The Chastening of Erik Tiller - Part 1 of 2

A new story about a boy and a dragon

The Chastening of Erik Tiller

Once upon a time there was a boy. Well, a young man, really. Old enough to strike out on his own, but young enough not to know that adventure is just another word for suffering.

Erik Tiller set off one early morning without saying goodbye. He didn't believe that his parents, or his older siblings, or even his friends would understand what pulled him: legends of the Dragon.

In the deepest cave under the highest peak of the tallest mountain that feeds Storm River, lived Na'Tar, the Chastener.

Far south of Eldham, Erik's home, the once great city of Gwynthia had been reduced to smoldering ruin in an era before Erik's birth. The legend went that Na'Tar had but turned his long, scaled head, to flame the city as It passed, not bothering even to land, or arc one single circle in the air.

Why?

To chasten the pride of men, to turn to desolation the works of their hands, that they may remember What truly reigned supreme in all the world.

Or so the legends popularly concluded.

Of course, tales were also told of other dragons, in other lands. It was speculated that Na'Tar had fought some of them in vast territorial skirmishes. Many claimed that it was from such a conflict that Na'Tar was returning when It laid waste to Gwynthia, glowering in the frustration of defeat. Or, worse, exulting in the ecstasy of victory.

Erik Tiller had, in his maturing years, spent all the time he could listening to these fables and theories, from anyone in Eldham who would speak of them, and especially from those travelers who now and again passed through his humble town. He would trade drinks for tales, and never felt shorted in the bargain.

While others enjoyed the diversion, briefly entertaining their curiosity to hear and repeat the legends, Erik sank deeply into their spell. By the time he had reached the tenderest youth of fresh adulthood, he had become also a secret acolyte of the great Na'Tar. What other deserved the passion of worship? What other determined the fates of all men and women in these lands? And yet no churches had been built, and none gathered in draconic communion.

And so Erik set off, single of mind and sure of heart. He would seek out Na'Tar, deep within Its hidden home, and he would learn the truth of the legends which enshrouded this God of Fire and Blood. If true they were, he would offer himself as a disciple, as a champion, to work Its will in the world, and seek converts to the same.

But first, he must meet It. For an unknown god cannot be worshipped.

It took sixteen days by boat to reach the bend in the river closest to the mountain rumored to be Na'Tar's fell home. Erik disembarked with only what food and tools he could carry on his strong back. He carried no weapons, for they suited not his purpose.

Another eight days he crossed through fields heavy with grain and forests heavy with Fall.

After four days more, well beyond the dwellings of his fellow humans, he had traversed the bulging foothills, and entered the canyon that his patchwork map marked as the trailhead of death. There, he camped, ate much of the remaining food he had captured or gathered, and prepared himself for the final and most arduous leg of his journey, to the very mouth of Na'Tar's lair.

He felt favored the next day, young and tireless, as he ascended the steep climbs, and navigated the treacherous crags that stood between him and his quarry. The air crisped and thinned with altitude, but his exertions kept him warm, and water was often close at hand, thanks to the fresh snowmelt from the peaks above.

At nightfall, however, Erik felt the first pangs of doubt. To make camp would spell suicide, as darkness turned the cold bitter, and wind howled down through tortured canyons. Nor could he see clearly the hard path, hardly cut or marked by past travelers -- for who would seek his own death, save a fool on his own errand?

Such were his thoughts as he pressed up, and forward, on legs that betrayed the onset of weakness and worry.

But what could he do? He kept going. All through that night he hiked, making slow, painful progress over razored rocks and treacherous ice. His hands bled payment for salvation from many an otherwise fatal slip. The seams of his boots split with their wrenching, twisting work. His food was gone. There was no water but ice. Even if he had trusted that he could stop long enough to make a fire before succumbing to the cold, there was nothing to burn.

Lost.

A full moon had passed since he left the comfort of his parents' home, and here he would die, alone in the mountains. Unknown to the god he sought. Mourned by a small few in a town far away, who would never know what became of him.

His pounding heart ached to weep, as young men do at the perishing of their dreams, to wash away the bitter discovery of their naked foolishness.

Still, he pressed on, knowing no direction but up, toward the very elements that would surely kill him, unwilling yet to die.

Until finally he tripped, and fell, and his thirst and fatigue conspired to keep him down.

Huddled helpless in a stony hollow, Erik's slowed mind congealed into gratitude that, at the very least, he was out of the wind. Beyond that, death waited with thinning patience.

Lying still, breathing out the pains of despair, Erik pitied the life he had traded for futility. He thought of his brothers and sisters in Eldham, his aging parents, his few friends from the neighboring towns. He thought of warm hearth and laid table. He thought of quiet years stretching forward atop fertile land. He thought of seasons interlocking into the steady rhythm of all time, and posterity. He thought of the children he would not have, and the history that would soon forget him.

In this high place with his low thoughts, Erik decided he would not face his end lying down. He thought instead to afford himself some scrap of dignity by getting upright, setting his vision on parallel with the benighted and storm shrouded horizon.

But as he pressed his hand against the flat stone floor of his dying place, a sensation stole his attention. Sharp needles returned some feeling to the skin of his fingers. In hushed disbelief, Erik bent to lay his frostbitten cheek on the rock. There was warmth there.

Without second thought, Erik laid himself down flat, sapping whatever he could from wherever it came. The trickle of heat was enough to kindle the fire of vitality in his young heart, driving the shadow of death back, disappointing its expectation for now...for now.

More than warmth was hope, unlocking hidden reserves. Erik pushed himself away from this meager source of life and hunted for what lay below, and behind it. To attempt such exploration in the howling darkness was recklessness, but hope had made the fool of men far less desperate than Erik.

He felt his way through cracks and crags, trailing blood fresh from his wounded arms and hands, until he saw it, not far, the faintest glow. It would have been invisible should any stars have lent their light that night. But in the unbroken pitch, Erik could see it, barely, casting an outline of sharp black angles against the abyss.

Inching backward on his belly, he sightlessly grasped holds with both hands and one foot while the other prodded for lower purchase. Slowly, slowly, he moved toward the shapes he could see in the distance.

By miracle of will, Erik crossed the threshold of those jagged shadows, and discovered a descending pit, illuminated from within by a dull red light, as though hell itself had breached the crust of mortality, and lay waiting beyond a turn of this broad stone corridor. Here, there was enough light for Erik to see by, and it was clear this path was not meant for the feet of men. Smooth and sheer were its walls, leading down and curving away, twisting to depths unknown, unknowable.

Na'Tar, he breathed, an exquisite chill of horror and awe supplied new life to his limbs. He had traveled far, and given all, to reach this threshold of ultimate mystery.

Others, he knew, had come so far. For the maps had been made, if roughly. Without their intrepid efforts, he never would have found this place, peering into the very jaws of his own destiny. But while the mapmakers had turned back, Erik could not.

And so he climbed, picking his path along the cracks in mountain rock, where no bush grew, nor weed nor blade of grass. Where not even the frozen rain and snow from these high regions could penetrate, as the warmth blew upward in a steady gust, parching the vaulted vestibule.

In short time, Erik sat upon a ledge, beneath which there were no holds for his worn and weary feet. With eyes closed in likeness of a prayer to whatever silent gods had led him here, Erik pitched himself into the abyss.

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Continue to Part 2…