Interlude 15: Worth It

The Ballad Of A Semi-Benevolent Dragon

Elerion walked through the wreckage of the battlefield with a heavy heart. Why hadn't they surrendered? It had been clear from the very start that they couldn't possibly have hoped to defeat his forces in battle. He had expected them to call their armies and then use the threat of battle to negotiate better conditions. He would have been willing to accept that. Indeed, he'd planned for that very possibility. But instead, they had chosen to give battle despite having almost no hope of victory at all.

And the proof of their folly was all around him.

Tens of thousands dead. The banners of dozens of noble Houses trampled into the mud and muck. And a river so full of bodies that it had burst its banks.

"Did you think it would be easy?" The voice belonged to Doomwing. The dragon himself was nowhere to be seen, but that told him little. It would have been trivially easy for Doomwing to observe from afar using magic or to observe from nearby while concealing himself.

"No," Elerion murmured. "But I thought they would see sense." He shook his head. So many of the enemy soldiers had been peasant levies. It hurt to imagine: farmer, cobblers, porters, and all manner of poor folk forced to take up wooden spears and stand against battle-hardened cavalry. To hold against the charge of armoured riders... such a thing was not easy for even highly trained troops to do. Peasant levies? They had been swept away, with more of them perishing under hoof than before drawn steel.

There was a long pause, and Elerion's fists clenched. He had ridden at the forefront of battle. It was a foolish decision, perhaps, but it was the path he'd chosen to take. He was not a king who led from behind high walls. He was a king who carved the path forward with his own sword. He could still remember the rush of battle, the sense of triumph he had felt as the enemy's centre collapsed. But that triumph felt hollow now. What honour was there to be found in slaughtering some untrained farmer? What glory was there in cutting down a huntsman's son who was only just old enough to venture into the forest alone?

"Humans and dragons are quite different," Doomwing said. "But there are similarities. Dragons do not kneel. And some humans are the same. The kings who stood against you were like that. It would not have mattered what conditions you offered. They were never going to surrender."

"They should have," Elerion said. "They could have kept much of their power. All it would have taken was going from bowing to no one to bowing to just one."

"A king bows to no one, or so they believed."

"Dragons have no kings, but there have been those we would follow." Doomwing's voice grew wistful. "There was one dragon that stood above the rest. As I said, dragons have no kings, but if ever we were to choose a king, it would have been him. I cannot say I knew him. I saw him several times from afar and spoke to him only once, but even that single meeting was enough for me to know."

"To know what?"

"That he was worthy of the allegiance he was given, that his name was well chosen. Sovereign Flame, he was called, and it was a fitting name, for all dragons are born of fire, and he was the closest to a ruler we have ever known."

"What became of him?"

"He fell in battle, but his end was more splendid than any other dragon's. There was a foe... a foe so mighty that all the gods who shaped this world had to give their lives to slay him. And Sovereign Flame wounded him. An enemy that could stand against the full might of the gods, and a dragon made him bleed." Doomwing growled. "It would have been better if he had lived, but if he had to fall, then I cannot imagine a better end."

Elerion sank onto a tree stump. The rest of the tree lay nearby. It had been blasted apart by a spell at some point in the battle. No. That wasn't right. One of the master swordsmen who'd ridden at his side had struck it. "I wonder if this will be worth it."

"Even I cannot guarantee such things," Doomwing replied.

"I hope it is." Elerion lifted his right arm. His shoulder ached. Ah. There was a dent in his pauldron. When had that happened? "Otherwise, why am I doing it?"

"Because you cannot see any other path." Doomwing's voice was hard but kind. "Because you long for a world where the constant, raging war between kingdoms is a distant memory. And to do that, someone must become High King. Someone must stand above all other kings."

"And if not me, then who?" Elerion asked.

"You may have been born a farmer's son, but it is not blood that makes a king. It is power. It is courage. It is wisdom."

"And do I have enough of all three?" Elerion asked.

"Of power, you have more than any human I have met. And your courage cannot be called lacking either. As for wisdom..." A brief pause. "That is something even I cannot teach. Only time, only experience, only suffering and loss can grant wisdom."

Elerion chuckled thinly. "Then I suppose I am well on my way to acquiring wisdom."

"It is good that you grieve," Doomwing said. "That you wonder if this is necessary."

"Why do you say that?"

"If you were simply a butcher who cut down all who opposed him and revelled in the slaughter, I would kill you where you stand."

"I did not know you cared so much about humanity," Elerion said.

Doomwing's laughter was almost mocking. "I care little for humanity as a species. But I will not have my teachings used to create a tyrant."

"Fair enough."

"You will have to fight more battles like this," Doomwing continued. "Because there are many kings who will not kneel. You will have to walk across many more battlefields littered with the bodies of those who deserved better. And you will ask yourself again and again if it is worth it."

"I know," Elerion said heavily. "Believe me. I know."

"Then there is something you must do."

"What?"

"When you finally win, when you stand above all the kings of men as High King or Emperor, become the kind of ruler that makes all of this worth it. That way these deaths were not in vein. That way, when you close your eyes and see the dead who gave their lives for your cause or theirs, you will be able to hold your head up high."

Elerion took a deep, deep breath. The smell of the battlefield filled his nostrils. It was the smell of blood, mud, and countless other horrors. It was the smell of pride and foolishness and bravery. It was the smell of sacrifice. Slowly, he got to his feet.

