Disclaimer: Heroically not mine.
A/N: This was requested by Chris MacTaggart (nee Christa Winters) back in January as part of my New Year fic giveaway. Unfortunately, I am very, very late in fulfilling her request. The saying goes 'life is what happens while you're busy making plans', I'd edit that for fandom and say 'life is what happens while you're trying to write fanfic'. And my life? Pretty crazy lately. Still, it may have taken eight months, but it's finally done. Hope it's what you wanted, Christa.
The Prince and the Monster
© Scribbler, January/August 2011.
'True heroism is remarkably sober, very undramatic. It is not the urge to surpass all others at whatever cost, but the urge to serve others at whatever cost.' – Arthur Ashe.
They called him the Shining Prince. As nicknames went, it wasn't the worst. He wore shining armour, lived in a shining castle and buffed the shining sword that sat on his hip in its shining, jewel-encrusted scabbard. His horse wore a shining bridle to match his shining spurs, his men had shining uniforms and his reputation was shinier than the polished silver in which his maids served him tea every morning.
Gradually, his reputation as a hero spread.
They called him the monster. As names went, it was pretty descriptive. He was a neither man nor beast, a hybrid of the worst both had to offer. He walked upright but couldn't hold a knife and fork with his claws. He knew poetry and fine music, but his voice was a snarl and he shredded every instrument he touched. He was a master horseman, but horses shrieked and ran when he came near. Animals cowered at his scent or hid from his shadow in the sky. At first he tried to make people understand, but they ran before he got out even one growly syllable. They wouldn't listen; they were too frightened of his appearance.
Gradually, his reputation as a monster spread.
He rode through his kingdom – his father's, really, but the old man never did much anymore. He was past his prime. The people loved and trusted their shining young prince to keep them safe from real threats, like dragons, trolls, ogres and other monsters.
He repaid them by honing his skills, showing them off at every opportunity and refusing to follow in his father's footsteps. He would never become a has-been. His sword was a warrior's blade, not a ceremonial one. He practised his dragon-fighting techniques and studied the ways of monsters so he knew best how to slay them. He didn't grow fat on his people's tributes. He went over trade agreements with neighbouring kingdoms. He made plans to expand their lands. He even led the charge himself when the kingdoms whose lands they were expanding into got a little difficult. Men followed him into battle willingly. They knew he knew what was best for them. Off the battlefield, he held his own miniature court to hear his people's problems and did his best to solve them – and if he wasn't always successful, well, nobody held it against the shining prince.
While his father languished, fading into old age and hiding his thinning hair under more and more elaborate crowns, the prince took an interest in running the kingdom and made plans for it to prosper like never before.
He flew over towns and countryside. People feared him and the threat he posed. They threw stones when they were brave enough. He could have plucked them up and dropped them to smash on the round. Instead, he sank into despair that yawned more than the chasm on the far side of his old kingdom. The chasm kept them separate from the arid region where desert princes competed for territory and desert princesses were sold to husbands like camels. He had never tried to expand in that direction. The lush green kingdoms to the south were far more attractive.
He had been offered desert princesses when he was still man enough to take a wife. He had been offered brides from more lands than he could name. They all wanted to marry the shining prince. He had turned them all down. He was put off by the greed in their fathers' eyes when they saw his palace, and especially when the princesses themselves sank into plush pillows like they never intended to move again. He hadn't wanted a wife. If ever he did marry, he needed someone who could take care of herself. He was busy becoming a hero his people could adore. He needed someone who wouldn't demand he entertain her all the time while he was busy with other things.
Now all women ran from him. All his plans were dust.
The envoy was tiny, composed of one skinny man with a scroll and a horse that looked like it would leave him without a second thought if he died and fell out of the saddle.
He wobbled a bit before he fell. That was the only warning that he was about to hit the floor. The prince caught him, aware his father was still talking in the background about 'good relations' with the Kingdom of Tenebrae and not wanting to 'disabuse Lord Tirac of the kindliness he has shown thus far'. He always talked like that. He always wanted treaties and agreements. He was never willing to fight for what he wanted – for what was good for the kingdom. He really was a pathetic ruler. He had no ambition. He should just step down already.
"Get doctors!" the prince ordered. "Quickly!"
Servants scuttled to do his bidding.
"There's … nothing they can d-do," the man wheezed. "I've lived too long … already. I p-paid my due. I deserve a rest … n-now."
