THE DRAGON AND THE ROSE

by Larry N Morris

     “I’ll ask you again to reconsider, Cousin.”

     The prince shrugged indifferently. “I have . . . five times . . . every time you’ve asked it of me.”

     “But you’re still going?”

     “Aye Burdett, I’m still going. Did you truly believe I would do elsewise?”

     The crown prince sat between his younger brother and his cousin on Nightwind his huge destrier, as black as the midnight of a new moon. They were on a gentle rise looking out over a vast forest that spread before them, seemingly without end. It was called Skagg Wood and its beginning marked the western limit of the land of the Dragon Clan; the land that Gordon would one

day rule as its King. Dressed the part; he was in black from head to heel; as black and the stallion he forked. The badge on his breast was the only exception, scarlet with a border of gold and featuring a golden dragon in flight; the sigil of the Dragon Clan. In his late twenties, tall and lean, he was a handsome man; dashing, with a casual grace. It wasn’t just his future crown that drew women to him like flies to honey.

     But Gordon loved adventuring more than he wanted the crown one day. Young Prince Nash joined their cousin in an attempt to dissuade his brother. He swept an arm toward the great forest. “Gordon, you know that place eats people.”

     Crown Prince Gordon laughed. His feigned amusement stated his indifference to their arguments . . . but it also hid his growing apprehension. “Old wives’ tales, little brother, myth and gossip,” he said lightly, but he thought, that’s why it’s a challenge.  If I weren’t half afraid, what would be the point?

     The younger prince frowned up at him, considering how to proceed. “You will wear the crown one day, you need to ward yourself better and not take unnecessary risks.”

     “Aye,” Cousin Burdett added. “It’s time for your reckless adventuring to come to an end. Time too, for you to grow up and prepare to take the throne. You’ve nothing to prove. Twice you led the clan in wars against our enemies on your father’s behalf.”

     “And you slew a basilisk when you were only fifteen,” Prince Nash reminded, “but this is foolishness.”

     “Foolishness and more,” agreed their cousin. “It’s said this forest is full of cacodemons, chimera, and worse . . . only the stars above know what you’re like to encounter in there.  Do you do this only to have the bards make another ballad of your great adventures?”

     That was the wrong thing to say. They could tell by the set of his jaw and the glint in his steel blue eyes that his decision was made. Anything they might say now would only drive him to this folly all the faster.

     An hour after brother and cousin had watched Gordon ride down the gentle slope, jaw-length black hair stirring in the breeze, and disappear into the hoary depths of the ancient forest, he began to think maybe . . . just maybe, he should have listened to them. He had hardly passed within the trees when the gloam closed in around him.  Though the hour was early afternoon, everything within these confines was cloaked in permanent twilight, projecting a sense of arcane grimness. The tightness gripping his stomach and chest made it hard to breath and sweat grew heavy on face and neck from the moist, warm air that carried a faint suggestion of decay.

     Progress was slow as rider and horse picked their way through thick undergrowth where Thornbriar and Scythe-leaf intertwined with Needleberry and Witch Weed, as if to say, “Go no farther, you are not welcome here!” Well, no goblins or grumkins yet, he quipped, to easy his growing tension. Too, he realized, it will be nightfall very early in here. His mind wandered over many of the stories about this foreboding forest as he rode past the largest trees he had ever seen with a canopy at least two hundred feet above his head and trunks so thick that four men joining hands could not reach around one.

       Feral beasts and fell creatures were said to dwell within Skagg Wood. He knew full well that this dense enormity stood accused of harboring all the vile creatures known to man and many that only lived in legend. Parents told their children tales of Skagg Wood to frighten them into proper behavior. Many more tales were told at hearthsides or around campfires. Adults always laughed at such tales but their humor was not convincing when they were seen to glance warily into the shadows or to look over their shoulders as they laughed.

     Then he remembered that creatures dire were not the only things said to shelter within Skagg Wood. Tales were also told of fay beings dwelling here.  Po and others were said to call it home, fairies and pixies, forest gnomes and more.  Gordon shook his head and smiled.  Most likely I will soon learn the truth of it.  He knew that many of those who had entered Skagg Wood had never been seen again.  Many?  Ha, scant few of them ever returned.  But he would.  He intended to explore this archaic forest far and wide then ride out again. In the process he would lay to rest many of the myths that existed about this forest. With his mind lost in memory of the stories his nanny had told him as a boy, he suddenly reined up, his attention refocused. He was overcome with a feeling of danger and his senses sprang to full alert.

