Dragonslayer, Inc.

As we made our march with Ironwall’s body to the very center of the forest, my head would turn to Curam.

It wasn’t this faraway mountain any longer. I could see it. There was a finality to that. It may only have been a little triangle rising a little higher than a couple of other little triangles in front of it, but it wasn’t going away. It would only get bigger and darker and more imposing until we were at its base.

Ironwall’s funeral marks the beginning of this trip’s final act. From here, our journey was linear. Once we left the forest, we went to Curam, and with one major exception, we got there without incident.

This isn’t that much of an accomplishment. The distance from the north edge of Miyok to the base of Curam is a third the distance from Ezek to Miyok, and it wasn’t hard to cover. While tough, the terrain was straightforward, and neither a depleted army led by a radical president nor packs upon packs of aggravated animals were there to make our time harder. Spring had come, and with it more endurable weather. Aside from during a short, unwanted detour to Life’s End and the climactic fight itself, we didn’t have to suffer through bitterly cold temperatures.

Having journeyed across the bulk of a large continent, we could make quick work of any typical challenge that came our way, and with one notable exception, we had nothing to face but typical challenges from Miyok to Curam.

After the funeral, we spent several days exploring the forest. If we had come in summer, we would have had a banquet of delectable fruit available to eat at our leisure, but the buds we had to settle for were reliably crunchy, and we stuffed our pockets with them. When our pockets weren’t enough, we did a little experimenting and discovered the leaves of a certain species of plant could be made into makeshift bags and water bottles.

Steph filled the water bottles, Machen collected berries, and I made the bags and bottles. I’m not a professional, and they weren’t high-quality, but they worked. Nonetheless, when a wandering tribe came by and offered some of theirs, I was more than accepting. They also gave me dried meat and a lot of corn.

Once we were prepared, we each took gulps of the Central Spring, licked our lips, and were on our way.

When we started our funeral march, we had never seen the Central Spring. We had never seen the center of the forest. We only knew there was a distinguishable center because of Ironwall, both through his words and the books he gave Machen to read.

It was a lot farther away than we anticipated. Along the way, we took three stops. It was nice to have that privilege. If we were especially tired, we’d find the nearest body of Litriol water, jump in, recover, and get back to it.

We didn’t discuss what we were going to do with his body until we got to the center of the forest, thinking that the situation would bring itself to a natural and sensible conclusion. That didn’t happen. There were no fights, no arguments, but no clear solutions either. We just didn’t know what to do.

The center of Miyok Forest is a clearing:

Marking its extent in each of the four cardinal directions are four trees: a steel-gray tree to the north, a whitish-purple tree to the south, a cerise tree to the west, and a purple tree to the east. These trees are exactly the same height- three hundred and twenty feet- and they each have only four branches.

Its ground is pure Litriol blue. A young child could tell it was rich in Litriol. In the olden times, it was supposedly even bluer, though I find it hard to imagine that being possible. As much flack as the old Slayers get for taking so much Litriol, I think they showed remarkable restraint in not taking more. I was tempted to make a container as big as a horse and fill it to the top with Litriol. Nothing summons greed in a person quite like being confronted with a large, easily accessible supply of an invaluable resource.

In its center- the center of the center- there was a spring. One-half the size of the lake I had been healed by, it was remarkably dense, being more Litriol than water. From it rose a sparkling blue fog. It was the fastest-working Litriol water in the world, but that speed came with a price. In the long term, it was corrosive.

Watching a leaf corrode, I decided to dump Ironwall’s body into the spring. When I told Machen and Steph, they were skeptical at first, but they came around. “He was the one who taught us about Litriol,” I said. “He adored the stuff, and he passed that love down to us. Perhaps it’s a bit overdramatic of a sendoff, but he deserves nothing less. He was the most famous Slayer of our time, one of the most famous of all time. He’s practically a mythical figure. He deserves something extraordinary. And besides, this is what he would want. His body is gonna be returned to the Litriol he used to protect this world. It fits.”

