Ironwall’s history with it, but both were hard to find no matter what library or alley I searched.

The best information I could find came in the form of a newspaper article pinned up on the door of a bakery. It was from a long time ago. The front page headline was ‘Dragon Approaching City- All Residents Ordered to Leave’.

From that point on, I examined the ruins in a new light, and sure enough, they resembled the destroyed Andes. This city had been ravaged by a dragon. So that was that. I never paid much attention in history class, but Acady did, and she had once told me, “No one knows what happened to Ezek. Everyone in the city died overnight. That’s what they say anyway. It’s the great mystery of our time, Coran. Isn’t that so exciting? Wouldn’t you like to be the person who got to the bottom of it? I sure would.”

If I had headed south right then, I could have claimed credit as the man who solved the mystery of Ezek. I’d have been showered with money and fame, but I already had enough of those to last me a lifetime. What it really would have given me is unconditional respect. It’d have been a very dignified feather in my cap.

Solving the mystery of Ironwall’s connection with the city proved to be a much tougher nut to crack. I had educated guesses, but they weren’t backed up by solid evidence, and the details needed filling in. The name ‘Ironwall’ never once came up in my investigations. It was as if he had erased himself from the record.

As I mulled over the possibilities, a small group of travelers approached from the east. I couldn’t see them, as I was sitting in a roadside crater that I’m fairly certain was made by the body of a dragon, but I could hear their footsteps. Stashing Ironwall’s dagger in my pocket to be safe, I stood up.

The travelers, raggedy clothes and all, were resplendent in the glow of the morning sun. They looked as though they had come from a faraway land with an exotic culture. There weren’t many of them, but each looked as though they had a grand tale to tell.

When they trudged down the hill, closer to me, the sunlight faded off their features, which lost their mythical quality and became more typical, more standard, more familiar. I could see their faces, and mine dropped. These were people I knew.

I wasn’t excited anymore.

I was disappointed.

These were the other Slayers I had journeyed with, and their numbers had diminished. There was Steph, Ironwall, the aunt-like Slayer, and Purple Leg. That was it.

To wit, I did not ask, “Is that it?” because I was disappointed with not finding information on Ironwall’s history in Ezek. I asked it because I was befuddled at how many Slayers we had lost.

Ironwall overheard me and responded, “Yep. It’s been hard. We were buried in blizzards. We fell off cliffs we couldn’t see. I didn’t think we’d make it.” He stopped for a moment. A thought clicked into place, and he added, “You’re alive.”

He didn’t shout or gesticulate, but his face turned a bright red. He was flustered. His eyes seemed to roll around in his skull, as if dislodged from their sockets. Sweat tripped down his skin. I began to realize how surprising this must be for him. He tried to wipe off his damp forehead with his clammy hands, and when that didn’t work, he wiped it off with his shirt, which was in tatters. He smiled for a second, then frowned, then grabbed my shoulders, as if to make sure I was really standing before him and not some elaborate mirage.

I took a second to realize how incredible it was that we had found each other here. In the vast, diverse, empty wilderness that most of this continent had become, it was very likely that we wouldn’t have found each other until Curam, if ever.

Nevertheless, I was not nearly as shocked as Ironwall. He later told me he thought we were dead, which I grimly called a reasonable assumption considering what happened to his party. I, on the other hand, never doubted the others were alive despite my own brush with death, and I was thus gravely shocked to learn that some of them had perished.

Funny how that works.

His hands were shaking when he took them off me. Within seconds, his skin turned ghostly white. I thought I saw a tear trickle down his cheek. If I did, it would be the only time I ever saw him cry.

Bending over, he took three quick, deep breaths in succession. Each time, he sounded like he was gasping for air in the middle of outer space. His eyes closed, and he fell to his knees. The ground at the bottom of the crater was hard but malleable, and he defiantly dug his fingers into it.

“Help me up,” he grunted.

“Are you okay?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.

“No,” he admitted. “I’m not.” His head dipped.

“Can I help?”

“Yes. Help me up.” He pulled his hands out of the dirt, shook them off, and placed them on his neck. “Listen: it was bad. That’s all you need to know. That’s all anyone needs to know.”

This wasn’t the Ironwall I had traveled with. This wasn’t the Ironwall who had slayed the arma-tank in Segrabi Cavern. This was more akin to the Ironwall I had seen in Andes: closed off, introverted, cold, and distant.

“Okay,” I said.

“That’s all I want to remember.”

Though the experiences he had described more than accounted for his current state, I couldn’t help but think that his memories of this city were weighing on him. When he opened his eyes, I saw they were filled with a depressed rage. He seemed very flighty, like he wanted to be anywhere but Ezek.

I wondered why he came here in the first place. Knowing what I know now, I don’t think he intended to. He just subconsciously meandered this way and didn’t stop himself when he realized it, rationalizing his actions by correctly presuming there was a chance he could find us.

The human subconscious prefers the familiar, especially in times of crisis.

After helping him up, I brushed him off, just like I had done with Machen, but Ironwall is not Machen. He didn’t need brushing off. He could do it himself, and in fact he did so the second I stepped back, covering every spot I had missed. The depressed rage in his eyes had gone, replaced with his signature stoic determination.