     Nightwind stood patiently, showing no signs of trepidation. Sword in hand and scarcely breathing, Gordon strained with eyes and ears for any sign of a presence. Slowly, carefully, he scanned the vine-draped surround without detecting anyone—or any thing. He realized the carpet of moss and humus in the forest would do much to muffle sounds of any approach. After long minutes of guarded apprehension, he finally relaxed, detecting nothing to cause alarm. Looking about, he realized dusk was settling over him and he considered this spot to be better than most for a campsite. Dusk quickly turned to darkness in the closeness of the forest; a darkness that was heavily oppressive. His little fire caused shadows to dance among trees and shrubs at the limit of its light, giving the eerie impression that everything around him had become an army of deadly threats. Gordon grew angry with himself for succumbing to the rapid fraying of his nerves. Is this it then? Did all the others who came here perish from going mad? When he lay down hoping to get some sleep he pulled his cloak tight around and realized he did so, not from any chill here, but for a feeling of security.

     Hours passed and Gordon tossed restlessly, unable to fall asleep. When Nightwind began to rear and snort, Gordon was on his feet in a heartbeat, sword in hand. Wolves, was his first though but just as quickly he realized, not wolves, Furies!

     Though Gordon had always believed them to be naught but legend, he recognized them as furies instantly.  With large, sleek cat-like bodies, they had the faces of women, with slavering fangs and with hatred in their eyes. Five furies had his little camp surrounded and advanced cautiously on paws that displayed razor sharp talon-like claws. With Nightwind screaming in terror, Gordon was bathed in helpless futility. He had no hope of surviving a fight with five furies. Just one would test his limit. Gordon stepped forward to protect his horse before he realized it would be a futile effort. He took half a dozen quick strides through the widest gap between two furies. Outside the encircling ring, he spun about to place all the furies in front of him. By the light from the dying embers of his fire he saw two furies spring at Nightwind, slashing and ripping. The horse fought hard and went down trumpeting his agony then went still. The instinct for survival was greater than the grief he felt for the lost horse. Gordon turned and ran ten or twelve more paces then turned back to face the threat with sword at the ready. If he were going to die, he intended to take some with him. To his surprise none pursued him, all of them turned to feed on the dead horse. He knew the reprieve was temporary and turned, running deeper into the forest.

     Crashing ahead in total darkness he was gripped with fear, sweat trickled down his face and neck in rivulets, his breath came in short ragged gulps. Even in battle he had never faced a situation that caused him such panic and he could feel his heart hammering in his chest. Blindly, Gordon pushed his way through thickets and brambles that tore at his clothing and his flesh. Tree branches reached low to claw at his face and eyes, his glengarry quickly lost to him. When the growth offered too much resistance, he hacked at it madly with his sword then pushed on. After a time, he grew weak from the struggle and gasping for breath he ran face first into a massive tree trunk. Stunned, he staggered backward as blood ran from a gash on his forehead and his bloodied nose. Gordon shook his head to clear it and turned to sit against the tree, exhausted, expecting at any time to hear the furies in pursuit. With a blind hand he attempted to assess the damage to his face while trying to relax and rest.  His hand came away dripping blood and he pressed one corner of his cloak against his face to stem the flow of blood.

     This is futile. I cannot fight them all and I cannot see to flee. After he had rested for what he deemed to be far too long, he struggled to his feet. The blood loss had lessened considerably. Gordon knew Nightwind was lost to him then he realized, I have no supplies. No food or water . . . or anything. Gordon cautiously groped his way onward, no longer in panicked hysteria, but ever alert for sounds of the pack in pursuit. Feeling his way, he continued for hours and thought the night would never end. Then, just when he thought he detected a hint of daylight encroaching, he tumbled forward, no ground beneath his feet, and he fell into nothingness. His sword had been lost from his grasp by the time he slammed to a stop, flat on his back, the breath forced from him in a rush, pain ripping through his left leg. After catching his breath, he tried to lever himself up to a sitting position but the pain that knifed through him from his leg was so great that he swooned and dropped back heavily, unconscious.

     When Gordon began to regain awareness, his head ached, his left leg was throbbing and he suspected his back was sprained. Gritting his teeth against the anticipated pain he raised himself far enough to rest on his elbows. The effort forced him to choke back a scream. Looking down at his leg, bile rose in his throat and his stomach roiled. In a wide pool of congealed blood his leg was twisted at an abnormal angle with broken bone protruding through flesh.  Surveying his surround he saw that he was at the rock-strewn bottom of a small ravine which slashed through the floor of the forest. He judged he had fallen about twenty feet. Looking this way and that, he saw no sign of his sword. I have to find a way to get out of here. I must reach help or I’ll die. Dried tree branches of various length and thickness were scattered around him. His first thought was to fashion a splint for his leg that might let him move about. Careful to move only his arms, he pulled to him all the wood that was within reach. With strips of cloth ripped from his cape he began an attempt at self-treatment. A deal of time passed before he abandoned the idea, realizing it would never work.  Weary from his night-long flight and his injuries he lay back and closed his eyes.

