| SORCEROUS SIGNALS |
| Written by Morgan Bloodaxe / Artwork by Frank Harper |
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| The Black Dragon |
The Black Dragon Night-Scale has struck at Farhold,
killing and burning, and pillaging gold.
Ravening cattle and sheep in the fold.
All horror the sound of the screaming!
Darker than Ebon, silver of claw,
a bat-winged destroyer, plague upon all:
The Black Dragon Night-Scale, with fire in his maw.
The sound of his passage is weeping.
Where the land has been ravaged, for leagues all around,
the houses lie empty, or burnt to the ground,
and no human lives, whom the dragon has found.
And no man can hide from his seeking.
From the Black Dragon's fury no man may be saved.
He makes warrior's wives widows, then orphans their babes,
and shows no tender mercies to motherless waifs:
All horror the sound of his feeding.
Now, in the tower at Farhold, he lairs with his treasure
of diamonds, and rubies, and gold beyond measure.
The wealth of ten kingdoms, the Dragon's sole pleasure.
Though Death is his reason for being.
If an army be raised, 'twould but surely be slain
by fire, by claw, or bright silver fang.
Or the malevolent eyes that turn courage to pain,
and the strongest of warriors to weaklings.
So the King and His Council proclaim their Accord:
"Come, Warriors and Wizards, and earn your reward!
Who conquers the Dragon may keep all his hoard!
Enough gold for ten lifetimes a-spending!"
So the Wizards and Warriors, by twos and by threes,
come, wrapped in their Powers and daring of deed,
to challenge the Dragon and guarant their fee.
And the Black Dragon Night-Scale is waiting.
In the ruins of Farhold they challenge and strive,
for the one binding Spell, or the thrust through the eye.
And the Black Dragon Night-Scale quite kills them by fives,
and makes hearty sport of their reaving.
'Til, through the great broken gates, all blackened by fire,
with no dark hooded Powers, no warrior's attire,
with no shield and no sword, just a long-staff of briar,
a young man would seem to be straying...
The Black Dragon Night-Scale, still mumbling the bones
of a previous Hero who should have stayed home,
watches and waits with the patience of stone:
How simple the next of his slaying!
As soft footsteps approach him, he widens his eyes,
reptilian, ageless, evil, and wise,
then pauses a moment, as if in surprise,
that a frail Child of Man might be speaking.
"'Tis said in the legends of Dragons of old
they're true to their word, love knowledge and gold.
They're easily bored—vain, cunning, and cold,
and the bargains they make are for keeping."
"Like a fool, or a poet, I care not for your hoard.
I've no magic powers, and carry no sword.
But I'll wager my life on my wits and your Word—
if the Black Dragon's Word is worth speaking!"
(Stand fast at the wild raging red rush of flame
that lights up the sky, and burns in your brain!
Stand fast at the cunning that whispers your Name!
And hold steady thy fearful heart's beating!)
"For a boon I will show you what no Man has seen,
the having of which no Dragon has dreamed.
Something both great and small, or perhaps not at all—
of which mine is the choice of its Being."
Comes sinister laughter, dry as dead rage:
"About you, Man-child, there's no smell of the Mage.
If your wit can surpass Me, then Riddle away—
and I'll grant you the boon of your seeking."
One hand, tightly closed, the man draws from his vest,
holds out to the Dragon, the proof of his test.
One handful no more than his life or his death—
or, mayhap, the Black Dragon's defeating.
"Then reckon the thing I now hold in my hand:
It's never been seen by Dragon or Man.
It may be seen only once—then never again.
The Riddle is: What am I holding?"
Pensive, the Black Dragon mused with disdain:
"There's nothing can be, that is as you claim.
For Eons uncounted, and Ages unnamed,
all I've dreamed has been Mine for the taking!"
"And under all of the Earth, and over the Skies
there's nothing that hasn't been seen by My eyes.
And thereof, perhaps, is your Riddle comprised!
Have I seen through your simple deceiving?"
"Nothing that's great, and Nothing that's small.
Nothing that has any Being at all!
Nothing unseen, nor ere seen again!
For you, foolish Man, have naught in your hand!
And the end of your Riddle is...'Nothing!'"
The silence that stretches, stretches away, l
ost in the heat of The Black Dragon's gaze.
Now the tastiest Riddle in many a day
may be spice for a tastier feeding...
But the young man smiles gently, steady and calm.
He opens his hand, and there on the palm
lies a single small nut—a traveler's alm.
And he says, "See now what I'm doing!"
Quickly he cracks it, and eats of the meat.
"Now, Dragon," he says "the Riddle's complete.
Mine was the choosing, and yours the defeat.
And the boon that I seek is your leaving!"
"Do no further harm, 'ere departing these lands,
and return not again in the memory of Man.
Of your treasure, take all, as your pleasure commands—
for your gold was no part of our dealing."
Now the Black Dragon's anger surpasses disguise,
and he rends up the floor in his rage and surprise,
then transfixes the man with his infinite eyes:
O'er the young man a glamour is stealing...
When the glamour, at length, is dispelled from his mind, t
he gems heaped at his feet are easy to find.
A traveler's alm of a—different—kind:
Enough wealth for ten lifetimes a-spending!
'Tis said in the legends of Dragons of old
they're true to their word, love knowledge and gold.