The strength that had faded from his visage returned with irrefutable force. Vivid, even color rushed into his body. Just seconds before, he had been thin and frail, like he was starving to death. I could even see a few of his ribs. How he managed to instantly transform back into the grizzled, hardened veteran that had inspired so much admiration and enmity is beyond me. He might as well have been doing a magic trick. I guess that’s what made him unique.

Whether this strength was a façade or not is irrelevant. I don’t know, and that’s the point. There’s little practical difference between a sturdy façade and reality.

It’s possible he had been putting up a façade ever since that first journey. I suspect there were points during that first journey when he acted not unlike how Machen was currently acting. He may be a legend, but he was still a human being. It’s possible that he was so scarred during that first journey that he never showed his true self again.

I’ve considered that I never saw his true self, though there were points where something resembling it was able to sneak through.

In that first journey, he had been hurt badly in every way possible. He didn’t want that to happen again, but it did, and he didn’t know what to do, so he brushed it off and hoped it would disappear. This wouldn’t work for some, but Ironwall pulled it off. This was the kind of thing he had practiced for a long time. It might as well have been imprinted into his DNA. As a result, he was not incapacitated, as Machen was, but the damage he suffered he would not recover from. He would not grow from it or use it to improve himself. It didn’t fester, but it didn’t vanish either. It just sat there.

I don’t know if he had any other options. To truly and honestly deal with a problem, you have to let down your guard down and open yourself up, and I have a feeling that if he had done that, he would have collapsed in on himself. This was a man who needed those barriers to function.

We shook hands. His grip was as firm as ever. “Let’s kill that dragon,” he said, clasping his hands together.

“Sounds like a deal,” I responded. “We’ve come this far.”

Steph galloped over to me. There were a few new scars on her face and arms. She was a ball of peppy, eager energy that I was able to recognize as the ecstasy of relief. “How are you, Coran?” she asked, holding onto my shoulders and rocking from side to side.

“I could give you the appropriate answer,” I said, “or I could give you the real answer. Which would you prefer?”

“You’re so funny, Coran.” Giggling excessively, she gave me a kiss on the cheek. Weirded out, I sat down next to Ironwall’s feet.

“What’s gotten into her?” I asked him, hugging my knees.

“She’s… very mercurial these days. I don’t blame her. I don’t blame anyone for their responses to tragedy. Last night, Purple Leg spent an hour in a dark cave by herself, pretending she was fighting a horde of Solanian warriors. If it helps you go to sleep at night, I’m good. If it helps you make it through the day, I’m good.”

Twirling her hair, Steph wandered about, asking, “Where’s Machen? I want to see Machen.” I told her. She waved to me, said I was the most wonderful person she’d ever met, then ran toward him with the speed and desire of a maniac.

“This is uncomfortable,” I said.

“You don’t know the half of it,” responded Ironwall.

“Her lows are unbearable,” added Purple Leg succinctly.

“High or low,” I said, “I don’t think Machen would care.”

Ironwall didn’t ask what happened to him, and not because he didn’t care. The aunt-like Slayer, on the other hand, did ask. She had lost twenty or so pounds since I had last seen her, and her eyes had dimmed. Her body was covered in grime, and there was a recently dealt wound running up her right leg. But while her voice was weary, the ever-loving warmth it carried had not diminished.

She asked me, “What happened to him?”

Casually- almost flippantly- and without thinking, I responded, “He almost died.”

“That’s terrible. How’s he been? Can he walk?”

“Yes, he can walk, though he’d rather not. The mental and emotional pain he suffered is… really serious.” This was not an issue I wanted to talk about. Sensing this, she nodded, smiled, and asked if I was all right. When I responded, “I’ll be all right. I’ve been worse,” she sighed, wished me luck, and trotted off toward Machen.

That left the three of us.

Purpley said to me, “How close is ‘almost’? Was he an hour from death, or…”

“He was minutes from death, maybe even seconds, and I wasn’t that far behind. We got lucky. A friendly tribe came along and helped us out. They were fascinating. They used Litriol for everything. I wouldn’t be surprised if they cooked with the stuff. They used it to save our lives, and they used it to help us recover. They even used it to power snowmobiles. I love the world sometimes.”

“Wait,” said Ironwall, suddenly interested, “they’re real?”

“What are you talking about?” I responded.

“On my first journey, I heard stories of magical people traveling around on snowmobiles. I would have relegated it to myth, but there were well-detailed stories of travelers being saved by these people. When we came through this area back in the day, the weather was horrid, and there wasn’t much we could do except shiver, die, and wait for the next day. All of us shivered. One of us died. The rest of us waited for the next day, but the weather was even worse. I thought back to those stories and hoped against my own good judgment that these people were going to save us. But they didn’t. We had to fight through the storm. I almost died. All of us lost limbs. Going through this area a second time, I was determined not to repeat the same mistakes, but sometimes, there’s nothing you can do. Nature and circumstances took the driver’s seat, and we were just along for the ride. In a lot of ways, the situation was the same this time as it was last time. I got flashbacks, and they were both visceral and disturbing. I tried to ignore them, but sometimes, you can’t. There were differences from my first journey however. On the plus side, the weather wasn’t quite as bad. On the negative side, more Slayers died. Those old stories once again resurfaced in my mind, and I desperately wished for those magical people to come and save us. But they didn’t.”

