Part IV: That Meddling Kid
Chapter 5: The Drunk
Location: Monthaven
Timeline: Sixth Age, 45th Year, Mid-Autumn
You think you know betrayal? Armaros, that scheming deity, thought she could toy with me—me, Azazel, the master of manipulation! Her little game cost me dearly, and now, millennia later, I’m still unraveling her treachery. Watch closely, mortal, as this tale unfolds—you’ll see how even a god’s plans can backfire.
Emcorae’s eyes widened, his young face alight with disbelief. “A girl on the battlefield, Grandpop?” The boy leaned closer to Alfranco Azop, perched on the creaky porch bench, certain this was another of his grandfather’s wild tales.
Alfranco chuckled, his weathered voice rasping like dry leaves. “No, lad, no women fought that day. The Drokka don’t let their maidens near a blade, same as us. But don’t go thinking girls can’t fight. I’ve seen Amorosi women —fierce as dragons, skilled enough to shame any warrior here.” He raised a gnarled hand to silence Emcorae’s budding questions. “Why haven’t I told you this before? Because these old fools in Monthaven have minds like locked vaults. They’d scoff at the idea of a woman besting them.”
Emcorae frowned. “If you told them one of your stories, they’d have to believe it.”
Alfranco sighed, his eyes distant. “No, Em. A closed mind stays shut, no matter how grand the tale.” He leaned back, the bench groaning under him, as he let out a big yawn. “Time for bed?”
“Wait, tell me more about her!” Emcorae pressed, his curiosity insatiable.
“Patience, boy.” Alfranco relished Em’s interest, yet voice grew grave. “Before I get to the dagger, ya need to understand something – my team scoured that battlefield, sifting through the carnage, and tryin’ to figure out what happened. King Ortwin and General Snorri were dead, their royal guard slaughtered—lured away by a myz knight and a horde of vizigobs. Best we could figure, it was a trap from the start. Seems Ortwin’s men fought like demons—that piles of goblin corpses proved it—but in the end, everyone died and that didn’t make no sense.”
Emcorae tilted his head. “No one escaped? Not even the enemy?”
“No tracks led away, Em, so unless they up and sprouted wings, they died where they fell.” Alfranco’s gaze darkened, as if the memory clawed at him. “We built a cairn for Ortwin and Snorri, right there on the blood-soaked earth – that’s what Drokka tradition demands. Then my mates and I searched the bodies for clues. I was closest to that myz so I searched him – and I found maps, papers, and more. Heck, it was a real haul and thought I’d earn a medal for it, but then I saw something… impossible.”
“What?” Emcorae whispered, hanging on every word.
“A lock of blond hair,” Alfranco said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Pristine, shining like spun gold, tucked under the myz’s tunic – right near a bloody gash in its gut.”
Emcorae laughed. “Grandpop, you’re pulling my leg!”
“I swear it, Em.” Alfranco’s eyes gleamed with sincerity. “That hair didn’t belong on a myz—I mean no creature like that grows such locks, right? But I was mesmerized – I had to touch it, to prove it was real. Since I’d never been this close to a myz, I figured if this lock was somethin’ that marked all myz, it’d be proof of what we found.”
“Gross!” Emcorae wrinkled his nose.
Alfranco grinned. “Aye, sounds strange, and I don’t tell this part often—don’t need folks thinking I’m daft pulling the hair of a myz. But it’s the truth, boy – I tugged that hair, and it came free… along with something else.”
“The dagger!” Emcorae gasped.
[This, Dear Reader, is perhaps my greatest failure—missing that blade, The Grim, when it was right there in Ortwin’s foolhardy hands! For centuries I hunted it, only to learn the Drokka King had carried it to that doomed war. If I’d known, I could’ve claimed it, reshaped history. Instead…alas!]
“You got it, lad!” Alfranco drew the black dagger from his belt, its blade glinting faintly in the moonlight. “This beauty.”
“But Grandpop, what does it mean? Why didn’t the generals take it? Who was the girl? What—”
“Hold your horses, Em!” Alfranco raised his hands, chuckling. “I’ll tell you what I can, since this dagger’ll be yours someday. So anyway, I turned in the hair and our leaders were baffled, couldn’t make sense of it. But the dagger? Well, I kept it. Just a plain derk, I thought. A keepsake from the war. Soldiers swap weapons all the time—nobody misses what the dead leave behind, right?” He winked, but his eyes held a flicker of guilt. “There’s something about this blade, though. Something… alive.”
“Emcorae, bedtime!” Beckali’s voice cut through the night as she stepped onto the porch.
“Just a bit longer, Ma, please?” Emcorae pleaded.
“Quarter candlemark, no more,” Beckali relented.
Before Emcorae could press further, another voice rang out. “Alfranco, keeping that boy up with your tales?” Pallina, his grandmother, stood in the doorway, arms crossed. “Get to bed, both of you.”
“Oh, psshaw, General Pallina,” Alfranco teased, slipping into his drunken slur. “I ain’t doin’ no harm.”
“Yeah, Gram, please!” Emcorae begged.
“No, Emcorae,” Pallina said firmly, stepping forward. “I won’t have you turning into this old drunkard.”
Alfranco’s shoulders slumped. “She’s right, Em. Get to bed.”
“But Grandpop, the story—” Emcorae protested.
“Shh,” The old man shushed him, and once more appeared to be but a drunk old gaffer as he slurred “You’se two go in the house and get some shut eye; I thinks I’lls stay out here. I can’t stay this handsome looking without some fresh air and goo- night’s rest!” He winked defiantly at Pallina.
