<center>Dragon Slayer
A Story of Snails, not Dragons</center>


Christopher stared at the summons again.

“Sir Christopher, the Dragon Slayer,

“The venerable Emperor William the Third, acting monarch of Cikinjeros, our great country, has ordered for you to travel to the town of Williamton to do your duty to your country by defeating the Evil Lord Mordax, who has been pillaging and killing those populating the surrounding areas, and who, we have reason to believe, has raised an army to rival that of the King’s.

“We wish you good fortune on your journey and hope you will use wisely our gift of a new sword, of perfect balance and weight, and fifteen- hundred- Safrees, a sum of money that, we are sure you will agree, should be more than sufficient to sustain you for the journey.

“The Table.”

It figured that because he had accidentally killed one dragon at the age of fifteen, the elusive “table” had given him the title of “Sir Christopher, the Dragon Slayer.”  Still, he could see that they still considered him as useless as ever.  He was given the job that had been given to every knight they wished to be rid of.  Lord Mordax was too strong to be defeated by anything less than a full-blown army, including cavalry and dracogry.  Still, the higher powers kept hemming and hawing and sending the knights who had enough of a reputation that it would look like they were trying, but not enough of a reputation that the knights were not expendable.

He looked over the letter at the town at the foot of the hill on which he was standing.  It was not a big town.  In fact, he had never believed that a hotel and two farms counted as a town, but there it was.  Williamton was a bit of a joke, really.  The king had meant for it to be the new capital city, as he did not like the rocky location of the current capital.  He had picked a place in a beautiful meadow with mountains on all sides to build his capital, but the building team sent to the mountain was attacked by Lord Mordax.  Sir Christopher shifted his gaze towards the mountains, and there it was on the horizon.

Lord Mordax’s tower definitely looked the part of the megalomaniac’s base of defenses.  It was tall and black, with many wicked looking spines protruding outward for decorations, and around the top were storm clouds that scarred the tower’s walls with lightning almost repeatedly.

Well, better get this over with.

It was almost night before Sir Christopher reached the tower, which was a lot more imposing when you were right in front of it.  The door was eight feet or so tall, and made of a wicked black metal with carvings of two oddly grotesque creatures - one like a dragon, the other like an eagle, neither looking quite right - locked in what appeared to be deadly battle.  The scaled tail of the dragon curved down and around in a hinged curl.  A door knocker.  Not knowing the proper way to confront a dark wizard at his own home, Sir Christopher grasped it and knocked it against the door twice.  He felt and heard the sound of metal hitting against metal reverberate through the stone floor of the doorstep and into the tower.

“ENTER,” a terrible voice, smooth and clear, came from behind the door in an impatient growl.

The tail of the eagle, which looked like that of a lion, protruded from the door about where a doorknob would be.  His hand trembling a little, Sir Christopher took the tail in his hand.

“Don’t worry, it’s well-oiled.”  The same voice said, with a touch of humor.

He pulled.  The door opened easily and swiftly, without a squeak from the hinges.  He slowly walked through.

Inside was a large, well-lit room with wood flooring, perfectly circular.  A bright fireplace crackled merrily at the back with a heavily-laden bookcase on either side.  In a comfortable-looking red leather chair facing the front of the room was Mordax himself.

He had a thin pointed face, accented by a salt- and- pepper goatee and wispy white hair.  He was wearing a red dressing gown and had a glass of something that looked like red wine in his right hand.  He could have been someone’s grandfather.  The only things that detracted from this appearance were the sheathed sword on a belt around his waist and the deep purple glow of his eyes.

“I suppose you wish to kill me,” he said, smiling.  “They have been sending knights here almost continually, as if they think that could work.  Do you think you will succeed?”  He said it conversationally, for all the world as if it was an everyday kind of question.

Christopher shook his head before he could stop himself, then quickly drew his sword, a two-and-a-half-foot long thing that he hated; it was too short to be of use in combat, at least for Christopher.

“At least you’re honest; all the others did was make some speech about how I was going to meet my end at their hands, the idiots.”  He drew his own.

The silver blade of the sword was a good five feet long, curved wickedly and split down the middle, giving the impression of a tongue of flame, like no other Christopher had seen.