"Talk like a man," the prince snapped. "Don't be so defeatist. You'll be fine."
"If I live, I have to go back." The envoy grasped his arm hard. Nobody ever touched the prince like that. The last to try had lost his arm in battle. The prince nearly shook him off, but people were watching. The envoy's voice was stronger, as if he was experiencing one last burst of energy. "I'm his bondsman. He owns me, but just my body. He doesn't own my soul. I didn't give that up, at least. All my years in servitude, he said, but he never got my soul. He collects them, you know. Puts them in a prison with stolen hopes and dreams until they rot and turn black. He collects tools; he likes things he finds useful. He likes to smash them and remake them, but he makes them twisted the second time around. He's sick. Nobody can stand against that. You just have to hang on to your humanity as best you can. Compared to that, death is a reprieve."
The prince didn't understand a word, but he understood the envoy's death rattle. The expression in his eyes when he looked up at the prince was one of relief. He had worked for the Lord of Tenebrae for decades and knew its ruler well.
"I'm free," he murmured. "I'm finally … free …" And then he died.
Unfortunately, the prince didn't understand half so well. If he had, he might have dirtied his armour and dulled his sword so it didn't shine so bright, or so invitingly.
Tirac reclined with the ease of someone who knew he was the most powerful one in the room and didn't need to prove it.
"The Eye of Cresta," he said. "The Kingdom of Selas is making it their tribute this time. Go and get it."
"Yes, master." The words were a growl of a different kind.
Tirac never smiled; he smirked with so much arrogance it made the air turn thick with resentment. It was like breathing soup. Not that Tirac noticed. He just flicked a hand and sent out his newest servant to do his bidding: collecting a magic spell here, tracking down a rare element there, fetching and carrying so many dark artefacts it was a wonder there were any more of the vile things left in the world. Each one pulsed with evil power.
Tirac's tower blurred the vision of anyone who could see the magical spectrum. It was a hub of dark power, which only grew worse when you had to land on the balcony, go inside and kneel in front of the throne because your only family had sold you out to keep his own skin safe.
Tirac was a bully and a scaremonger. Unfortunately, he also had the muscle to back it up. The prince finally learned about the funds taken from the royal treasury, which his father had used to pay for the Lord of Tenebrae's 'protection' for decades. Rumour said Tirac did the same to most kingdoms, using their tributes to finance a grand scheme nobody knew much about. Everybody agreed he was up to no good – a bigger No Good than his usual kind.
Tirac loved power and hated all that was good and pure in the world. He enjoyed smashing things that shone with the light of goodness. He hated innocence. His dungeons were the stars of abominable stories. The prince resolved to raise an army from the oppressed kingdoms, make a campaign against Tenebrae and overthrow its ruler once and for all. Tenebrae was a dark land, but taking it would cement his reputation for good. His father would have to step down as king then.
He was going to be a real hero, once and for all.
Tirac was a bully and a scaremonger. He didn't need to crack a whip to make his underlings understand they belonged to him. The one-time prince cursed the day he had first heard the name 'Tenebrae'. Tirac wasn't undefeatable, but he was damn close. He could beat his enemies without thought, or even action. The prince had forgotten one important fact: people were cowardly when they were frightened. Their survival instinct made them forget things like honour or loyalty.
He'd had plans for great armies, valiant battles and a final routing of evil to the cheers of grateful peasants. What he got was arrested by his own palace guards, declared a traitor by his father and given to Tirac as part of the tribute.
Tirac had accepted with that terrible smirk and tarnished the Shining Prince once and for all.
"Father, you can't do this! I'm your son!"
"You're a bloody fool, is what you are, and now you're a criminal to boot."
"How am I a fool for wanting to free this kingdom from tyranny? You certainly aren't going to do it. You're too busy rolling over and showing your belly for Tirac."
"Do you understand how delicate the balance with Tenebrae is? You've threatened that, without a second thought about the damage you're –"
"I understand you're being a weakling. It doesn't have to be this way. Be a man. Be a king!Tirac's army is non-existent."
"He has other methods of fighting than swords and shields, boy."
"Stand up to Tirac!"
"I did, once."
"Then you should –"
"That's how I lost your mother."
"What? No. You're lying. You said she died in a hunting accident."
"You think I don't care about our people, boy. Just because I don't run around waving a glorified knife, picking fights and shouting about lofty ideals doesn't mean I'm not protecting them. Tirac may be foul, but better to pacify a sleeping dragon by adding to its hoard than poke it with a stick and get burned to a cinder. You've threatened the peace of this kingdom for the last time. Tirac will forgive what you've tried to do if you become his servant."
