Throwback Thursday: ‘Last of a Thing’ by Douglas Smith

A Fool’s Quest

In ‘Last of a Thing’ by Douglas Smith, a fool travels through mythic lands to a monster’s lair and brings us unexpected truths, as fools always do. Enjoy this excerpt, reminiscent of early fantasy masters like Fletcher Pratt, William Morris, and L Sprague de Camp, or grab a copy of Issue 12, Autumn 2016, on sale now until March 31st!

Last of a Thing

Douglas Smith

I am a fool.

         I walk this road from the castle of my lord, wearing the costume of a fool.  My chequerboard tunic rests loosely on my spare frame above red leggings, my hat dangling its bells above my painted face.  The curled toes of my slippers dance through the dust of the road.  A warm sun, in a sky unmarked by cloud or winged beast, speckles the forest shade.

         A sound of hoofbeats taps me on my shoulder.  I turn to see a knight mounted on a white steed.  Proud and strong, his horse carries its load with an effortless air, a tireless extension of its master.  Flames of combat lick at the coals of its eyes.

         The knight draws rein.  His armour radiates a light too bright to gaze on.  The dust that clings to me dares not mar that sheen.  Tall, erect, he sits with an easy strength.  His face is fair with the haughty grace of a god amongst mortals.  A hand in silver gauntlet rests on a jewelled sword-hilt above an obsidian scabbard etched with runes.  His couched lance is an ivory spire threatening the sky itself.

         “Good day, fool.  I am Valkar of the White Castle.”  He greets me with a voice that hints of mountain storms.

         “I know you, good knight.  Where speed you in such martial splendour?”

         He looks to the horizon, and a light glows in his face.  “To battle Mordrag, called The Mighty, last of the dragons.  With his death will I finally purge the land of the evil of the Great Wyrms.  And in this act will I have great glory.”

         I have a vision of a glorious battle and hear the songs that those such as I will sing in years to come.  “Glory is fitting for a fine knight.  Still, after you slay Mordrag, for I hold no doubt that you will prevail, what then?  What wonders are left to seek?  What mighty deeds remain for such as you?  Will not some of your glory leave the world with Mordrag?”

         The knight scowls down at me.  “What is this talk, fool?”

         “We measure greatness by the obstacles against which we strive.  Remove them, and we diminish our capacity for greatness.”

         “You are a fool,” he laughs.  His horse, too, snorts derision.

         “The last of a thing is something to cherish,” I say.

         “Fool!” he cries as he gallops away.  I walk on.

         Tattered clouds scar the afternoon sky.  A rustle sounds in the trees.  A dwarf appears, a huge golden hammer resting on his shoulder.  Sunlight sneaks between leaves to startle the gold, blazing it to life.  The dwarf’s eyes narrow, then he grins and leaps over the wide ditch at the roadside as if it were a crack.

         He looks up at me with a face the colour of earth, and I smell treasures hidden in dark caves.  Half my height, he glows with the strength of the ground beneath his broad feet.  I know he could lift me with one gnarled hand and toss me as early winter winds toss a leaf.  A silver buckle, etched with warding runes, holds a gold corded belt around his leather jacket.  Jewelled rings adorn his hands, changing colour with each movement.

         “Ho, fine fool!” he cries and slaps me on my arm, almost sending me to the ground.  “I am Tugro, of the Hidden Mountain.  Well met we are, well met indeed.  Remember the name of Tugro, for you and your like will sing of this day.”  He drops his hammer to the road with a great thud, and the ground trembles.

         “Yes, well met.  And to where does Tugro of the Mountain Dwarves journey that will give me cause to sing?”

         Puffing up his chest, he grins at me.  “Why, to slay the last of the Great Wyrms, Mordrag himself, scourge of the night, slayer of dwarves and elves and men alike.”

         “And looter of the hoard of the Hidden Mountain?” I offer.

         “That too,” he says with a shrug.

         “Perhaps the Hidden Mountain needs to be better hidden.”

         He scowls.  “Do you mock me, fool?”

         I raise my hands.  “Would I mock one who can crush me in one fist?  But what of after you defeat the wyrm?  For certain I am that you shall do so.  What then?”

         His brow furrows like a line of mountain ridges.  “What mean you?”

         “Who among the sons of the mountain dwarves will fools such as I sing of, in years to come?  What great deeds shall your sons perform to make their names as famous as Tugro’s will be?”

         Tugro shifts from one great foot to the other.  “They will find deeds to do,” he says, but a frown remains.  Then he smiles again.  “War!  A war against the humans, or the elves!  That will be their glory.  They will do battle.  The dwarves of the mountains and woods against …  well, against everyone else.”

         “Yes, it is good that we will still have war to fall back on, once Mordrag is gone.  And yet the last of a thing begins another.  What will we begin if we end this scourge that has united us?”

         Tugro grunts, lifting his hammer again to his shoulder.  “Your calling suits you, fool.”  He turns and strides down the road in the same direction as Valkar.

         “Endings must not be taken lightly,” I call.  A laugh is my reply.

         The sky is mostly cloud and the breeze has added a nip to its kiss.  I walk on, remembering what I have tried to forget.

Read the rest of the story in Issue 12, Autumn 2015 …

Poets, it’s your time to shine. The 2026 Magpie Award for Poetry now open!