“Well, I assume it’s luck-based,” Purple Leg started, but Ironwall cut her off.

“When you’re a little kid- a real little kid- your parents tell you stories they’ll know you believe, but are completely false. I’m an old man now, but I never figured out why. Maybe it’s because I don’t have kids. Some of these stories are more common than others. Does the phrase ‘New Year’s Jamboree’ mean anything to you two?”

“I remember those,” said Purple Leg in recognition.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“You wouldn’t know, would you?” pondered Ironwall. “You’re from Natura. They have different traditions down that way. Once, when I was young, before you were born, I had to slay a dragon that had disrupted a Naturan Mina Day parade. The dragon was easy to defeat, and I stayed for the parade. Quickly, I became shocked by its size and stature. Mina Day was important to these people, more important than I could fathom, being from the North and all. So what about you, Coran? How did your family celebrate Mina Day?”

“We didn’t. Mom’s not a fan of holidays.”

“I see.” He sat down. “Anyway, the New Year’s Jamboree is a tradition practiced in my part of the world. The legend goes that fairies fly through the land at the start of each new year and give presents to every good little boy and girl. In reality, of course, it was the parents’ doing, but mine never told me that. I had to figure it out on my own, and that didn’t happen- I’m ashamed to say- until I was fourteen. I felt so betrayed. But what would have been far worse is if those fairies were real, but they didn’t visit me. I would have felt left behind.” At this point, his voice rose a tick. I thought he was going to yell, but he didn’t. “I would have felt like I didn’t matter as much as everyone else. This is the same issue, except for the minor difference that I almost died. It’s like the world doesn’t want me around. Do you know how that feels? Of course you do. What am I saying? It’s just that… I don’t know.”

I inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. I hadn’t expected him to say that much, and he hadn’t either. He put his hands on his head and laid on his back, deflated and drained. Weakness overtook his face, which became a broken pit of scars, but he reclaimed it not a second later. He would not say another word for the rest of the day.

Purple Leg sat down with us. She had learned to put her weight on her good leg, but that good leg had gotten marked up. There was a small scar on the thigh, a larger scar on the knee, and an enormous scar on the calf.

It was a shade redder than the rest of her body, as though it had been dipped in dye. While it could handle her weight, there was something unsubstantial about it, a warning of sorts. As she was trying to sit- a substantial process considering her condition, a strong wind whipped by like a child on a tantrum. She crouched down and stuck out her hands for balance. The wind passed into her body and out again, nearly collapsing her. Even when it passed, she was still and silent, not moving a muscle. We had to help her sit.

“I’m a terrible Slayer,” she said, embarrassed. “I’m a disgrace.”

Hit by a sudden burst of fire, I shouted, “Wrong. You’re a great Slayer. We’re all great Slayers. We made it here, didn’t we? We’re alive, aren’t we? Think of what we’ve been through. Who but a great Slayer would keep chasing Icithan? You’re a fantastic Slayer.” I don’t know if I believed what I said, but I certainly wanted to. I didn’t simply want it to be true. I wanted it to be self-evident. I wanted it to be a fundamental law of nature.

It’s certainly not a fundamental law of nature, but as a grown man writing this tale, I believe it to be true. I’m much more confident in it than I was then. If I could chip off a piece of my confidence and send it to my past self, I would.

A year ago, I attended a lecture and heard the professor complaining thusly: “When I was a kid, teenagers were marching up the continent in the middle of winter to kill the largest dragon ever seen in the modern era. Why? Because it needed to be done, and they were the only people that could do it. Kids these days don’t have that kind of drive, that kind of commitment.”

I stood up, made sure, he could see me, and politely added, “Not a lot of people in our day had that kind of drive and commitment, professor.”

But sitting on the ground in the middle of Ezek between two emotionally broken Slayers, I wasn’t confident. I was lost and lonely. There wasn’t anyone I could turn to for support. Everyone was going through problems as bad as mine or worse.

Fire is powerful, but only if it can catch and spread. In the barren, callous air, it can only dissipate. Such was the way of my words. They vanished into the apathy of the continent. I made a few other comments, but they succumbed to much the same fate.

The three of us sat together, silent and close. The weather was turning for the worse. I thought of this city in its prime. In my head, there were cars racing down these streets and signs flashing and people grumbling about work, and I loved every detail. It was exciting. It was fresh. It was substantial.

You don’t know how much you love civilization until it’s nowhere to be found. You don’t know how much you love civilization until you have to imagine it in your fantasies. You don’t know how much you love civilization until there’s a sizable chance you’ll never see it again.

After milking that fantasy for all its worth, I relented and let it blow away on the wind. I stuck my hands in my pockets and twiddled my thumbs. Purple Leg stared blankly ahead. Ironwall sighed again and again, methodically rubbing his hands together.

We were waiting for the others to come back.