"Father! Don't you walk away from me, old man! Come back and –"
"Take him away. From now on, I have no son."
"Father! Father!"
The Eye of Cresta glowed hot in his claws. It stared balefully up through one flat, slitted pupil.
"A crystalline dragon's eye?" He stared at the King of Selas, dumbfounded. Did the man not realise how rare it was to find such a perfectly preserved item?
Dragons' eyes were a highly sought rarity. Most parts of a dragon fetched a high price from magicians and healers, but the eyes were most precious. The older a dragon, then more it saw, and the more magic became infused in its eyes. The oldest, most travelled dragons were also the toughest. They were hardest to kill, but their eyes were prizes hunters would die for. Added to that, the process of crystallising the jelly-like eyes before they had a chance to decompose, or for their magic to leak out, was delicate and difficult. Getting everything right could be a once-in-a-lifetime thing.
And Selas was just giving this one to Tirac. The power in that evil warlord's hands was mind-boggling. What would Tirac do with it? What wouldn't he do?
"You don't have to –" the former prince said, but the king cut him off.
"What you peddle as mercy will get me killed, monster, and my people clapped in chains to work in Tirac's mines. I'm not falling for your tricks. I've heard how Tirac likes to test people. I'm loyal. Just take the eye and go."
The words stung. He did turn to go. His wings brushed against the low stone ceiling. The king had led him underground, to a heavily guarded chamber where no would-be thieves could try their luck at defying Tirac the way one foolish prince once had. Sometimes people needed to be saved from themselves, or so he had heard.
An anguished bleat made him stop. It sounded a little like a kid goat crying for its mother, but rougher, as if the kid's throat had been scraped with sandpaper first. The noise came from the next chamber. It was small and dark, fenced off with bars of iron. Iron was best for keeping magical creatures restrained. It sapped their strength, in some cases making them virtually powerless. A small bundle huddled at the back.
"What is that?" he asked.
"Dragon-kin."
"What?"
"The beast," the king gestured to the Eye of Cresta, "had a brood."
He looked at the Eye and then at the bundle. A brood implied several offspring. "There's only one in there."
"Only one survived."
"What do you intend to do with it now?"
"Wait for it to grow and then harvest it."
He wanted to echo 'harvest?' but that would have been foolish. He knew what the king meant. It chilled him, though he couldn't say why. Once upon a time he had trained in the ways of killing dragons. He was an expert, even now. He knew all the vulnerable points on the different breeds. He could defeat them with sword, longbow, spear, net, bullwhip and even, in the right circumstances, his bare hands.
He didn't have hands anymore. He had claws. He knew instinctively that one slash would cut the throat of the little thing in the cell.
"Lord Tirac could use a … a dragon-kin." The words felt like someone else had placed them in his mouth. He hoped his look of shock wasn't too obvious. Probably not – he looked savage no matter what he did.
The combination of his appearance and Tirac's name made the transaction simple. In no time at all, arrangements were made for the dragon-kin to return to Tenebrae with its dead mother's eyeball. The King of Selas thought it was another test, so he handed the baby dragon over without complaint.
If Tirac was startled to see the creature, he didn't show it. The dragon-kin was quiet. Tirac's mere presence stifled its cries. Tirac listened to the half-baked idea of raising it so that one day its organs would be ripe for harvesting.
"You've grown cold, Shining Prince," Tirac said without a hint of a chuckle, but a full-throated laugh that went straight to the brain and shot down the spinal cord like lightning. "Talking about how and when to kill an infant?"
"A young dragon, that's all … sir." As ever, the titles came grudgingly. "I trained as a dragon slayer … master."
"You will take responsibility for it." Tirac took the Eye of Cresta, absently stroking the velvet pouch he always carried as he did so. The pouch rippled as though it held things half-alive, half-dead. "Maybe it will be useful someday. Just don't get too attached."
He stood tall in his stirrups, the red plume on his helmet fluttering in the breeze. "What's that land over there?"
The scribe was summoned. A small man jogged out of the convoy, clutching maps and a scroll covered in flowing calligraphy. "That's, um, that's Regnum Equus Mimimus, sire."
"Excuse me?"
"Kingdom of the Small Horses." The scribe consulted his scroll. "Although by all accounts, they have no monarchy."