They're easily bored—vain, cunning, and cold,
and the bargains they make are for keeping!
killing and burning, and pillaging gold.
Ravening cattle and sheep in the fold.
All horror the sound of the screaming!
Darker than Ebon, silver of claw,
a bat-winged destroyer, plague upon all:
The Black Dragon Night-Scale, with fire in his maw.
The sound of his passage is weeping.
Where the land has been ravaged, for leagues all around,
the houses lie empty, or burnt to the ground,
and no human lives, whom the dragon has found.
And no man can hide from his seeking.
From the Black Dragon's fury no man may be saved.
He makes warrior's wives widows, then orphans their babes,
and shows no tender mercies to motherless waifs:
All horror the sound of his feeding.
Now, in the tower at Farhold, he lairs with his treasure
of diamonds, and rubies, and gold beyond measure.
The wealth of ten kingdoms, the Dragon's sole pleasure.
Though Death is his reason for being.
If an army be raised, 'twould but surely be slain
by fire, by claw, or bright silver fang.
Or the malevolent eyes that turn courage to pain,
and the strongest of warriors to weaklings.
So the King and His Council proclaim their Accord:
"Come, Warriors and Wizards, and earn your reward!
Who conquers the Dragon may keep all his hoard!
Enough gold for ten lifetimes a-spending!"
So the Wizards and Warriors, by twos and by threes,
come, wrapped in their Powers and daring of deed,
to challenge the Dragon and guarant their fee.
And the Black Dragon Night-Scale is waiting.
In the ruins of Farhold they challenge and strive,
for the one binding Spell, or the thrust through the eye.
And the Black Dragon Night-Scale quite kills them by fives,
and makes hearty sport of their reaving.
'Til, through the great broken gates, all blackened by fire,
with no dark hooded Powers, no warrior's attire,
with no shield and no sword, just a long-staff of briar,
a young man would seem to be straying...
The Black Dragon Night-Scale, still mumbling the bones
of a previous Hero who should have stayed home,
watches and waits with the patience of stone:
How simple the next of his slaying!
As soft footsteps approach him, he widens his eyes,
reptilian, ageless, evil, and wise,
then pauses a moment, as if in surprise,
that a frail Child of Man might be speaking.
"'Tis said in the legends of Dragons of old
they're true to their word, love knowledge and gold.
They're easily bored—vain, cunning, and cold,
and the bargains they make are for keeping."
"Like a fool, or a poet, I care not for your hoard.
I've no magic powers, and carry no sword.
But I'll wager my life on my wits and your Word—
if the Black Dragon's Word is worth speaking!"
(Stand fast at the wild raging red rush of flame
that lights up the sky, and burns in your brain!
Stand fast at the cunning that whispers your Name!
And hold steady thy fearful heart's beating!)
"For a boon I will show you what no Man has seen,
the having of which no Dragon has dreamed.
Something both great and small, or perhaps not at all—
of which mine is the choice of its Being."
Comes sinister laughter, dry as dead rage:
"About you, Man-child, there's no smell of the Mage.
If your wit can surpass Me, then Riddle away—
and I'll grant you the boon of your seeking."
One hand, tightly closed, the man draws from his vest,
holds out to the Dragon, the proof of his test.
One handful no more than his life or his death—
or, mayhap, the Black Dragon's defeating.
"Then reckon the thing I now hold in my hand:
It's never been seen by Dragon or Man.
It may be seen only once—then never again.
The Riddle is: What am I holding?"
Pensive, the Black Dragon mused with disdain:
"There's nothing can be, that is as you claim.
For Eons uncounted, and Ages unnamed,
all I've dreamed has been Mine for the taking!"
"And under all of the Earth, and over the Skies
there's nothing that hasn't been seen by My eyes.
And thereof, perhaps, is your Riddle comprised!
Have I seen through your simple deceiving?"
"Nothing that's great, and Nothing that's small.
Nothing that has any Being at all!
Nothing unseen, nor ere seen again!
For you, foolish Man, have naught in your hand!
And the end of your Riddle is...'Nothing!'"
The silence that stretches, stretches away, l
ost in the heat of The Black Dragon's gaze.
Now the tastiest Riddle in many a day
may be spice for a tastier feeding...
But the young man smiles gently, steady and calm.
He opens his hand, and there on the palm
lies a single small nut—a traveler's alm.
And he says, "See now what I'm doing!"
Quickly he cracks it, and eats of the meat.
"Now, Dragon," he says "the Riddle's complete.
Mine was the choosing, and yours the defeat.
And the boon that I seek is your leaving!"
"Do no further harm, 'ere departing these lands,
and return not again in the memory of Man.
Of your treasure, take all, as your pleasure commands—
for your gold was no part of our dealing."
Now the Black Dragon's anger surpasses disguise,
and he rends up the floor in his rage and surprise,
then transfixes the man with his infinite eyes:
O'er the young man a glamour is stealing...
When the glamour, at length, is dispelled from his mind, t
he gems heaped at his feet are easy to find.
A traveler's alm of a—different—kind:
Enough wealth for ten lifetimes a-spending!
'Tis said in the legends of Dragons of old
they're true to their word, love knowledge and gold.
They're easily bored—vain, cunning, and cold,
and the bargains they make are for keeping!
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