The Wyrm of Caltenburg

Morcant strode briskly down the streets of Caltenburg, ignoring the shouts. Merchants' stalls crowded the streets and town square. They showcased their wares and filled the air with a din that Morcant found insufferable. He was used to the peaceful forests of pine and jagged cliffs of bare rock that formed the mountain range.

He wore a warm gray traveling cloak that hung from his shoulders to his feet, concealing the longsword he carried. People in these parts didn't trust strangers—especially ones with a sword, although Morcant was loath to go without his. His hands, rough and scarred from a harsh life, were concealed under thick gloves.

He sidestepped a cart heavily laden with kohlrabi and cabbage and instantly was forced to leap backward as a mule trotted in front of him.

Sighing, Morcant pushed onward through the deep throngs of people crowding the town square. Finally, he stood before a two-story house made of pine logs and cob. Glass gleamed in the windows, proving the wealth of the people who dwelled there. Morcant knocked thrice on the door. A few moments later it was opened by a young maid.

“Who are you?” she asked crossly.

“I am Conrad, son of Darnoc,” Morcant lied. “I must speak with your master, Ivar. It is urgent.”

The maid frowned. “Master Ivar is extremely busy, so I bid you farewell, sir.” She began closing the door, but Morcant jammed his foot in the doorframe before she could. The maid stared up, frightened, into Morcant's face. His dark brown eyes glinted with a determined light.

“Danger is coming,” Morcant said forcefully. “If you wish to save your life, let me speak with your master. I shall not take long.” I hope, he added to himself. I would rather be roaming the endless wilderness alone than jammed into this mountain town among hundreds of people.

“L-let me announce you to him, s-sir,” the maid stuttered, fearful of the gruff, bearded man who demanded entrance.

Morcant nodded and removed his foot. The maid quickly shut the door and scurried off. A few moments later the door reopened and the maid said tentatively, “My master will see you. But he can only spare a few moments.”

“My thanks,” Morcant said, stepping inside. The ceiling was low, but the place was well-lit due to the lanterns and the sunlight streaming through the windows. They were in a small room, a staircase leading up to their left, a doorway to their right, and a closed door ahead of them.

“This way, sir,” the maid said, climbing nimbly up the stairs. Morcant followed, his boots clunking noisily on the wooded steps.

At the top was a hallway to their right with a single large window at either end. The hallway was lined with doors. The maid led him to the end of the hall, where she knocked softly at a door. The maid entered, Morcant behind her.

A man sat behind a desk, his back to a window. He was busy scribbling on a sheet of parchment with a quill pen. He looked up as they entered. Morcant could see the man was just past his prime, perhaps late forties or so. His brown hair was sprinkled with gray and white, testimony to his long years. His face was care-lined and wrinkled, but his blue eyes held a steely light.

As the maid exited, the man said, “Hurry, hurry, man, for I have a great amount of work set before me. The Summer Solstice Fest is soon and I, as the headman, have no time to be wasting, not a bit of it, when there is so much to do! Speak!”

For one so impatient, Morcant thought wryly, he uses a lot of words.

“There is a danger coming, sir,” Morcant said.

“Ah, good, good,” the headman said distractedly, his quill scratching loudly on the parchment.

“Danger!” Morcant said, slamming his palms down on the desk. Ivar's ink bottle jumped as the table jerked and a few drops flew through the air.

Ivar jumped too. He looked up in surprise at Morcant, as if just realizing he was there.

“There is danger coming for this town, Ivar,” Morcant said in a low voice. “Death. Will you spare me a moment of your time?”

“Go on, go on,” Ivar said, waving his hand. Morcant leaned back and crossed his arms.

“A beast, named Desecrater by some folks, is heading towards us,” he spoke quickly. “Desecrater is a wyrm, capable of doing great damage, given the chance.”

Ivar's face was blank for a minute. Then he burst out laughing, hard enough so that tears streaked down his cheeks. When the laughter finally subsided Ivar gasped between mirthful hiccups, “A worm! Oh, deary me, a worm—I'm frozen in fear! Whatever shall we do!” And once more he doubled over in hysterical laughter.

“Do you think I would joke of a matter of this import!” Morcant roared. Ivar's laughter halted.

“Surely you do not believe in such tales?” Ivar asked, shaking his head. Morcant planted his fists firmly on the desk.

“I have seen this beast with my own eyes,” he hissed. “He is much taller than I—he is at least eight feet tall, and his length I care not to estimate. His scales are green-brown and he is spiny and scaly. Desecrater is an ugly beast with an ugly heart. He will raze your town to the ground.”

Ivar rose to his feet. “I will not tolerate children's fairytales in my office! Get out! You have wasted enough time as is.”

“You do not believe me?” Morcant asked, aghast.

Ivar shook his head. “Only a fool would,” he hissed, then pointed at the door. “Out.”

“It shall be your death,” Morcant declared, striding out the door. He paused, one hand on the doorframe, and glanced over his shoulder. “Don't say I didn't warn you.”

