An Excerpt from Belphán the Blasphemous

An Excerpt from, Belphán the Blasphemer

Chapter 1 - Of Aldren and Iylethain

The dusk descended in the wake of Aldren’s black wings as he began to glide beneath the dark clouds. The hour was late and the sun no longer shone upon the land of Farodren, and the night curtained the world with an infinte shadow. This of course was of no consequence to Aldren, for Aldren was one of the noble dragons of Karthrondûm, and had impeccable eyesight even in the dark of night.

Aldren was, as many of the dragons were, of stoic countenance and willful resolve. Aldren was bridged to the human Xedric, who remained in the city of Balaknof when Aldren began his pilgrimage. Aldren and Xedric were Anglaeíc, and thus was the law that every warrior in the Holy Order of Anglaec take in solitude a great pilgrimage once every 100 years. Aldren was now in the third week of his journey, and he now descended upon a cliff edge of one of the mountains clustering around the border of the gargantuan Araemoss Forest. Although he could have reached this point in a week, he had been flying slow and even sometimes walked the land with his four muscular legs. Nevertheless, Aldren was not embarked upon any journey that he needed haste, or any he expected to return from for quite some time.

As he settled himself upon the cliff, Aldren looked outward into the horizon. His obsidian black scales glistened with the grey stone of the mountain, which mingled with the powerful influence of the Araemoss forest, where cracks in the stone where being occupied by various forms of flora and plant life. Some places flowers grew, in some places there was dirt and grass filled the crevices where stone was damaged or cracked. The Araemoss Forest and it’s trees where so large, that even to a dragon it seemed as though the trees stretched on beyond all sight. Save for distant mountains of Hassungarde in the south, and several clusters of mountains further in the reaches of the forest.

Aldren sniffed the air, unperturbed, could tell that it would begin to rain in a few hours. His violet eyes shimmered in the ascending moonlight that battered behind the dark rainclouds, and the depth of their arcane beauty resonated with the natural world around him. He laid down his long neck and head, and closed his eyes, falling into a deep slumber.

When morning came, Aldren awoke to a crisp downfall of rain, as he predicted the night before. Even with the deluge, Aldren awoke lazily and lolled about for about an hour before making any real attempts to fly any further. He contemplated what he could hunt in the forest, but made no hasty effort to pursue anything at the time. He admired the view of the forest from his high vigil, ruminating in introspective abstractions. He contemplated the nature of his journey, for this was a journey of wandering and not destination. Aldren knew the Anglaec valued this ritual for in the old laws the old Anglaeíc told that the ultimate goal of wandering was to learn how the world reveals it’s nature to you, and within this phenomenon you are shown the truest nature of yourself. A meditative journey, that of which the Anglaeíc unravel the mysteries of the universe therein.

The rain was warm, soft and serene, and Aldren basked in it until mid morning. Once he gathered himself upon his four legs, and flicked his leathery wings to devoid them of heavier pools of water, he walked close to the cliff edge. He gazed out upon the mountain slope and admired the small trees and saplings growing from the mountain’s side, which resiliently blew in the dying wind of the rainstorm. The rain seemed to be letting up some now, and Aldren judged this to be the best time to fly further east, as the winds would be of minimal resistance to his flight. He had resolved to fly east over the full expanse of the Araemoss Forest before traveling further south, for perhaps he could find some wild game amidst the woods.

With a jolt, he cast himself into the sky, a spiral trail of rain droplets outlining his path. He panned himself downward and glided over the canopy of the forest. After a time, the rain had let up and the tree tops sparkled like diamonds in the wake of the rainstorm. Aldren set his senses to the forest, searching for food. He could see game trails, buck scrape and several other obvious signs that wildlife existed in the woods. However, there was no sign of any life, but there was a very faint scent of blood on the air, so Aldren flew towards where he could best follow it. As he approached a hill, he noticed that the scent of blood was not the same as that of dead wildlife, there was something darker about this.

Aldren’s senses narrowed, and suddenly he was filled with anxious curiosity, for he sensed something wrong about the nature of the situation. As he approached the crest of the hill the smell of blood amplified by almost tenfold, as equally as the feeling that there was something especially unholy about it. At the crest of the hill was a glade, which sloped up with a lone hawthorne tree at the top. Aldren thought then that he could see a dozen or more grey figures within the glade, so he floated down into it at it’s westernmost point near the border of the trees.

A tangled mess of sunbeaten grass and bramble occupied most of the ground on the glade, which crunched and snapped underneath the diamond hard strength of Aldrens ivory claws. Then he noticed something, and his face and eyes hardened.

“Magical blood.” Aldren thought to himself.

Then he happened upon the corpses of at least 30 people, all adorned in grey sackcloth. The ground around him was saturated with blood, and even for a dragon, the sight was unusually grotesque. He walked up to one of the corpses, and turned it over. The chest was exposed, and upon the chest was carved a bloody symbol.

The fire in Aldren’s chest extinguished, and the blood in his body went cold. It was at this point that Aldren knew his pilgrimage would need to come to an end, for he knew the origin of the symbol, it was an old symbol. A forgotten symbol of ancient evil and Aldren knew and remembered. He looked up at the man’s face, which was defiled of it’s eyes, then used his claws to pull down the man’s hood, and through the bloodied black hair stuck out long, pointy ears.

“Elves.” Aldren thought to himself.

Aldren searched up the slope of the glade, searching for survivors among the slain elves. None of them bore any weapons, just meager provisions and some spiritual tokens. But all were maimed in the same way. Fear grew ever stronger within Aldren, and he resolved then to return to the north and tell of the massacre to King Draekyn if he could find no survivors. Yet as he moved more into the glade, he could sense a growing power. All the elves were dead, he deduced that they must have been pilgrims, like him, on a spiritual journey.

