The King Who Wore No Crown

Summary
This is the story of the legendary Numine hero Mokran, following his life from before his hatching to his death. The story ends with the creation of Mokran's Peak.

Author
Spark (Magical Griffin)

Story
Part One: The Child

A long time ago, back when the world was young and the Solarizons still gave their light to dragonkind, there lived a fair Numine princess of the volcanic lands. Her name was Thorvar and she was the only child of her clan’s leader, Hannas. Now Hannas wanted an heir desperately, but he feared that Thorvar would not be strong enough to lead. He planned for her to wed the young Venu prince of the Ghoru clan, Bir. But Thorvar did not love this prince; all she loved was the thrill of battle, the clash of claws and teeth. Her father had her imprisoned in a palace at the top of Mt. Yuso to await her marriage. But when Prince Bir and his entourage arrived, it was found that Thorvar was already with egg. The beautiful princess maintained that the father of the egg was the Hexalios Ifres, often called the Golden Hexalios.

Nobody believed this of course, and Prince Bir left in a huff with his entourage. The disgraced princess was banished to have her egg in a small cottage by the shore, attended only by her most faithful servant, her maid Ulhan, who was also a Numine. While the two waited for the egg to hatch, a soothsayer stopped at their cottage to give them a prophecy: the child within the egg would grow into a strong warrior who would never be forgotten by his people.

When at last the egg hatched, it seemed that perhaps Thorvan had been telling the truth; the deep red Numine dragonet who forced his way out of the egg had gleaming golden scales scattered across his body like sparks from some celestial bonfire. And deep in his eyes fires seemed to burn as though they wished to consume everything around him.

Eventually Hannas’ soldiers came to the small cottage to return the princess, her son, and the maid to the clan’s ancestral home. Hannas planned to declare that the child belonged to the maid, and that Thorvan had accompanied her simply out of the kindness of her own heart. While the fair princess had been away, Hannas had made Bir his heir, as he preferred to have an heir who would respect his wishes, even if he was from a different clan, than to have a daughter succeed him who would merely scoff at his memory.

But the soldiers, despite what they had been told by Hannas, could see the resemblance between Thorvan and the child, whom she had named Mokran. They asked her to tell the story, and she complied. Outraged at the way Hannas had treated his own daughter, they swore loyalty to her and promised to serve her against her father if the need came. She told them to keep what they had learned secret from the nobles of Hannas’ court. Mokran would be reared as the son of Ulhan until he grew old enough to take back his birthright from the outsider who had stolen his throne.

Part Two: A King Rises

For ten years, Mokran lived in Hannas’ palace. As it transpired, after leaving Mt. Yuso, Bir the Venu had married a Magmip of his own people; their son, a pale blue Magmip by the name of Cynon, had hatched a few days after Mokran. When Mokran was three, he became the personal servant of Cynon. The two became fast friends, despite the disapproval of Prince Bir and his wife. Together they learned and fought, becoming almost brothers. Young Cynon even promised Mokran that when he ascended to the throne, Mokran would be chief among his knights.

As the blood-red Numine grew, it became clear that his strength was something out of the ordinary. Once when on a hunting expedition at the age of four he was attacked by one of the mighty serpents which live within the Volcano’s many flowing rivers of lava. Instead of trying to run as the adults in the party told him to, he fought against the serpent with claw and fang. It dragged him down into the river despite his struggles, and the other hunters believed him lost. But after endless minutes Mokran forced his way to the surface, dragging the corpse of the vast serpent behind him. His long time under the lava had not harmed him at all. In fact, his scales seemed to have a brighter sheen than before. Every golden scale on his body seemed to glow like the lava he had just swum out of. But there was another change that had come upon him. When one of the adult hunters approached him to congratulate the young Numine on his success, Mokran leaped toward him, flame-a-blazing, and would have killed him had he not jumped back in time. The young Numine roared a challenge out to the skies. His voice was deepened, as though he was already a full-grown dragon. None of the other hunters dared approach him, so they waited until eventually his scales stopped glowing and he was willing to let go of his kill.