Ivar looked unsettled, but he made a shooing motion with his hand.

Morcant strode angrily out of the house. The sun was drifting downwards, as slow as a bit of fluff moving atop a still pond.

These people don't need a savior, he thought, marching boldly through the streets. The crowds were thinning as people began going home and one by one the merchant and market stalls were closing.

They're too ignorant and self-entitled. They're too proud to listen to one whom they do not know. As he was exiting the town, a sad sight met Morcant's eyes. Two children, perhaps ten and twelve, were huddled together in an alleyway. Their faces were dirty and their clothes rags. The pair stared at him piteously.

“Here,” Morcant said, digging in his pocket for a few coins. He tossed them to the children. “Buy some bread for yourselves tomorrow.” The two looked at each other with looks akin to wonder. One of them smiled at Morcant. He smiled back, then continued, soon leaving the town of Caltenburg behind.

I can't leave them to destruction, Morcant thought, picturing the hungry children. Some of them are ignorant popinjays, yes, but not all. There are good souls. I must do something. But what? I am one man against a giant, legendary beast. But I must try. Perhaps it will be like my recompense. Memories of a battle long ago and a terrible failure whipped through his head, but he shoved the thoughts away with a shudder.

Morcant continued to ponder the issue as he made his way back to his temporary camp and before he drifted to sleep.

The next day Morcant rose early. He set off at a quick pace toward the place where he had last seen Desecrater. From there he would seek the wyrm's location, then determine how much time he had before the beast reached Caltenburg. He should at least have a week or two, but Morcant wanted to be absolutely sure. It took him two days to find the beast. It was curled up in the mouth of a cave at the base of a cliff in a long, narrow valley. Even from a far distance, Morcant could clearly see the monster due to its immense size.

The scales of the wyrm were sharp and jagged, colored a dead sort of green-yellow. A ragged line of uneven spines trailed down Desecrater's back. His head was arrow-shaped, with short, curved spines along his lower jaw and on a ridge above his eyes. One of his eyes, as Morcant had noticed earlier, was gone, the lid and skin around it savaged by countless scars—evidence of whoever had once tried to kill the beast by first blinding it. The other eye was closed as the beast slumbered, though Morcant knew it was a pale yellow, a terrible color that was sick and dead and cold yet full of ruthless fire.

Morcant felt a shiver run down his spine as he saw the path of destruction Desecrater had caused. A wandering trail of broken trees and dead shrubbery bounced around the valley. A cold fist clenched around his heart as he realized the beast would be at Caltenburg within days. He did not have weeks—he had days. Three, at best.

He turned had ran. He skidded down the mountain slope past large pines, his feet sliding and slipping on the dead pine needles underfoot. Finally, he arrived, breathless, at the bottom of the mountain. He glanced in the direction he knew Desecrater to be, though he couldn't see the wyrm.

Knowing running would tire him too quickly, Morcant set off at a brisk jog. The next two days were spent jogging and walking and occasionally, running, back towards Caltenburg. And all the while he knew the beast was behind him.

Morcant was sore and weary by the time he finally arrived in Caltenburg. The streets were just as busy as before, but Morcant was done being polite. These people's lives were at stake. He needed to talk to Ivar.

“Make way!” Morcant bellowed. “Make way!” He charged through the crowd and the people parted like oil in water. They watched him, some with curiosity, but most with open hostility.

He pounded at Ivar's door. The door opened, a head poked out, then, upon seeing Morcant, hastily withdrew. The door slammed shut.

“Let me in!” he shouted. “Lives depend upon it!” But it was no use. No one replied and no one opened the door. Morcant slumped against the side of the house, feeling defeated. The wyrm would most likely be there tomorrow. Tomorrow was the Summer Solstice Festival. There couldn't have been a worse time for the wyrm to attack. The city square would be packed with people, almost everyone living in or near Caltenburg. In one fell swoop, Desecrater could, well, desecrate them all.

Morcant tried to think of all he knew of wyrms, searching for weaknesses. While they were sluggish and slow in the cold, winter was far off and Morcant couldn't change the weather. Of course, the wyrm had one blind eye. That was a weakness, though Desecrater's remaining eye posed a problem. They hated water and couldn't swim. They were nearly impervious to fire and were attracted to it. Perhaps… an idea occuring to Morcant, he hurried off to make preparations.

The next day dawned bright and clear. Morcant had rented a room in Caltenburg's only tavern and inn, The Hungry Hawk. He awoke early and opened the window's shutters, relishing in the cold, morning mountain air.

Dressing quickly, Morcant buckled on his longsword but left his gray cloak behind. He wore a white tunic and black leather breeches.

After leaving The Hungry Hawk, Morcant hurried towards the center square. People were already coming out, albeit slowly and sleepily.