But finally, he sensed life. At the summit of the glade stood the lone hawthorne tree, old and strong. Someone was there, and Aldren could sense magic, unusually strong. Aldren ascended the summit, and there, at the foot of the hawthorne tree sat a small elf boy, no more than four years of age. Black of hair and forlorn of face was he. He looked up and saw Aldren approaching him, but without any reaction or real acknowledgement of Aldren, he lowered his head to it’s former position.

The mighty black dragon approached him, and stopped a few feet in front of him. The gnarled and twisted branches of the hawthorne tree above them cast irregular shadows across them, and provided little to no reliable shade against the bright sun above. The elf child was garbed in the same grey robes of his slain companions, he was filthy from the mud and his sandals were torn and frayed. The boy absently stared at the grim on his hands.

“Where art thy kin, faeling? Hath they been slain before thee?” Aldren asked in his booming, monstrous low voice.

However the boy did not respond.

“Do you have a name?” Aldren asked.

The boy was silent for a time, but responded after a few moments.

“Iylethain.” The boy’s voice was lower than what most boy’s voices should be at his perspective age. It was unusually strong, but full of calm and calculated anger. The he looked up at Aldren in his violet eyes and spoke again.

“You are a dragon, what are you doing so far to the south?” Iylethain asked.

“I am on a journey. Much like thee and thy fallen friends.” Aldren replied.

“I did not truly know any of these elves, my mother and father died in a fire soon after I learned to walk, and I was put under the care of these monks.” The boy explained, “This is not beyond what I expect of this life. Death follows all who are in my company.”

Despite Iylethain’s foreboding shadows, Aldren sensed something deeply special about the boy. The well of magic within the boy was strong, strong even for that of the elves. Aldren became more and more interested in who Iylethain was, his sire or his mother, for not many held so much power at such a young age. So he devised a new question for the child.

“I am Aldren. I want to find out who killed your companions, Iylethain. If I am going to do that then I need to talk to the king of Balaknof.” Aldren proclaimed.

“Safe travels, then Aldren.” Iylethain said, then he put his head back down.

After a moment of silence, Aldren said, “Nay child, I need you to fly with me. You must tell us explain how this happened.” The dragon asserted.

“You would take a cursed boy into your great city, no my lord, I must remain here with my own ilk where no one else might die.” Iylethain lamented.

Aldren snorted, black fumes escaping his nostrils. “You speak of utter foolishness, there is no more evil attached to you than the scent you carry. Come, we might yet heal your soul in Balaknof.” Aldren said as he approached the boy and laid his neck down low enough for Iylethain to climb on to his back.

“Fly with me, and I might take you to my friends, who death doth not take so easily.” Aldren said. And for a while Iylethain did not move, but soon, he clambered upon Aldren’s back. Aldren stood upon his legs, and walked forward with Iylethain upon his back. They could overlook the massacre now, and Aldren said, “One final thing, let us honor the dead.”

Then Aldren reared his neck and roared into the glade, and the force of his roar blew the brush and bramble of the clearing like the saplings on the mountain hill, but something else happened. Roots of the woods began to encase the corpses of the elves, and as they did, flowers saplings and all forms of life accumulated over them.

The boy and the dragon jolted into the sky, and began to fly higher into the sky, towards the hardy north. Iylethain was terrified while riding on Aldren’s back at first. But after a few hours, he grew a sustaining love of flying, and life seemed to brighten for him a bit, especially as he thought about the magic that Aldren cast upon his fallen kin.

After a day of flying they left the Araemoss Forest, flying over the peaks of it’s random mountain clusters and into the rolling plains of Yoürveil, which would last for many days ahead.

As a dragon, Aldren did not need to sleep in consistent rythmns. As long as a dragon made up for the lost hours of sleep, he or she could carry on unperturbed by fatigue for a week. Iylethain periodically fell asleep on his back during the flight, and inconsistently yet frequently. The two did not speak much, but Iylethain did occasionally ask Aldren questions about his life or if he had seen many big battles.

“Aye, terrible battles.” The dragon replied. “I was alive during one of the bloodiest wars Vallas has ever known.”

“Did you ever lose any friends? Or anyone you felt like you could never live without?” Iylethain asked.

“We Anglaeíc are immortal, so if some were slain in battle, they could be reincarnated if they chose, but many chose not. And those who are reincarnated are not always found, and don't remember their old souls.” Aldren asked.

“So if they die, they can just use magic and resurrect themselves? like the magic you used in the clearing to create the graves for the monks?” Iylethain asked.

A low rumble sounded in Aldren’s chest.

“No not entirely. Magic is much like unborn matter, and you verse yourself in it’s intricacies and work in tandem with the vibrations of the universe in order to control it. No, reincarnation is of a celestial power beyond that of our full juristiction.” The dragon replied.

“And the Anglaec, they are your order aren’t they? Who are they?” Iyelthain asked.

“Think of the Anglaeíc as demigods. They are the main reason I brought you with me.”

The boy and the dragon eventually reached the high fells of Balaknof, with it’s wild volcanic ranges, they flew ever higher and higher into the obsidian mountains therein. Then, on an oddly flat stretch land high in the mountains was a great city before a lake of lava, the ebony buildings intricately laced with human stonework, an occasional river of lava passed through the city seemingly, and at the summit of the ascending city was Haldrik Castle, which has stood strong since the old days, and there resided King Draekyn and Queen Alyris, who awaited them at the gates.