"Presumably a strong mounted army to provoke such a name."
"No army at all, sire. They claim to be a classless, pacifist, non-confrontational society. The horses are the citizens. According to our records, no humans have lived there for hundreds of years."
He shook his head, plume acting like a double helix behind him. "These outer lands are the strangest of places. How many days will it take us to get home?"
"At least three, sire, if we take the mountain passes. That runs rather close to Tenebrae though. It would take five across open country."
He considered their options. He had a large convoy. He was escorting a princess, her chaperone, her entourage, her chaperone's entourage, and the entourage carrying the gold meant to sway him into marrying her. When they got home he would have to actually talk to the vapid girl. On the road, he could ride ahead in the name of chivalry.
"What are a few extra days?"
He called the dragon-kin Spike in an effort to make it sound threatening. It was male and had sharp teeth, but it was also small and an unfortunate shade of purple. When it looked at him, it looked adoringly, as though he had rescued it from some unspeakable evil. Even the green ridges down Spike's spine were soft. If he pressed them with the flat of his palm, they squashed like sponge cake and made Spike giggle. It was a disturbing sound. He had always thought of dragons as terrible fire-breathing beasts.
Even more disturbing was when Spike learned to talk.
"Bowl," he said proudly, pointing to his feeding dish.
"What?"
"Bowl." Spike patted his stomach and licked his chops. "Hungry. Food now?"
"Uh … yes. I suppose so."
Spike wouldn't eat raw meat. He shrank away from the bowl the first time it was set in front of him. He did the same when given fish guts and raw eggs. He sniffed delicately at a few fronds of grass that had managed to grow through the floor slabs. Apparently fangs didn't stop him from being vegetarian.
Spike learned quickly, following him around his daily duties and listening to everything he said. He thought the habit would tire eventually, but it never did. Spike stored up words, ran them together into sentences in his head and then released them. He loved to talk. He talked about anything and everything, like a child narrating the day. His grammar was terrible, his observations banal, but the enthusiasm he showed was beyond anything this hostile land deserved.
He wanted to kick Spike away whenever he came close. Spike was a dragon. Dragons weren't small or cute. They weren't like pets or children. How dare Spike look at him that way! He was disgusted with him – no, it! – and also with himself for never delivering a single kick.
One day Spike squinted at him thoughtfully. "Not master."
"What?"
"Not master. You call Tirac 'master'." A shiver made every one of Spike's green ridges quiver. He was terrified of Tirac. "You not master."
He thought he understood. Spike wanted something to call him other than 'master', probably to avoid confusion, since that was what he called Tirac. At one time he would have settled for 'majesty' or 'your grace'. Not anymore. "Sir," he said after a moment.
Spike shook his head. "Spike." His delicate claws splayed over a tiny, easily crushed chest. Then they waved in the direction of the upper chambers. "Tirac. You?"
He blinked. "Monster," he said eventually.
Spike frowned. "No."
"Fiend. Beast. Devil." His tail lashed from side to side. He stopped it by holding it down. He had never gotten used to the way it moved, seemingly independent of the rest of him. "Creature. Brute. Thing. Pick one."
Spike's frown deepened. "Not monster. Tirac monster. You …" The right word stayed elusive for a moment. Understandable, since it wasn't one used often around this place. "Friend."
He remembered a story from his childhood, about a knight who made a pact with a dragon to leave his kingdom alone instead of killing it. The story hadn't been his favourite, since there was little fighting, even though the dragon owned a poisonous tail that could kill with a single swipe. Plus, there had been lots of romance when the dragon gave back the soppy princess. He hadn't thought about it in years, but now it came back to him. He remembered in a sudden flash what the dragon had been called.
"Call me Scorpan from now on."
He couldn't say he loved horses, but he loved to ride. He loved the wind blowing through his hair. He especially loved racing, or target practise on horseback. Nobody else at court was as good a shot. He could hit the bull's-eye nine times out of ten at full gallop, ten out of ten at a canter.
"A perfect score again, milord!" shouted the groom. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone else as good as you."
"Not even my father?"
"Not even, sir."
"Naturally." The prince swung out of the saddle and handed over the reins. "Do we have any other mounts?"
"Milord?"
"Something more spirited. I need a challenge and none of the regular horses in our stables provide it."
"Sorry, milord," the groom said, bowing his head. "The horse market isn't until next month and nobody is selling anything of reputable quality right now. Lord Cartwright wants to get rid of a gelding, but the thing's half lame. He rides his horses too hard – breaks 'em before they're ready and won't take no for an answer when they're tired."