Reluctantly, Emcorae followed his grandmother inside, the tale of the dagger left unfinished. Alfranco watched them go, a tear glistening in his eye. “Good night, Emcorae,” he whispered. “Good night, my dear Pallina. I love you.” Then, slumping back on the bench, he fell into a drunken slumber, unaware of the beastly eyes glinting from the woods.
In his small bedroom, shared with his baby sister Teree, Emcorae collapsed into bed, exhausted. But sleep was no refuge. Nightmares clawed at him, and he jolted awake, heart pounding, staring out the window. “Black Night!” he gasped, though he didn’t recall leaving his bed.
Taking a step back from the window, he saw his Teree sleeping in her bed and taking a step closer to her he called out “Teree, wake up. Do you se–” That’s when Emcorae realized no sound was out of his mouth. “Mom! Dad! Help!”
But it was to no avail – no sounds came out of the boy’s mouth and nobody came to help. Emcorae wanted to run screaming out of the room — but instead he found his gaze pulled back to the window. “What is that black smog?”
A chilling scene unfolded outside. A wisp of black smoke, darker than the midnight sky, slithered across the landscape, its edges sharp against the pale gray of night. With every beat of Emcorae’s heart—boom-boom—the smog crept closer, its hypnotic dance pulling at his soul. Alone, he was trapped, his gaze locked on the approaching darkness.
The black haze slithered nearer, now yards from his window. Emcorae’s eyes traced its serpentine path backward, and there, shrouded by trees, he saw it—a gray-green, scaled creature with vast wings, clutching a clay pot from which the ebon smoke poured. Its red eyes locked onto his, a maleficent grin spreading across its face as it pointed a clawed finger at him, claiming him.
[That Armaros thought she could wield one of my Baals against me is beyond belief!]
The smoke curled up the house, seeping toward the window’s cracks. The creature—the Deliverer—spread its wings wide, veins pulsing with power, and raised the pot high. Then, with a thunderous BOOM-BOOM, it dropped the vessel, shattering it, and thrust its arms skyward.
“Gargoyle!” Emcorae screamed, voice finally breaking free.
“Em, quiet!” Teree whined from her bed. “I’m sleeping!”
He blinked, suddenly back in bed, heart racing. Had it been a dream? He rushed to the window, peering out, but the night was empty—no smoke, no creature. “Was it real?” he whispered.
“Shut up, Em, or I’ll tell Mama,” Teree snapped.
For his part, Emcorae was determined to remain awake for the rest of the night – for he did NOT want to re-open the doorway to his earlier nightmare. Yet it was not a promise he was able to keep. Like most boys his age, his mind wandered and eventually he forgot what it was he was so afraid of.
In a short time, Emcorae was sleeping again — and this time, as he dozed, he dreamed of happy thoughts.
On the porch, Alfranco’s fitful sleep was broken by a coughing fit. Head pounding, he staggered into the yard, desperate not to wake Pallina. There, beneath the oaks, stood Armaros, The Goddess of Love, her verdant sundress barely clinging to her form, blonde curls glinting in the moonlight.
“Alyssa!” Alfranco gasped, calling the lumenarc by her Amorosi name and sobering p instantly. “What’re you doing here?”
“You know it’s me, my love,” she purred, her voice a melody.
He hurried her to the trees’ cover. “Quiet! Pallina’ll have my head if she sees us.”
Alyssa laughed, tossing her curls. “Oh, Al-Corragio, what’s to fear? I’m but a dream.” Alyssa played coy, shaking her blonde curls to cover her eyes — not wanting to reveal that she’d sensed a Disturbance, nor that she had arrived just in time to dismiss the gargoyle that was stalking Emcorae. She stepped closer, her hand grazing his weathered cheek. “Remember our nights in Arbola? The dreams we shared?”
Alfranco blushed at those remembrances, as he gently, but firmly, removed the goddess’s hand. His shoulders slumped and he slipped back into his drunken persona. “I’m just a tired old drunk now, Alyssa. What do you want?”
“Nonsense,” she chided, lifting his chin. “Yet fear not your spouse. For I come not to claim you again. Instead I bring news of Emcorae—grand news! I’ve ensured his place in history. He’ll be the first man to train as an Azora warrior, guided by El-Janus himself. And know this, my love, I will protect Emcorae. Just as I protected you, Al-Corragio.”
“No!” Alfranco snapped, now standing tall. “I won’t let you take him. Emcorae’s to be a merchant, not a warrior. I won’t see him in danger.”
Alyssa pouted, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Dost thou not trust me? I’d never let harm befall our boy.” She leaned in, her lips brushing his in a kiss that instantly sent him into a deep slumber.
Alyssa smiled at her sleeping lover. “Rest, my heart. My plans will unfold, and you’ll soon convince your family they’re for the best. For Emcorae faces an ancient evil—one drawn to him because of our secret. But fear not. I’ll protect him, and that blade will change the world.”
“Sleep. Yes, sleep and dream.” The goddess continued, whispering her spells into Alfranco’s ear. “Dream of Alyssa your lover, as we once were. And know that your goddess will take care of everything, just like I always do for you.”
The next morning, Pallina wandered the woods behind the Azop house, foraging mushrooms for a meal. She found Alfranco sprawled beside a shattered clay pot, reeking of liquor. Shaking her head, she assumed he’d stumbled there in a drunken haze. She plucked a mushroom near his head, missing the lock of blonde hair clutched in his hand, and continued on, oblivious to the unseen forces circling her family.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 