"You're right," he said.

"Is that a surprise?" Doomwing asked. "I am always right."

"Not always, just most of the time." Elerion smiled faintly. "I've already come this far. One way or the other, I have to see this through." His jaw tightened. "I don't know how to be a great ruler."

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"No, you don't. But I am confident you will learn."

Was it worth it?

Elerion's gaze shifted to the warriors who'd gathered under his banner one last time.

They were going to their deaths. Every one of them knew it.

And he was going to his death too.

Would his empire endure after he died? He doubted it. He was almost certain it would collapse in the aftermath of his demise.

It would have been easy to think, then, that it had all been a waste, but he refused to believe that.

He had united the many kingdoms of humanity beneath his rule, and during his rule there had been unrivalled peace and prosperity. Doomwing himself had confirmed that never before had humanity risen so high.

Even if it all came crashing down after today, so be it. It was enough. It was a start. It was proof that it could be done.

One day, perhaps centuries from now, another would rise who could do as he had done... and then go further.

Today, he was riding to his death. But his dream would not die with him. Even if his name was forgotten, he was certain that some legend, some whisper of what he had accomplished would make its way down through years. Someday, yes, someday, another would take up his dream and finish what he had started.

He glanced again to the men on either side, one of them was an old man who'd followed him from the start, one of the few who could remember when he'd still been an upstart farm boy. The other was a young man who had never known another ruler. The start of his journey and the end. He smiled and raised his voice, weaving magic into it so that all could hear.

"It has been an honour," he said. "But you know me. I've never been good with words. I prefer to let my sword do the talking." He drew his sword and let it catch the light. Despite the years, his grip on it was firm and sure. "Today, we ride. We ride until we have victory or death takes us! And if death must take us, let us not go easily. If my lance shatters, then I have my sword. And if my sword breaks, I have my dagger." He laughed. "And if my dagger snaps, I have my fists. And if those break? Well, I still have my teeth."

Laughter rang out. They were all dead men, and they knew it, but still they laughed. It was better than tears, better than wailing and the gnashing of teeth. Truly, they were magnificent, these warriors who had chosen to follow him to the end.

His voice softened, and the next moment seemed to stretch out into eternity as his gaze swept over his followers, over the old and the young, the commoners with their humble weapons and the nobles with fine arms and flapping banners. He was the farm boy and the king at once, the young man and the old one, and whoever doubt still clung to him lifted. In its place there was only sureness and certainty.

The time for choices was long past.

Now, there was only the enemy before him and his followers at his side. He reached out to his old friend, to the man who'd been with him from the start. He nodded sharply and squeezed his shoulder.

"One last time, my friend. Will you do me the honour of sounding the charge?"

"Aye," his friend answered back. "My king... my friend."

And with that, his old friend drew the horn at his waist, brought it up to his lips, threw back his head, and blew.

The blast of the horn was like thunder, and it was echoed all the way down the line as others raised their horns and blew as well. Glorious it was, glorious and sad because they all knew how it must end.

And at the last, as the horns fell silent and the line began to move, a titan shadow passed overhead, and a dragon's roar split the sky.

The king stood alone.

His banner was trampled into the muck of the battlefield. Beside it, wounded to the death in defence of king and banner, lay his oldest friend. Loyal to the last, he had died, grasping at the ankle of a kitsune who meant to stab Elerion in the back. He had paid for his temerity with his life, but he had slowed the kitsune enough for Elerion to turn aside what should have been a killing blow.

His guardsmen were scattered around him. Not a one of them had fled. All had perished in his defence.

The last to fall had been the young man. His House's banner featured a white sheep on a blue field. A shepherd boy, some had called him, for his House was known for having built its wealth on the fine wool their many flocks of sheep produced. But none could question the young man's courage. A sheep may have been on his banner, but he had fought with the courage of a lion before falling. Impaled on the sword of a kitsune, he had seized his killer's wrist to lock her in place before driving his dagger into her throat.

The many banners of his followers had all fallen, their bodies piled high. Brave they had been, braver than any men he'd known, but they were only men, and the enemy were not only stronger but also more numerous. It had been a hopeless battle from the start. All they could do was try to buy time, and that was why the king still stood.

Time.

He had to buy time.

Even blinded, with broken limbs, and no weapon still remaining save for shattered fists and chipped teeth, he had to buy time.

As long as he lived, the monster he had loved would send troops to slay him - troops that would not be attacking Doomwing or Marcus.

So he stood, and when he fell, he stood again, and again, and again.

Had it all been worth it?

The thought came again, unbidden, cutting through the exhaustion like a knife.

Become a ruler who makes it worth it.

Yes.

Those words.

He still remembered them.

And so he got to his feet again.

His breath was short now. His pulse was slowing. Death was close.

He'd given everything. There was nothing else to give.

No. There was one last thing.

One last technique, one last reserve of strength.

His soul burned, and fresh strength filled his veins.

His followers had given their lives. Surely, then, he could give not only his life but his soul as well?

So many had sacrificed to make him king. So as king, how could he refuse to sacrifice when his turn came?

Was it worth it?

The struggle. The sacrifice. The years upon years of trying to make it work but knowing, deep down inside that it could never last forever.

Was it worth it?

Elerion got to his feet again. His bowed back straightened. His soul shone with all the impossible, momentary brightness of a dying star.

Yes.