He snorted in disappointment. "Nothing at all? Not anywhere?" He remembered that vapid princess he had brought to stay last month; more specifically the long route they had taken to get her here. "What about something from Regnum Equus Mimimus?"
"Milord?"
"Kingdom of the Small Horses?"
The groom blinked for a few moments before understanding dawned. "Oh, you mean Ponyland."
He pulled a face. Ponyland? Really? It sounded like something from a lacklustre child's fairytale. "If that's what you want to call it. Are the horses there too small to ride, or is it an ironic name?"
The groom's eyes bulged. "Milord, nobody rides the little ponies!"
"Why not?"
"Because … because …" The groom gathered himself. "Milord, they're not ordinary horseflesh. They're magical."
"Magical how?"
"They're … well, they have magic, milord. Unicorns and Pegasus and –"
He raised an eyebrow. "Lady Quatrain stables several unicorns, doesn't she?"
"Well yes, but not like these. Lady Quatrain got hers from way down south – big buggers, they are, and savage. Bigger than any stallion I've ever seen, and as likely to take your finger off or stab you through the heart as let you saddle 'em. Moreover, they don't talk. You can't reason with 'em."
"And you can with these 'little ponies'?" He curled his lip at the name. A horse was a horse was a horse. Men rode horses. That was the way the world worked. If other people thought differently, maybe it was time to re-educate them about the pecking order: man on top, animals beneath, whether or not they talked. Parrots talked. They were still pets.
"Certainly, milord," said the groom.
"How big are they?"
The groom hovered a hand lower around his waist. "Or perhaps a bit smaller."
"They're practically pygmies!" That settled the matter. He had no use for horses he couldn't ride. He waved a hand dismissively. "Keep your eyes and ears open for anyone who's looking to sell something decent."
"Yes, milord."
"And make enquiries about Lady Quatrain's unicorns. They sound like the kind of challenge I'm looking for. A hero riding into battle on a white unicorn – that would be a magnificent sight, don't you agree?"
The groom nodded, but his eyes were shuttered. "Yes, milord."
"What … are they?"
Tirac stood in the courtyard, resplendent in what little light that managed to get through the storm clouds in the sky. He was much smaller than the giant creatures rearing around him. Their bellows echoed off the castle walls, a counterpoint to the clinking metal collars around their necks. Thick chains held them down as they beat their wings and gouged furrows in the stone with their claws.
"Stratadons," Tirac said mildly.
Scorpan had never heard of stratadons before. They looked like dragons, but wilder and more lizardine. Dragons were more than just lizards, and not just because their colouring stuck to pastels. Spike could walk upright like a human and talk. He had cognitive reasoning skills; the ability to think logically and make connections between cause, effect and … emotions. These stratatdon creatures reared for short periods, but always fell back to four legs. Their teeth were sharp as daggers and their eyes held no spark of intelligence, only savagery. If they felt anything at all, it was only anger, hunger and perhaps hatred.
The sound of tearing metal signalled the biggest one breaking loose. The chain could only hold it back for so long. It tossed its head, gave a triumphant roar and hurled itself at Tirac. The uprooted chain dragged behind it, along with a sizable portion of the courtyard. Scorpan didn't know whether the thin thought Tirac was prey or just hated him for capturing it and keeping it prisoner.
It didn't matter. Tirac opened the velvet bag hanging around his neck. Swirls of dark energy rushed out. A terrible smell hit the air – a smell you could taste and feel as well. It made you think of rotting bogs, tar-pits, dead bodies left in the sun and dungeons where the worst criminals imaginable were kept away from the sun for the rest of their lives. The energy itself was like a swarm of demonic bees. It wrapped itself around the stratadon's throat. The creature pulled up sharply and screamed. The noise ended abruptly when the darkness tightened, snapping its neck. The creature fell to the floor, dead.
Before it had even finished falling, the darkness released its hold and flew upwards, as if trying to escape. Tirac didn't seem alarmed. Scorpan didn't know what to think at all. As they watched, the energy flew towards a flock of birds so high up they were mere specks in the sky. It plummeted back towards them a moment later, dragging one struggling black body with it. The crow fought as hard as it could, but it was already changing. Within the swirling magic its feathers hardened, losing their blue-black lustre. Green scales erupted all over its body, its neck and tail lengthened, and an extra set of legs sprouted from its chest. Its shrill cry became a deep roar as it swelled far beyond its original size.