“Like it?”  The man asked.  “It’s custom-made, a beautiful weapon.  I’ve used this for years.  Now, before we do battle to the death, could I learn your name?”

Christopher stared at him incredulously before finding his voice.  “Why?  Can’t we just get this over with?  I’m not the first, I’m certainly not the last; what’s the point?”

Mordax smiled.  “Fine, then, if that’s the way you want it.  I just like to know names, as should you.  Any knowledge you are able to glean from anyone helps give you a better chance at an upper hand.”

“Whatever,” Sir Christopher rolled his eyes.  Why did he have to be stuck fighting the nut job?  He brandished his tiny weapon and charged at the lone man standing casually in front of the cushy leather chair.

Seconds later, he raised the sword over his head and slashed out at the calm Mordax, who promptly dropped his sword, dodged, and slapped Christopher across the face.  The blow stung his cheek and his ego and sent him staggering back a few steps, while Mordax leapt at him.  Christopher waved his blade around wildly as the old man lashed out at him, hitting and kicking every spot Christopher left open.  Finally, Mordax rolled around him and jabbed into the back of the knee.  Christopher went down, hard.

“I was right,” Mordax said slowly as he stood over the fallen knight.  “Your stance is all wrong and you’re trying to move against the oncoming attacks instead of with them,” he was silent for a moment.  Christopher just stared at him, his body throbbing painfully; this man was weirder than he had thought.  Then Mordax posed a question, “What color are your eyes?”

“My what?”

“Your eyes.  What color are they?”

He sat up slowly, “green…” what was the point of asking this?

“Ah.  So I was correct again.  You are of the earth element.  But you are not set in your ways…yet.  There is still hope for you.  Stand up, and let’s try this again.”

“Eh…What?”

“Stand up and try to kill me again,” he kicked his sword that was on the floor and caught it in the air in one fluid motion.  “This time, though, instead of leaving yourself open with such wild motions, try this,” he said, holding the sword in front of him, his knees bent and his back slumped.  “That way, you are not keeping yourself open to attacks.  On top of that, if you are hit, you have to move fluidly with the blow.  If you try to move or brace yourself against it, it will hurt you more.  Let attacks push you away from them instead of letting them push into you.”

Mordax held out a hand as if to help up Christopher, but he ignored it.  “I can get up by myself, thanks.”

Mordax withdrew his hand, allowing Christopher to get up on his own.  “You don’t trust your enemies.  That’s good,” he looked at Christopher for a moment before dropping his sword on the floor again.  “Let’s try that again.  Try that stance I showed you.”

Christopher slashed at Mordax.  This was all too strange for him.  Mordax didn’t even blink, just ducked under the slash and slapped Christopher again.

“Wrong.  Try again.”

Blast, was there no way out of this?  Resisting the urge to rub his stinging cheek, Christopher grudgingly bent his knees and held the sword out in front of him.

Mordax walked around him, inspecting and critiquing his form.  “Curve your back more.  It will help you react more quickly.  Good…

“Keep yourself relaxed.  Even your sword arm must be slack.  Then you can move with attacks instead of against them.  Okay…

“Don’t lock your knees in the bent position.  If they get locked, you can’t move or adjust as quickly.  And then you’ll probably die.  Bob up and down a few times.  You feel that?  How your knees keep changing how they’re bent to make up for your new position?  That will help you in the long run.  Every time you feel your knees start to stiff up, just change your position a few times.  That’ll help.”

Christopher actually tried to follow the old man’s instructions, but when he did, he felt weak, as if anything could break through him.  He mentioned this to Mordax, who replied with a confusing, “Well, that means you’re getting there.”

After a good half- hour of having to stand in increasingly uncomfortable stances and fine-tuning them according to the instructions of the old man he was supposed to be killing, Christopher was finally pulled out of his stupor by Mordax’s familiarly intimidating voice, announcing, “Okay, that will do.”

“What?”  Christopher asked stupidly

“Your stance.  It should work nicely.  Now it’s time to test it out.”  He picked up his sword and stood in front of Christopher, who was afraid to move, as he didn’t think he’d ever be able to go back into this stance.