Preparations for the festival had been done the previous day. Long ropes covered with sweet-smelling flowers crisscrossed over the square. A temporary wood stage was set up to one side—upon it, Ivar would give a speech and entertainments would be performed. Around the outside of the square small stalls were already opening, some selling their usual ware, but most selling snacks and treats. Morcant bought a golden donut and munched on it while he strode out of town.

After a twenty-minute walk, Morcant crested a sharp rise and stared down at the valley stretched out below him and the town. In it, he could see Desecrater making his way towards the town. It wasn't a direct path and Morcant realized the wyrm did not yet know of Caltenburg. But the wyrm was heading in its general direction and Morcant had no doubts it would find the mountain town. He estimated another few hours before it arrived.

He turned and hasted back towards Caltenburg to await the Desecrater. By the time he returned, nearly an hour later, the square was filling up. Ivar exited his house and made his way towards the stage. He mounted the steps, waited a minute, then shouted, “People of Caltenburg!” A responding roar of excitement echoed from hundreds of throats.

“Today we celebrate the Summer Solstice, a day our ancestors have celebrated for generations upon…”

Morcant scrambled up onto a two-story house built of stone with a flat roof. He was relieved his preparations had not been disturbed. A carefully arranged pile of logs and branches sat in the center of the roof. Moldy hay was stuffed throughout it. The entire thing was drenched with oil. A pile of torches was nearby, unlit but ready. He had chosen this place specifically. It was one of the only buildings built entirely of stone. He did not like being so far into the town, nor near so many people, but there were no stone buildings closer to the edge of town. He had no choice.

He settled back and waited.

Below, Ivar had finished his speech and a group of traveling entertainers had taken control of the stage. They were actors, staging a play Morcant had seen once: Timmod and the Dragon. Two men were dressed up as the dragon, and, despite the gravity of the actors, many in the crowd were laughing as they stumbled across the stage, trying to be the fierce, battle-hungry beast and failing miserably.

Morcant chuckled. He almost missed Desecrater's arrival, so engrossed was he in the comical play. Then he heard a noise. Trees cracking and falling. He stood on the flat roof and peered out, his heart pounding in his chest. Sure enough, the trees were swaying and bending as they were plowed over by the mammoth beast. He glanced back at the square; no one had yet heard it.

Morcant quickly lit one of the torches, holding it ready as he awaited the beast's approach. He swallowed hard. A few minutes passed then all slowly fell silent in the square. Murmurs of fear swept through the crowd as they began to hear the wyrm slithering across the ground, heading for Caltenburg. Then the beast crashed into the first of the buildings. Screams rent the air as Desecrater let out a throaty roar that reverberated through the town.

Morcant hurled the torch onto the wood. Fire flared up immediately, licking hungrily towards the heavens. It was not long before the flickering flames caught Desecrater's attention. He roared again and charged towards the fire and Morcant, the fronts of buildings caving in under his considerable bulk as he shoved his way through the streets.

“Wyrm! Worm!” Morcant bellowed, drawing his sword and holding it aloft above his head. It gleamed red like blood in the firelight. I cannot fail, not like last time, he thought. Desecrater roared with fury and charged towards Morcant, his scaly body sliding back and forth rigidly in the town. It was difficult for him to move. The wyrm halted in front of the stone building and lifted his head. Screams intensified and those in the square started battling one another, each trying to be the first to escape. As Desecrater's head became level with the top of the building, Morcant let out a fierce warcry and vaulted off the building.

Morcant came level with Desecrater's immense yellow eye that was full of animal rage and hunger. The eye was as tall as Morcant was. Gripping the hilt of his longsword in both hands, he raised the blade above his head and drove it into the wyrm's eye. The blade slid, slicing through the eye as gravity dragged them down.

Desecrater shrieked, a terrible sound of unchecked rage, and, above all, pain and fear. The beast shook his head, dislodging the sword. Morcant flew one way, his sword another.

The great beast blinded, Desecrater slammed against the buildings around him, blood gushing from his eye.

Morcant staggered to his feet, his own face bloodied by the violent fall. He stumbled over to where his sword had landed and grasped the handle. The blade was nicked and dulled in some areas. He lurched towards the flailing beast, hoping madly he would not get crushed. Fate was kind, though, and he approached the wyrm safely. Reaching it, Morcant plunged his blade into Desecrater's serpentine body. Again and again, he stabbed, before finally, Desecrater collapsed, taking down a house with it and sending up shards of wood and clouds of dust. The wyrm convulsed once, then was still.

All was silent. Then a resounding cheer broke from the crowds. They could not see who had slain the beast, but it was clear it was dead.

Ivar hurried back onto the stage.

“See, good citizens,” he shouted. “I knew this beast was coming! I made preparations so that he might be slain!” The cheers grew.

Morcant scowled. Of course Ivar would take credit. But it did not matter. Caltenburg was saved. He jerked his blade from Desecrater's body, wiped it clean, and left the town.

He felt an enormous weight lift off his shoulders and a wave of relief course through his body. The wyrm was dead. He had succeeded. Perhaps it was his reparation.