Seconds later, a new stratadon shivered in the courtyard. Tirac calmly trotted over and attached one of the many spare collars.
"Behold the power of Darkness," he said. Scorpan heard the capital 'D' as clearly as if he had read it.
He wanted to ask why. He wanted to ask what Tirac was thinking. More than that, he wanted to know what Tirac was planning. He recognised that cruel smirk. It was the last thing he had seen with human eyes. For that reason, he said nothing.
"Come," Tirac ordered, turning away from the stratadons. They were quieter now, some staring at the dead body, some watching him leave with careful, wary eyes. They weren't intelligent, but survival instinct told them he was more powerful than them and so to be respected. "We have much to do and little time to do it."
Scorpan didn't follow for a moment. He stared at the creatures, remembering a day long ago when he, too, was changed from one form to another by the power of Darkness. He hadn't known what it was back then. He was only beginning to understand now. Tirac had put the eye of a dragon into that bag – had fed it to whatever entity lived inside – and now it changed creatures into giant flying lizards. It had corrupted the essence of dragons and mapped that onto … whatever else Tirac had used before the crow.
"Scorpan!" Tirac snapped. "Follow!"
"Yes, sir," Scorpan said, darting after him.
The guards dragged him over the drawbridge in chains. His legs were free, but he was so weak and injured he could barely walk. Still, he raised his head proudly as they climbed staircase after staircase, trudged along endless corridors and eventually reached the throne room. Tenebrae's ruler had another thing coming if he thought the Shining Prince would show cowardice.
He was expecting a man. It never even occurred to him that the ruler wouldn't be human.
At first, the figure in the shadows did appear to be a man. Through his black eye he distinguished broad shoulders and a face with a wide nose set above an even wider, downturned mouth. He blinked, not sure if he was seeing things truthfully. Nobody could have skin that shade of red unless they were very badly sunburned.
"So we finally meet, young prince," said the figure. "I am Lord Tirac, but you may call me 'master' or 'sir'."
He resisted the urge to spit on the floor. "You're no lord of mine. I refuse to acknowledge your position."
"Brave words for a prisoner – one who was raising an army against me before I discovered his plotting." Tirac smiled, revealing two large fangs. When he spoke they indented his lower lip.
He came forward, and suddenly the Shining Prince felt the stirring of fear in his heart. No man clip-clopped. No man had dark blue fur at his waist. No man had four legs and a tail. Tirac looked like a demonic centaur. His hands were clawed, his neck thicker than an average man's, his chest muscled and bare. He smiled at the prince's expression.
"You didn't know," he almost purred. "You didn't know what you faced, and yet you still wanted to take me down. Bravery really is just foolishness with its back turned." He shook his head, showing off a pair of great white horns, like the Vikings of the north wore on their helmets. These grew straight out of Tirac's skull. They were sharpened to points, making it easy to imagine them streaked with gore in battle. Tirac was not some lazy ruler who sat on his treasury. Purpose rolled off him, so thick you could almost smell the evil intentions.
The Shining Prince thought he had faced evil before. He knew now that he hadn't. He also knew he was trapped in a room with a real representative of evil, and that he was going to die here.
He swallowed and squared his shoulders. "Kill me and be done with it, monster."
Tirac quirked an eyebrow. "Monster?" he murmured, shaking his head again. "You want me to kill you; to make you a martyr. Oh, how sad," he mocked, "that the brave, handsome young prince was so cruelly murdered by the evil Tirac. How heartbreaking! How wretched! How touching his final stand against the forces of darkness!" Tirac snorted. "You hate me."
The prince said nothing. A bead of sweat ran down his temple.
Tirac smiled. It was a terrifying sight. "You're afraid of me."
"I fear no man or beast."
"But I'm neither. Or both." Another terrifying smile. "You've dedicated your life to making your kingdom perfect so you can steal it away from your father. You're a worse monster than me. I won my kingdom fairly in battle and worked to make it powerful. You just wanted yours to look the part. What use would a Shining Prince have for less than a shining kingdom? You loathe ugliness. You loathe imperfection. What better punishment, then, than to make you what you hate most, and have you serve what you fear?"
The prince's eyes grew wide. He wanted to take a step backwards, but he couldn't move. He was frozen in place as Tirac accepted an object from a guard who had brought him in. it was a lock of shining brown hair; one perfect ringlet that Tirac dropped into the pouch around his neck. The pouch seemed to move in his hands.