King Hannas was astonished when he heard this and wondered if perhaps his daughter had been telling the truth about Ifres. But he still preferred Bir as an heir, so the tale of the serpent was hushed up and the hunters sworn to secrecy. Mokran himself did not need to be sworn to secrecy as he was unaware that anything particularly special had happened on that hunt other than an impressive kill.

For six more years, Mokran continued to grow, serving Cynon and loving Ulhan as though she had in truth been his mother. In that time, it became clearer and clearer that there was something supernatural about his strength. Monster after monster fell to his talons, and it seemed that he was completely impervious to the perils of lava or fire. But as he grew, rages like the one he’d experienced while fighting the great serpent became more common. When in such a rage, he was so strong that none could defeat him, his scales were nigh-impenetrable, and he could not tell friend from foe.

But on Mokran’s tenth birthday, his mother summoned him to her chambers and told him the truth of his lineage. She told him that his grandfather had taken his inheritance from his kin and given it to Prince Bir instead. He must kill King Hannas and Prince Bir if he was to take his throne. Mokran wept, for he had no great desire to kill the king, even if he had stolen his birthright. Thorvan used all her eloquence to persuade him of the justice of her words, and at last he agreed to do what she asked. The next time that Cynon came before the king and his father, Mokran would go at his side and use that opportunity to kill Bir and Hannas.

The gold-speckled Numine wondered if he should tell Cynon what was going on--but no, Cynon would not stand aside and let Mokran kill his father, even if justice demanded the death. He hoped that he would find some way to spare Cynon when the time came.

It was not very long before Cynon was summoned before his father and the king to report to them on how his last hunt had gone. Mokran followed him with downcast eyes, respectful as a servant should be. But when the Venu prince slithered over to the two dragonets, he leapt up and slashed with his claws at the usurper’s throat. The first strikes failed to kill him, and Prince Bir was no mean fighter. The two struggled mightily. Cynon cried out, thinking there was some misunderstanding, but the two dragons did not hear him. He tried to get in between them to stop the fight, but a stray slash by Mokran cut open his neck and he fell to the ground, bleeding horribly.

Seeing his friend lying on the ground, dying by his hand, Mokran flew into a rage. The golden scales set into his deep red body gleamed like living flames, and the furious fire within his eyes burned hotter than ever. He killed Bir with ease and then stalked over to his grandfather, roaring with sheer fury. The older Numine stared in shock as Mokran pounced on him as well and soon choked the life out of him. His lifeless corpse slid to the ground, eyes staring blindly at whatever lay beyond the veil of death.

Mokran roared again and rampaged around the room, destroying priceless tapestries and clawing at the sturdy throne as the madness drove him onward. And then his mother came into the room to see the handiwork of her fierce son. Without hesitation, Mokran lunged toward her as well and sank sharp teeth into her face. She screamed in pain and struggled to pull him off; at last she flung him across the room. He got up again and charged toward her, using his fire this time. White-hot it streamed from his mouth, blackening the stone floor and incinerating any of the room’s decorations that were still left. And it completely charred Thorvan.

As Mokran saw the destruction he had wrought, the madness finally left him. He wept as he sat surrounded by the bodies of kin, rulers, and friend. For three days he remained in the throne room, mourning those deaths. In the meantime, the band of soldiers who had sworn loyalty to Thorvan and her child took control of the palace. At last, the leader of those soldiers came in to tell the young Numine that it was time for him to take up his crown, for he was now the sole remaining heir.

Mokran looked around him and saw the crown sitting on the charred skull of his grandfather. He picked it up, but a shiver ran through him and he carefully replaced it on the corpse’s head. “I will not wear my grandfather’s crown,” he said. “Bring me my helmet from the armory. That will be my only crown.” The soldier obeyed, and Mokran became the first of his line to have a coronation without a crown. That helmet which he wore as king became eventually a proud heirloom of his clan; to this day, their kings wear it instead of a crown.

Part Three: The Queen

With the help of his foster mother Ulhan, who was wiser than anyone had expected, Mokran learned to rule. And he needed to learn fast, for Sura, widow of Bir, had escaped the palace when her husband had been killed. Even now she led her forces in vengeful raids against the borders of the Hannas clan.

