The Lair

We enter the final battle having tracked the grendel to its lair. Fetid air wafts from the entrance, bleached bones litter the darkened grotto beyond like an ossuary.

Before she proceeds, the sorcerer-engineer measures her to ensure she can squeeze through the cleft in the rock, remarking her in woad to reinforce the magic symbols already upon her side. I step back as he floods the cave with the final bursts of his scintillating ray, knowing it is too dangerous for me to accompany her any farther. Only she may enter the cave before us. Only she may slay the beast within. This battle will be settled in the old way, hero against hero, leader against leader. Mano a mano, or literally, hand to hand.

Throughout this adventure, we have been fortunate in our encounters. We pray our luck perseveres until the battle ends. Fortune favors the bold though not always the brave. But, the dice are hot and continue to roll our way.

Many believe their God does not play dice with the world. There was a time when the gods openly diced with men, a time before they retreated into deed restricted communities behind abalone gates where security stations turn away any who might intrude. Then, the gods walked among us, gathering in the agora for a quick game where the stakes could wager a life against immortal fame for no more than entertainment. Now, they skulk the back-allies of the keep, weaving drunkenly between the arsenal and the data mine like homeless addicts searching for a cure.

Perhaps others roam beyond the shadow of the wall, much reduced and mumbling though just as capricious when they throw the bones. I wonder if one watches over her, protecting her like Athena or Apollo shielding their heroes during the ten year siege at Troy. I don't remember doing one a favor, don't remember asking one to load the dice. Just another debt accrued, another payment due, one no dwarven lord with bear.

As she crawls inside and disappears, the dice go into motion, tumbling off the woodwork before they hit the cloth. Time stops. The cubes hang above the table, circling, spinning, deciding.

Alone for the moment, I focus on my surroundings: a shallow bowl, carved from the hillside by some long dead giant's hand, blocked in by a pool both green and stagnant. A narrow path leads around and in with a craggy wall behind like a rising gray crescent moon. A stream trickles from a stone encased well with an adjacent cell for meditation, perhaps a blessing or a baptism, or just rest and refreshment before our hero delves into the fissure by its side. The site is ancient and holy, its floor unexpectedly vibrant and alive. Orchids, white with blushing tips, cling to rough and tumbled walls. I wonder how they survive on only rocks and air, but that is what life does, in expected places, in unexpected ways.

I climb the rude stair that leads to the top of the hill where I can see across the straights to the caers and eyries and snowcapped mountains where griffins dwell. Up here lie the cairns of unnamed heroes shrouded with drooping bluebells that silently toll their forgotten deeds with each passing breeze lifted from the sea. Perhaps a benevolent god pauses to listen as it wanders this headland as it has since time began.

Part of the grendel's magic is induced amnesia. When she emerges from its lair, she will not remember where the dice have settled, whether she has slain the dragon or wounded it into sleeping, passing the years within it own contented dream. Either way, I will show her to this place before we depart for home. From here, we can watch the sun rise and set over water, passing the day in beauty and the peace that stillness brings.

Behind the veil, the dice clatter to a rest beyond our sight. The battle now has been won or lost, and we eagerly await the outcome.

© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III