     When Gordon next awoke it was daylight and he was burning with fever. He could only guess that it was the day after his fall. The fever had reached a point where focused thinking was difficult. His broken leg was throbbing like a drum and it was swollen as well. He spent the day in and out of consciousness.

From that point on he lost all track of time. It mattered little, for his ability to think clearly had abandoned him. His mind was in the past far more than in the present yet the memories became tangled, intertwined—only adding to his confusion. Once, when he awoke, his mind was clear enough to border on rational thinking but his only thought was using his dagger to end his anguish. Before he could muster the courage to do so, he faded away again. More time passed, what seemed like days, before he came close to alert thought again. When he did, he was convinced he had died. The vision before him could only be a spirit from the world beyond. She approached him and he felt the comfort of her gentle touch before his mind sank into blackness again.

     When Gordon awoke again he was clearer of mind that he had been in days.  He opened his eyes and the vague vision he recalled was sitting beside him. He was immediately intoxicated by her stunning beauty. Am I truly dead or just dreaming?  It had to be one or the other—dead or dreaming—for beside him sat a being that did not exist. She was a Po; she could be nothing else. From all the fables he had heard she fit the description perfectly. Appearing to be about four feet tall, or perhaps a hand taller, she had long flowing hair that reached her waist. Her hair was violet and made a breathtaking contrast to her milky skin that had a translucent sheen to it. With high cheekbones and tiny nose she was the epitome of classic beauty. Her eyes were the color of gold, nearly orange, like two small gold coins, and her lips were the lightest shade of blue.  She had a well-proportioned figure and the sheer gauze-like dress she wore did little to hide it. He started to speak, but before he could, she saw that he was awake and smiled demurely. “Do not try to move, you’re injuries are too severe.”

     “What are you . . . I mean, uh . . . are you really a Po?” He knew it sounded stupid for Po were only a legend.

     “Aye, I am one of the beings your people call the Po. I am named Cyanna.”

       Sigh-anna, he was charmed by the sound of it. Her voice was soft and sweet with a soothing quality to it, but still, this wasn’t possible. He thought he detected the faint fragrance of wild flowers around her. Gordon laid his head back and closed his eyes, recalling what he could. Fables had it that the Po were shy, elusive beings who were known, on rare occasion, to give assistance to travelers in need. They were said to be small, graceful and beautiful. I’m still dreaming—I must be. When he opened his eyes again she was still there. “How can this be? The Po are only a legend, you can’t be real.”

     She smiled again and laid a hand on his arm. “Do I feel real to you?  I assure you I am as real as you are.”

     Gordon shook his head and focused on his situation. He saw that his leg was bandaged and he touched fingertips to his forehead. His head was not bandaged but an ointment had been applied to the gash. Cyanna passed him a small water skin and he drank, the water more satisfying that the greatest feast.   The water had a fruity taste but before he could ask, she explained, “Some of the medics treating your wounds are also in the water, the better to easy your pain.”

     He was letting a mouthful soak into his parched throat when she twisted about and he saw a small fire beyond her. The Po must have found his sword for it lay beside the fire. She turned back and handed him a small metal platter with food on it, food that he did not recognize. It was food none-the-less, something he had not had in days. “What is this,” he asked, as he ate, “not that it matters?  I’d take most anything right now.” She began identifying the items on his platter but he didn’t hear her words. He found he was staring at her, enchanted by her beauty.

     She refocused his attention by asking, “I told you I am called Cyanna, have you a name?”

     He inclined his head to suggest a bow. “Apologies my lady, my name is Gordon.” He noticed for the first time a delicate silver chain around her neck from which depended a finely wrought rose, finished with lavender enamel, lying against her white dress. “Does your rose have significance?”

     Her fingers went to the rose and she fondled it gently. “Aye, it does. A lavender rose on white is the sigil of the royal family of the Po.”

     Hungry as he was Gordon stopped chewing and his jaw dropped open. “You are of royal blood?”

     She giggled briefly. “Just barely. My grandfather is cousin to the king.”  Pointing to the badge on his breast, she asked, “And what of your dragon?  Has it a special meaning?”

     “The golden dragon on a field of scarlet is the sigil of the king of the Dragon Clan. My father is the king.”