"Behold," he said, "the power of Darkness."
A whoosh of black light consumed the chamber. It drowned out all outside sound, blocked all light, and finally pressed down like a physical force until it was impossible to breathe. The air was thick, like inhaling treacle. Was that the sound of ribs cracking? Of a spine snapping? Of foot-bones splaying and muscles tearing under the tremendous, awful weight? The world narrowed to focal points of pain and, finally, only rushing darkness.
"Goodnight, sweet prince."
"Don't like." Spike tried to hide behind him. "Don't like." He sounded like a little kid who desperately wanted to bury his head under the bedclothes until the bad things went away.
Scorpan frowned, for all the difference it actually made to his face. He didn't do anything ridiculous, like take the little dragon's hand, but he did move slightly in front of him on the parapet. Together, they looked down on Tirac's new pets.
Tirac had been running experiments. He had brought in creatures from far and wide and unleashed his dark magic on them, transforming them into different types of stratadons. Winged monsters emerged from birds, butterflies, moths and tiny wyverns that left mangled cages in their wake. One-time rabbits tore up the courtyard with their oversized hind legs. What had been weasels, polecats, stoats and pine martins stretched sinuous bodies, raked long claws and bared fangs longer than Scorpan's .whole body.
Tirac most liked the ones that could fly. "Fitting for an emperor, wouldn't you agree?" he had said when Scorpan was summoned to watch an eagle become a twisted scaly facsimile.
"Sir?"
"An emperor is a position that requires reputation. Reputation requires impact and constant revitalisation. If people forget you have power, you must remind them with visual displays and –" His smile had held fangs. "– by making examples of those who speak out against you."
"I don't understand, sir."
"I wouldn't expect you to. You only ever wanted to be a hero-king." He had said it so derisively that Scorpan's hackles had started to rise. "Always so obsessed with making yourself look good, being well thought of and loved by your subjects, outshining your father – you never let yourself see the big picture. The world exists to be conquered. It is simply waiting for the right ruler to come along. Everything that exists now is passing time until someone strong remakes it the way they want." He had spread his hands, gesturing over the ramparts to the dark lands beyond. "The rest of the world is detritus – the leftovers of the last strong ruler. That ruler is gone and the world is ready to be remade again."
"By … you, sir?"
Tirac hadn't answered; just given another sharp smile.
Now Scorpan watched him stalk through the cowering stratadons. They knew to respect the centaur who could burn them up just by twitching open a bag. In addition to different subjects, Tirac had also experimented by adding different magical items to the Darkness. At this moment, however, none of it seemed to please him.
"Scorpan!" he yelled.
"Stay here, out of sight," Scorpan said to Spike, before spreading his wings and gliding down. He knelt, his kneecap burning with shame where it touched the floor. The knowledge that Spike was probably peering down at them, instead of hidden, kept him in the subservient pose and kept his eyes downcast. "Yes, sir?"
"It isn't enough."
"Master?"
"My plans are nearing completion, Scorpan. Soon I'll be ready to take the Power of Darkness past our borders and remake the world in my own image."
Scorpan's fur itched. He thought of a distant land and a father who had sold him into slavery.
"My army is almost ready and easily replenished. My power is at its peak. But my own transportation is severely lacking." He turned on Scorpan. "I need something to draw my carriage as I ride out into my new world. None of these stratadons are good enough. I need something more impressive – something magical that the Darkness can enhance. I need a magical creature to transform!"
Images of his father vanished, replaced instead by Spike. Scorpan's mind was suddenly full of clear predictions of what would happen if Tirac turned the Power of Darkness on the baby dragon. Spike was so small and helpless. He wouldn't stand a chance.
"The wyverns –"
"Are too weak. All the creatures brought to me so far have been too weak."
Scorpan risked a glance. Tirac was tilting his head back, looking up at the parapet where Spike had wisely ducked out of sight.
A sudden, desperate thought struck Scorpan. It entered his mind like an arrow and drove right through, leaving him no time to think before blurting out, "The little ponies!"
Tirac's gaze snapped to him. "What?"
Refusing to wonder why he was so against losing Spike to Tirac's experiments, Scorpan said, "Regnum Equus Mimimus. Kingdom of the Small Horses." At Tirac's continued flat look, he tried, "Ponyland."