“And we fight,” with that, Mordax ran at Christopher and swung his sword recklessly with a barrage of slashes.  Christopher marveled at how easily he was able to block the blows just by shifting his position slightly without even feeling too much of a recoil as Mordax’s sword ricocheted of his own with numerous loud clangs.

Looking pleased with himself, Mordax dropped his sword, which landed on the ground with a clatter.  He faked a punch to Christopher’s head and when Christopher moved his sword up to block the blow, kicked him in his unprotected stomach before he could react.  It still hurt, but Christopher felt himself almost instinctually bend forward and slide backwards slightly with the force of the kick, absorbing most of the blow.  He used the forward motion to stab with his sword at Mordax’s chest, putting his whole body into the attack.

Mordax waved his hand and was gone.  A deep bell tolled once, reverberating through the circular room.  Mordax reappeared an inch from Christopher’s blade.  “It’s twelve-o-clock.  I go to bed at midnight, as should you.  Come back tomorrow.”

“Wait, what?”  Christopher asked, even as he felt an invisible force pull him to the heavy metal door, which opened to let him through, then closed behind him as he was dragged outside.  He fell over and just sat in front of the door for a time, staring at the odd dragon and hawk thing fighting on the metal door, dumbstruck.

After maybe five minutes, he rose, slowly walked back to the “town” and checked himself into the inn, still thoroughly confused.  He lay awake half the night with the advice the annoying dark wizard had given him tumbling around in his head.  The next day, right after small amount of sleep and a large breakfast, Christopher headed up the mountain to the tower.

When he knocked, the door swung open easily, showing him Mordax sitting in the same leather chair in the same room, his back to the door.  Christopher stepped in and a huge axe swung down from the ceiling.  He jumped out of the way of it just in time…right in the path of a boulder that rolled through the wall at him, as if the stone wall was made of water.  He rolled as quickly as he could and the stone just barely missed him before disappearing.

He stood there, his shoulders heaving.  “What’s the big idea?” he yelled.

“It’s a test in dodging and being able to think on the spot,” Mordax’s obnoxiously calm voice called from his seat.  “Did you have fun?”

“Hey now!” Christopher spat out savagely.  He stepped towards Mordax, sword in hand, and just barely dodged the dozen daggers that went flying across the room at him and embedded themselves in the wall behind him.

“Oh yeah, in case you didn’t realize; it’s not over yet.”

Christopher spent the next hour weaving slowly across the room, trying not do suffer a horrible death via the increasingly painful, intricate and creative traps Mordax had laid out for him.  Finally, though, he dodged the spears flying out of the floor, ducked under the torches dropping over his head and the two metal dragons swinging on chains, arcing around him, arriving at the other end.  Panting, he brandished his sword at the placid old man sitting in the chair with his back to him.

“Good show,” Mordax applauded him as he stood from his seat.  “Think you could dodge anything I can throw at you now?  Remember, life is practice for the important bits of life.  You’ve got to use what you learn in the long run to help you in the now,” he drew his own sword and waved his hand.  “There.  All the traps have been deactivated.  Want to put your new experiences to use?  Maybe you’ll actually manage to kill me this time.”

So they again fought.  Christopher now was able to block most of Mordax’s blows, thanks to the stance he had learned the night before, and those he could not block he dodged with ease, and those he could not dodge he at least was able to comfortably take and move with.  Still, once or twice he would have gotten a hit on Mordax if Mordax hadn’t blocked him with magic.  It made the fight feel somewhat pointless, a farce.

Then, Mordax stopped him.  “Let’s see how you do under a little more pressure, shall we?” he waved a hand again and smiled.  “I just reactivated the traps.  Should be fun.”

“Fun” was not the word.  “Strenuous” would have been closer.  “Hell” was right on the mark.  Christopher was already aching all over from the past ordeals, but having to fight Mordax while avoiding arrows, boiling oil and hammers was tortuous enough that a quarter of an hour later, when Mordax waved his hand again and warped back to his chair, Christopher might have kissed the ground.

Instead, he stood where he was.  “Uh, about yesterday?”

“Yes?” Mordax asked.

“What did you mean about my being ‘of the earth element’?”