The final stage of the funeral began. I asked for music, and Machen tapped his feet and snapped his fingers to the beat of a melancholy tune called The Departing. It’s an old song, written centuries ago, and it has mostly faded from memory. When it was played at my grandfather’s funeral, as requested in his will, my mother said, “I knew he was old fashioned, but I haven’t heard that song since my great-grandmother sang it to me when I was five.”

I began to tap and snap along. Though I had only heard the song once, it came rushing back to me. To blame, I think, is its distinctive melody, which had never really left my head.

If you played this song for a thousand people, maybe one of them would recognize it, and that one person would likely be a decrepit centenarian. Three people our age knowing it constitutes a minor miracle. Yes, three. Our performance was hollow, lacking both heft and intimacy, until Steph began to sing. She knew every word.

Her voice awed me. Higher than her speaking voice, it brought to mind an enchanted sanctuary on top of a cloud, where there were buildings made of gold and waterfalls of wine, where serenity reigned like a goddess.

The last verse was winding and histrionic yet somber and sweet. It is meant to be sung by a chorus, so Machen and I joined Steph. Comparing our voices to hers is like comparing a fifth grader’s book report to classic literature, but like always, we tried our best. The poor quality of our singing made her singing stand all the more, so we have that to say for ourselves.

After the last note, Machen said, “I never knew you could sing like that, Steph.”

“I was trained at a young age. My coach said I had a natural talent. I never thought it’d be a talent that’d come in handy, but I was wrong.”

More important than Steph’s pipes is the solidarity we shared. It was necessary. We had to recover from the pain of Ironwall’s death, but we also had to prepare to face the last leg of our journey alone together. Everyone else was gone. It was only Machen, Steph, and myself, and we knew that if the bonds between us weren’t ironclad, we wouldn’t succeed.

Before we got to the eulogies, Steph gasped my hand, and I grasped Machen’s. We lifted our hands to the sky.

I thought about a lot in that moment. I thought about who Machen and Steph were, what they wanted in life, and what their hopes and fears were. I wondered about their families, their upbringings, and their futures. I questioned how and why we had gotten so close, how and why I- to this day a self-identifying loner- had become so attached to these people I didn’t know a year ago, these people who could die tomorrow. I contemplated the fight with Icithan, and how I hoped we could fight together, and how I hoped we would survive that fight, and how I hoped that somehow, we would return to Andes and sit on the rooftop of the tallest building left standing and watch the sun rise.

Steph gave the first eulogy. Machen gave the second.

Hers was gruff and layered. She had her problems with Ironwall in the past, and she didn’t shy away from them now that he was dead. She poured her heart out, talking about the highs and lows in their relationship, what she liked about him and what she hated. By the time she was done, she had said all that she had been wanting to say. Content, she was able to let go of her baggage with him.

His was respectful, analytical, and surprisingly funny. After acknowledging the grim nature of Ironwall’s death and enumerating his major contributions to the world, Machen lightened the mood. He told a few jokes and gave a strange yet charming anecdote: as a Slayer-in-training, he broke his weapon and was ordered by his instructor to personally ask Ironwall for a replacement, so he did, but Ironwall wasn’t listening. Machen asked if he should come back later. Ironwall told him to stay, then asked him a random question about a river. Machen answered correctly, and Ironwall, who had been trying to find out the answer to that question all day, was overjoyed.

By the time his eulogy was done, Machen had painted a rosy, human, but realistic picture of the deceased leader of our organization. The Ironwall he describes was the Ironwall he took inspiration from.

Then it was my turn. I delivered the last eulogy, the final speech that would be given before Ironwall was submerged in the spring. This was an honor, and I took it as such.

Trying to forget that I was no good at giving speeches, I spoke from the heart: His original name was Taurus. He changed it because he lured that dragon into Ezek, ensuring the destruction of that city. I can’t help but think that he wanted to redeem himself on this journey. Taurus had a journey; this was Ironwall’s turn. While he didn’t survive, I think we can all say that he did redeem himself. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for that man. Taurus isn’t a name he wants remembered, so let us not remember it. Ironwall is a name he would want remembered. It is a name he can be proud of. So let us remember it.

