Grimbauld the Brave and the Dragon of Fate

A short story

“This is not how I die.”

Grimbauld stood with his broadsword poised over the dragon’s heart. It’s highly burnished blade shimmered against the glistening red scales.

“No tricks, foul lizard. Your evil prophecies won’t work on me.”

And yet, he hesitated.

Of course he had heard tales of the power this monster possessed, but dismissed them as nothing more than madmen’s ramblings. A pox on those who came to this cave for words of wisdom, when all they did was bring sorrow and despair.

The giant creature’s golden reptilian eyes, full of pain but also dark amusement, watched him closely. He had brought it low, but knew there was still fight in this magnificent beast.

“Of course, Grimbauld, son of Grimgar. A great man as you cannot be fooled.”

These rumbling words, playful and melodious, made the warrior’s grip on his sword briefly loosen, although he swiftly regained himself, and began to push down on the pommel again. He had not risked life and limb to save the village, and restore his damnable family name, only to lose his wits to this wyrm’s word play.

As the blade began to pierce the leathery hide, the dragon hissed once more.

“This is not how either of us die.”

Grimbauld felt pressure on his stomach and looked down to see a razor sharp claw pressed against his chain mail armour. He cursed his foolishness. Entrapped by curiosity and pride, this was now a battle he could not win.

He took a shuddering breath, and then carefully, ever so carefully, lifted the point of his sword away from the dragons chest, sighing with relief when his foe retracted its talon with the same caution.

Both watched the other, unsure of their next step, as the spectre of death fled the cave on a sighing breath.

“Speak,” the warrior said finally, sheathing his sword. He had embraced this madness so now had no choice but to follow its course.

The dragon, this behemoth of flame and terror, an abomination straight from the children’s tales his father had told to terrify him late at night, slowly lumbered back and with a quick glance at Grimbauld, began licking at one of the sword wounds on it’s leg, like a puppy with a sore paw. It took all the warriors control not to burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of the scene.

It seemed that he was not the only one in on the joke.

“Your sword bites deep,” the deep voice grumbled. “Even dragons can suffer from rot. I need to clean the wound, but also appreciate the absurdity of how this looks, so wipe that humour from your face.”

The creature stopped its worrying and lifted its vast, elongated head to look him in the eye. Grimbauld felt the weight of its years and wisdom settle on him, and it took all his effort not to look away.

“Kaicadmus is the name that was given to me many centuries ago when I first appeared in this land. What I was called in my past world is long forgotten now.”

“You have lived many lives?” Grimbauld asked in awe.

A puff of smoke snorted from the dragons nostrils.

“Hah! As if the Gods would ever allow such a thing. I lived a life. The life of a man. Full of hopes of dreams like anyone else. I can remember so many things, amazing things that would seem totally fantastical to any who walk on this plane of existence, but, my name, or the faces of my family, they are lost to memory. Then, once that world was done with me, I appeared here, as you see me now, and here I am trapped to know the destiny and fate of all who live in these lands. And so they worship and curse me in equal measure.”

Grimbauld’s face hardened, and his hand drifted to the hilt of his sword once more.

“What is this nonsense?! You were a man? That cannot be true.”

However, there was no cunning or deceit in the dragons eyes, just weariness and regret.

Kaicadmus took a deep breath, expanded his vast wings, billowing up dust and sand, then resettled again.

“Ask your question.”

The warrior’s mind raced. There so much he could learn and yet he was still wary.

“How do you know I will not kill you where you stand?”

A low growl rumbled through the cave and Grimbauld once more prepared to fight, but then realised, in this most surreal of encounters, there was another bizarre chapter being written. The dragon was laughing.

“Still the warrior first, hmm? The answer is simple. Like I said, I know my own fate. The Gods are nothing but cruel in their humour. My time will come, but not today, nor many more days yet. Yet, when it does come, it will be torturous and horrific and filled with agony. I accept this. That is my fate. Now, ask your question.”

“How will I die?”

“You will die, Grimbauld, as all men do. Either in glory or in vain. But, now you are wasting my time. I thought you were smarter than this. Patience is not a virtue I possess in abundance. Ask your question.”

Grimbauld could tell that there was no humour or empathy left in those eyes. Prophecies be damned, everything hinged on the next words he spoke.

Looking at the entrance of the cave, he saw a river of gold painted by the setting sun leading away from these hills and back towards the village he had stayed since he was a child. Evening was once more beginning to settle over the lands. The comforts of his house called him home. It was a path he could easily follow. Back to the familiar. Back to the safe. Back to where he had watched his father and mother murdered at the hands of the rival warlord for daring to suggest the village kept more of the winter harvest to fend off starvation. Back to where he had been hiding, promising to protect the people, whilst everything around them burned. A coward trapped in a prison of his own making.

He stared down at the sword by his side. His fathers sword. The one he had held aloft, when nothing more than a child, with his hands still covered in his parents blood, swearing revenge against their murderers. Yet, all this time later, what had he done?

Nodding, he looked to where the dragon was watching him expectantly, and took a deep breath.

“How will I live?”

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Well, even after last weeks story, I should have known I wasn’t finished with Grimbauld. Thanks to

Kathrine Elaine

for giving me the prompt to keep on telling his stories. Just like my paranormal investigator, Mario La Torre, I like writing about these guys even if no one was reading their stories. However to get such lovely feedback is a rare gift.

I mentioned in my Theoden article that I dislike one note warriors and so thought I would give a bit of context as to how Grimbauld may have become “the Great.” I guess even the mightiest warriors need a helping hand along the way!

I’m sure there are many more tales to tell about Grimbauld but, for now, I hope you enjoyed this one.

Thanks for reading. Until next time.