“Ah, yes.  That,” he waved his arm again and Christopher felt himself being pulled towards Mordax.  He let it happen; he was too tired to fight back, anyway.

Once Christopher was beside Mordax, a wooden chair rose up underneath him.  He sat.  “Before I tell you this, I’ll need to know something from you.  Something I asked you before,” Mordax said, then stopped and looked at Christopher expectantly.

It took a minute for Christopher to understand what he wanted, but then he realized.  “My name is Christopher.”

Mordax smiled, “See, Christopher,” he began, “there are four basic elements that make up the world.  Fire, Water, Wind and Earth.  But you probably knew that.  You probably knew, too, that Fire encompasses, as it would seem, all fire; Water encompasses all water and ice; Wind encompasses wind, the sky, lightning, the clouds; and Earth encompasses the soil, sands, rocks, and plant life.  What you may not know is that people are…guided…by the elements.  Many experts believe that fate, emotion, physical build and personality are hinged upon the elements.  I don’t believe this.  I do, though, know that the way people fight is governed by the elements.  It all depends upon eye color.

“Yesterday I learned that you had green eyes.  That means that you are of the Earth element; you rely on force to fight.  If your eyes were brown, then you’d be set in your ways, unable to learn any forms of fighting that did not involve brute force, but yours were not,” he waved a hand and a mirror appeared before Christopher.  “What color are your eyes now?”

Christopher peered into the mirror.  “They’re… blue.”

“Yes.  That means you have learned and mastered the ways of the Water element.  You are able to move and dodge fluidly.  It is all about dexterity.  If you can move your body with both your own attacks and those of your enemies, then you have mastered the Water element.  It only took you two days, surprisingly.  Even more surprisingly, you are not set in your ways.  If you were, your eyes would be black.”

“What does that mean?” Christopher cut in, still staring at the eyes on his reflection.

“It means that you can continue on through the cycle.  The next element to master is the Wind element.  If you master that, then your eyes will be purple, like mine, unless you are set in your ways; then they would be gray.  Wind grants its fighters wisdom, the ability to use magic and learn everything that one needs to from their opponents; their actions, their mannerisms all hold untold knowledge that can be exploited in battle.  As you can see, I am not set in my ways, yet.  It is possible for me to learn the ways of the fire element, though that is…difficult…to say the least.

“Fire is the pinnacle of the elements.  You cannot learn the ways of Fire; it has to be triggered by an event in your life.  Very rarely does it happen, but once in a while, you will meet a warrior who has red eyes.  They have mastered all the other elements, but on top of that, they fight through their own passions.  Fire is to lose yourself in the heat of battle because you are fighting for what you believe in.  Fire is not to overcome your emotions, but to use them.”

The room was silent for a bit, as Christopher took in all this and stared at his reflection.  Finally, he broke the silence.  “So does that mean that tomorrow you will teach me to use magic?”

Mordax turned and looked at him.  “If that’s what you wish.  You can leave at any time.  Do not expect to master the Wind element as quickly as you did Water.  It took me decades.  Of course, it took me months to learn Water, so you are a fast learner.”

“Why?”

“Why are you such an abnormally fast learner?  Beats me.  Maybe you just…”

“No, why are you going to teach me?”

“Oh,” Mordax turned away and stared off into the fireplace.  “Because I have to impart my knowledge on someone.”

Then the bell tolled, Mordax hurried Christopher out of the tower and he walked back to the inn slowly through the night, trying to make sense of it all.

It took him about a week to learn magic.  It was not as hard as he had expected.  He just had to first find a motion that spoke to him, then channel the same power that he used physically outwards to objects other than himself.  After eight days of work, he was able to make himself warp as easily as Mordax had.  “You’re a natural!”  Mordax had crowed.

The learning from the movements of others part was more difficult and tedious.  It entailed their sitting invisible in the middle of the “town” while Christopher made assumptions about the people who passed, then learned from Mordax how accurate he had been.  Unfortunately, people did not often pass through the town; there was more than one day when they sat from morning to midnight with no passers- by, and Mordax would up and leave, just disappear.