     Cyanna’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You are the crown prince of your people and their future king?”

     Laughing, Gordon told her, “It was my younger brother who very nearly inherited the crown.” He swept his hand down his length to indicate himself.  “Had I perished here he would have become the crown prince.”

     She stood and told him, “You will not perish, Gordon of the Dragons, for you are in my care now. I need fetch more water and you need rest. Sleep for a time.”

Her name echoed in his mind as he drifted into slumber, Cyanna . . . .

     They spent many days together in the little ravine, Gordon resting and healing, Cyanna staying with him, caring for him and sleeping by the fire. After a time, he began to test the leg, gingerly at first, moving on it a little more each day. Cyanna would always be at his side, supporting him; encouraging him.  They came to know each other well, spending long hours sitting around the fire, talking, laughing, and telling each other of their past and of their people. It was only gradually that Gordon became aware that he was in love with Cyanna.  The feeling didn’t alarm him, but rather, he found it comforting.

     From the beginning, he was touched by her gentle nurturing and whelmed by her great beauty but there was more to it than that. The grace of her movement, the easy way she laughed, the slightly seductive look she would give him at times, all of it added to his enchantment. Over time, he realized he didn’t want to heal and leave this place, not if it meant leaving her. A time finally came when they were standing close and he could no longer contain himself.  He put his arms around her waist and gently pulled her to him. She did not resist and when he kissed her, she returned the kiss. They drew back and their eyes locked, dark blue fusing with gold. “I love you, Cyanna of the Rose.”

     She smiled softly. “And I love you, Gordon of the Dragon.”

     Overcome with joy, he laughed. “Then you will return with me and one day you will be my queen.”

     Cyanna grew alarmed at the prospect then sadness came to her expression. She lowered her eyes and turned her head away. “That cannot be my love, for any Po who leaves this forest will perish. We cannot exist outside the protection of Skagg Wood.”

     Gordon was stunned, but that was when he knew he would not be returning home, he would not lose her for any reason. Gordon would have been happy to remain here with her forever. Cyanna showed concern over such an idea.  “But what of your people? You are to become their king.”

     “My people do not want for a king. My brother is capable.”

     “You would give up a crown just to be with me?”

     “I would give up my very life to be with you, if only for a day.”

     Sadness returned to her eyes at his words. “I would be with you forever if it were possible but your sacrifice is too great. I cannot ask it of you.”

     “You didn’t ask it, I chose it of my own accord. I would hear no more of it—it’s what I want to do.”

     She appeared to accept his decision and grinning, she threw her arms around him. When she broke off the hug she grew solemn. “We cannot remain here among the rocks forever. When your leg is strong enough we need fare to the Veiled Grott.”

     “The Veiled Grott?”

     “Aye, for the Veiled Grott is the home of the Po. Our village is secreted there.”

     “But if it is veiled, hidden, I surely would not be welcomed by your people.”

     Cyanna laughed at that. “You would be surprised by how welcome we make humans in the Grott. Have no fear of that.”

     When night fell and they had finished sup, they spent the night in each other’s arms, knowing each other, sharing their deep love.

     Day after day, Gordon grew stronger, exercising his leg by walking farther each time. He no longer needed assistance from Cyanna in order to move about and they spent every night lost in each other’s love. When at last he felt completely recovered, he told her, “I am able to travel. How far is it to the Veiled Grott?”

     “Only a five-day, six if your leg begins to trouble you.”

     “Then we should away on the morrow. I am anxious to see this new home of ours.”

     Her only response was a sly smile—somewhat secretive, he thought.  Gordon spent another night tasting of her love and after breaking fast they packed their things and set out. Travel through the forest was easier when he followed in her steps. She seemed to be following a trail. Not a trail of any consequence, yet a hint of one. The terrain was cooperative and they covered a deal of ground every day even though they stopped early each afternoon to rest his leg and to spend time in each other’s arms. Cyanna’s estimate had been accurate and late on the fifth day they approached the entrance to a grott that he would never have found without her guidance. When they stepped into the grott the land gradually fell away before them and they were looking down on a sizeable village. Watching people move about in the village, Gordon was struck with a sudden realization. Many of those in the village were humans. He had just learned why so many people went into the forest never to return—but he couldn’t find it in himself to be concerned. It seemed a natural thing somehow. Cyanna smiled up at him and explained, “The medics we use to treat injuries have an enchanting effect on humans. Once we have enthralled them we keep them as slaves. You are my fifth, I now have more than anyone.” She took his hand and led him toward the village . . . and he followed without knowing what he did.