My eulogy was much shorter than Steph’s or Machen’s, but by the time it was over, I had been filled with propulsive energy. I had needed to say those words since he died. It was as though there was a pit in my heart, and now it was gone. I had needed to say some of those words since I found out his original name, and I had wanted to say them to Ironwall while he was alive, but while saying them to his corpse wasn’t as effective, it gave me closure.

Inside Ironwall’s torn clothes was an array of weapons. His warhammer was nowhere to be found, but there were other weapons he regularly carried around, as well as a number he had taken from Arge’s soldiers.

We put into action his plan to infuse these stolen weapons with Litriol. Five seconds per weapon in the spring was enough. Machen had no weapon, having lost his during battle, so he grabbed a silver-handled scimitar out of the infused weapons, and Steph, who had lost one of hers, took a compact gladius.

The weapons we dipped in the spring glowed blue and didn’t stop. They’re some of the only blue weapons in the world. Last year, one sold at an auction to a billionaire for an unconscionable sum of money. I’m glad they’re so rare. The Dragonslayers of yore could have taken all their Litriol from the spring, but they didn’t. Records show they only dipped in a single weapon: a simple short sword that belonged to the First Dragonslayer as a child and is now displayed in a museum.

I’m not sure if they knew disrupting the spring would disrupt the forest, the continent, and the entire flow of Litriol throughout the world. Likely they were going off nothing more than a feeling, a vibe, or a belief.

Despite the damage they wreaked upon the environment, they did not let things slip too far out of balance, and we were determined to continue that tradition. We regarded the spring with deep reverence.

I indulged a single selfish desire.

Litriol’s inability to infuse long-range weapons befuddled and frustrated me. It was a rule I wanted to break, and standing springside, it seemed breakable. In Ironwall’s pile of stolen weapons, there was a gun. As there was no ammunition, I suspect Ironwall brought it to use as a last-resort melee weapon. I dipped it into the spring and watched it grow bluer.

This was promising to me at the time, but it meant nothing. Of course the physical gun would be affected. That didn’t mean it was Litriol-powered. In my pocket, I had a couple rounds of ammunition, which I pulled out and loaded in before firing at a tree. My shots were not Litriol-enhanced. I asked for more ammo, and Machen tossed me three rounds he had in his pocket.

Taking a smarter approach, I dipped these rounds in Litriol before loading them into the gun and firing. But it made no difference. The weapon behaved the same as it would have absent the Litriol. The infusion was unsuccessful.

Saying, “I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up,” I dropped the gun and kicked it away. There are rules that can be changed, and there are rules that can be bent, but there also rules that are as sturdy as the obelisks of Solania.

My side project finished, we went to work. We set Ironwall’s corpse on our shoulders and stepped into the spring. A geyser of steam erupted, and a hiss of euphoria shot through our bodies. Both ended in a second. The steam came back once we took another step, but the euphoria did not.

We set Ironwall in the water when it came up to our hips. By this time, our legs were very blue and beginning to decompose. Fighting a mix of numbness and acute pain, we said a final few words to him.

Steph said, “So long.”

Machen said, “We’ll make you proud.”

I said, “You have nothing to worry about.”

With that, we let go, and his body slowly began to sink under the water. It sank and sank, and because the spring was murky from its Litriol content, we couldn’t see him anymore.

Wordlessly, we returned to shore. Steph and Machen hummed a few notes from The Departing, but I stayed quiet, lost in my thoughts and yearnings.

As much as I wanted to look to the future, I found my mind drawn into the past: not the real, true past, but an idealized, nostalgic version bound together by my best memories. I wanted to go there. I needed to go there. The pain from Ironwall’s death had never been more distant, but it had never had been more insufferable either. That world was my only means of escape.

But I couldn’t go there.