One morning, though, ten days after he had magic down, Christopher looked up at the mirror in the process of washing his face and did a double-take.  His eyes were the same deep purple as Mordax’s.  He had mastered the Wind element.  Then a realization came to him.  Without even finishing washing his face, he ran out of the room, grabbed his sword and raced up to the tower.

Not even bothering to use the knocker, he pounded on the door with his fist; it made the same sound, though, and the door still swung open for him.  Mordax was not sitting in the chair, but instead standing, leaning calmly against it and facing Christopher.

“So it’s happened?” he asked.

“Yes,” Christopher answered.  He closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed.  “Mordax?”

“Do you want to spar?”

The question took him by surprise, and although he understood why Mordax had asked it, he nodded and unsheathed his sword.

They faced off and circled for a moment.  “Still not set in your ways, eh?”  Mordax asked as he thrusted his blade at Christopher.

He easily parried and returned the swing.  “Guess not.”

Then, in a whirlwind of fury, they both really fought.  Their swords bounced back and forth, slashed and parried again and again as magic barriers were summoned and banished and the two figures sidestepped, dodged, jumped away from each other.  The entire time, Mordax and Christopher spoke conversationally.

“You know the carving on my door?” Mordax asked.

“Yes.”

“The creatures on it are a dragon and a phoenix.  Dragons symbolize the old.  Old values, old treasures, old stories, old legends.  Phoenixes symbolize rebirth, the new.  New Values, Adventures to be had, stories that have yet to be told, legends that have not been made.”

“You and me?” Christopher asked.

“Me and anyone who I am able to pass down my knowledge to.  I preferred a knight, as they would have access to the government and would be able to put into motion changes for the better, but any human being with an open mind would do.  Do you know how difficult it is to find a knight with an open mind?  They have all been told how amazing they are so often that they don’t think they have room for improvement.”

“But I was different,” Christopher rolled away from Mordax’s blade and countered quickly, but to no avail.

“Yes.  You were different.  You knew your weaknesses.  You knew the reason that they sent you, to look like they were doing something,” there was a pause where the sonly sounds were the metallic clangs of combat, “do you know what Mordax means?”

“No.”

“It’s a species of snail. Anguispira mordax.  You would think that if they marked me as their enemy, they’d do some research into this symbolic name I gave myself.  They’d realize that I was just a slow old man who was behind the times.

“I am not a dark wizard.  I barely qualify as a wizard.  I am just a magic-using old fart who had a property disagreement with a corrupt government and was given the death penalty for it.  The other details written in your summons – the killing of workers, the vast army, the pillaging, the role as evil conqueror -” he laughed darkly as he waved his hand to magically block what would have been a blow to the head, “were fabricated.”

Christopher flicked a finger, as he always did to use magic, and caused a magical barrier to knock against Mordax’s legs.  He went down hard.  Christopher stood, a foot on each arm, so Mordax could not magic himself out of it, and pointed the sword at the man’s chest.  “I win.”

Mordax smiled up at him.  “Now kill me.”

“What?” Even though Christopher knew it would happen, the tone in Mordax’s voice, half dare, half invitation, struck him.

“If you complete the job given to you, then they will welcome you back with open arms.  With your formidable powers, you will rise in the ranks in no time.  Sir Christopher will be second-to-none in months, the general of the army.  And then, once you have reached that point, you will be able to do what I have not,” Mordax’s purple eyes stared into the equally purple eyes of the young knight.  Hope shone in those eyes as he whispered, “You can change this lousy monarchy for the better.  But first you have to finish this job, you have to kill me.”

Christopher knew that was coming.  He had known ever since he had woken up that morning.  But he could not do it.  “No,” He said.  “Run away.  I can say you’ve died, you don’t have to do this.”

“No,” Mordax said softly, “I don’t.”  But then he added firmly, “but you do.”

He stared up at Christopher.  “Don’t make this a waste,” and then before Christopher could stop himself, the sword was in the man’s chest.  Blood blossomed around Mordax and soaked into his red dressing gown.  The last thing he said before he went was, “Take my sword.  It’s a good one.  I had it…custom…made…”

Christopher left the tower crying, a burden on his heart, a new sword in his belt and a responsibility on his shoulders.

If anyone had seen the boy leave the tower, the first thing they would notice would be the striking red shade of his tearful eyes.