A slow, savage expression crossed Tirac's face. "Yeeees," he drawled, stroking the bag. "For once, Scorpan, you've had a good idea."
"They're magical," Scorpan went on. "They talk, some can fly, there are unicorns with various different powers you could use, some even breathe underwater –" Tirac cut him off with an imperious wave of one hand.
"Take a party of stratadons. Fetch me one of each kind. We'll see what the Power of Darkness can make of these 'little ponies'."
Scorpan bowed his head. "Yes, sir."
He brought his sword to bear with a flourish and bowed to his opponent. The beaten man got to his feet and bowed back.
"As ever, it was an honour to be beaten by you, your majesty."
"You'll have to pull your socks up next time you challenge me, Edmund. I never thought I'd say it, but winning is getting to be rather boring."
"Don't knock it, sire." Duke Edmund raised his head, but stayed bowed at the waist until given permission to rise. "Losses teach us, and we can learn a lot from them, but they're rarely pleasant."
"Tosh and bother. You do talk a lot of nonsense sometimes. Next time you leave that little duchy of yourself to visit the palace, be sure to practise your swordsmanship first." A servant brought a towel for him to dry his face, chattering compliments as the Shining Prince left the practise arena. "
"Oh, good show, milord! Honest, I've never seen a swordsman as good as you, not never, and I've worked at the palace since your father were a lad."
That pleased him. He accepted a goblet of wine and gestured for more as they walked. "Go on."
"You're a real hero, milord. Nobody else in the whole kingdom can even touch you on that score."
He smiled and drank the wine in a few gulps. Being the best warrior in all the land was thirsty work. "It's all about the code."
"Milord?"
"All knights abide by their code of honour, but true heroes have their own code. Nobility, virtue, righteousness pride – everything a man should know, have and live be to be a true hero."
"Well you got them in spades, sire."
"I do, don't I?" He drained the last of the wine and thrust the empty goblet into the servant's hands. The man let out a soft 'whuff' at the metal struck him in his chest. "And true heroes always do their best to protect the innocent and save those weaker than them from harm." He shrugged. "Which, if you're talking about me, means everyone." He laughed at his own joke.
"Good one, milord." The servant smiled, the barest hint of tightness at the corners of his mouth and eyes.
The Shining Prince, however, didn't notice.
Scorpan was about to leave their quarters when Spike grabbed his wrist and held on tight. "Don't go," he pleaded. "This isn't right."
Scorpan stared for a moment, then shook him off. What was 'right' anyhow? What was 'wrong'? Everything was subjective. For him, 'right' was keeping Spike safe and 'wrong' was thinking too hard about why that was so important. "Stay here until I get back," he growled. "If I find out you've been out of this room, or gone anywhere Tirac could spot you…" He left the threat hanging. It was more effective that way.
Spike shrank back. "The little ponies didn't do nuthin'," he said softly. "Tirac's gonna do bad things to them."
"He'll do worse to you if I don't get him some ponies instead."
Spike's chin sagged onto his chest. "Be careful," he said at last.
Scorpan only grunted and went down to the courtyard, where four stratadons waited. They eyed him hatefully, but they were afraid of Tirac and he was Tirac's representative. When Scorpan told them to ready themselves, they braced their wings. When he launched into the air, they followed him. When he circled around and landed on the back of the leading lizard to conserve his own energy, the beast didn't protest at all.
He looked down at the shadows they cast. The days when he carried a sword and fought monsters like this seemed like a lifetime ago. In many ways they were. He wasn't the Shining Prince anymore. He wasn't a prince at all, and he doubted he would ever shine again. All he could do now was try to hold onto whatever shreds of humanity he had left. He thought about the unsuspecting ponies and the fate that awaited them. A hero would never sacrifice innocents that way
"I'm not a hero," he said out loud, almost defiantly. The stratadon's yellow eye slid to look back at him, questioning. "I'm not a hero," he said again. "I'm a monster."
Once more, Spike's face flashed into his mind. Spike depended on Scorpan to keep him safe. Spike relied on him in a way nobody had in a long, long time. However, Spike was a dragon. He was a monster too.
Peculiarly, Scorpan was all right with that. Once upon a time, in a land far away, he wouldn't have been. Today, here and now, he was. Monsters weren't governed by the same rules as heroes, after all.
"Faster," he urged, leaning forward over the stratadon's neck. "To Ponyland!"
Behind them, lightning split the sky as Tirac's darkness spread.
Fin.
.