Time and again the furious dragonet fought at the head of his army to defend his lands and people from Sura’s attacks. His soldiers learned to back off when they saw his scales begin to glow; before they learned, not a few died at their king’s claws. And Mokran himself learned too. He learned the art of leadership as he charged out in front of his dragons, beating the air with burly red wings. He learned the art of war as every blast of his fire and slash of his claws struck home. He learned how to let loose his rage in the heart of battle and shatter the enemy ranks.

For three years he fought Queen Sura of Clan Bir; at last she agreed to a truce, for her people were weary of war and feared that the dragons of Hannas would destroy them utterly. And for another three years the two clans lived in peace. Some dared to hope that the peace would last forever, that they would no longer have to take up arms against their neighbors.

And Queen Sura herself seemed to want peace as well. She offered Mokran her only daughter as a wife. Remembering his friend Cynon and wishing to calm the chaos caused by the murder of Bir and Hannas, Mokran accepted the offer. The Queen’s daughter was a beautiful flame-colored Magmip who fell in love with Mokran as soon as she saw him. The two young dragons were soon married in the ancestral palace of the Hannas clan. They both looked radiant. Mokran even donned an elegant gold-and-silver helmet for the occasion instead of the old iron one he typically wore.

But alas for the young lovers! For Feyora, his new wife, was under an enchantment. Sura had put a spell on her own daughter so that the night after the wedding she would murder King Mokran. As he slept peacefully by the fire, she raised aloft a knife to stab it into his throat. She wept as her body did what she wanted desperately not to do. Fortunately for Mokran, the weeping woke him up and he was able to move aside just as the knife stabbed down. It still cut through the scales of his face, leaving a long, deep wound that would later heal into an unsightly scar.

As he jumped up and aside, his tail lashed out, accidentally knocking Feyora into the fireplace. She screamed as the fire burned into her. If she had been some lesser species of dragon, the blazing flames in Mokran’s room would have killed her. But, being a Magmip, they merely burned the enchantment out of her. Thankfully, Mokran had been so surprised by her attack that he was not overcome by one of his rages. He reached into the fire and drew out his wife, whose rocky scales glowed red with heat. As she cried and clung to him, he knew that the attempt at murder was not of her own will. And who would have had the opportunity to enchant Feyora but her mother? Yet he also knew that revealing what he suspected about Sura would put the two clans at war again.

So when in council and asked about the wound across the right side of his face, he merely said that some unknown enemy of Clan Hannas had enchanted Feyora to attack him. Roars calling for the death of Feyora rose from the council before him. With a deep roar of his own, he silenced the howling council and explained that Feyora had been freed from the enchantment. He suggested, however, that the clan should even in this time of peace be prepared lest war come knocking.

By Mokran’s command, the fighting dragons of the Hannas Clan redoubled their training. Smoke from armor and weapon forges darkened the already sooty skies. It seemed, however, that the worries of Mokran were in vain. The two clans continued to live in peace, and Feyora bore three strong children to her husband: Huchran, Jonnei, and Zoraam. Each of them had a few sparkling golden scales scattered about their body like tiny pieces of jewelry. Mokran and Feyora loved them dearly, and Sura’s icy heart seemed also to melt whenever she saw her grandchildren.

During this time, there was little need for Mokran’s famous rage. There were fewer raids from the desert dragons than there had been in the reign of old King Hannas, and the peace between the clans meant that they could meet any such attacks with a united front. Five years after the marriage of Mokran and Feyora, the leaders of the Hannas and Bir clans met on neutral ground to discuss a recent incursion into their territories by a band of Agricos.

As Mokran talked with Sura alone inside a temple of Bishops the Solarizon, the dragons of her escort slaughtered those of the blood-red Numine’s escort. Sensing that something was wrong, Mokran strode outside to see the forces of Clan Bir standing triumphant over the bodies of his dragons. Rage filled him once more, as it had done when he was young. But before his scales had a chance to harden under the fire of that fury, Sura stabbed a knife into the back of his neck. Mokran fell to the ground and the fire in his eyes appeared to go out.

But in that state of almost-death he had a vision. His father Ifres, the Golden Hexalios, visited him and told him that for the sake of his clan he must rise up and strike! Strike, more justly than when he killed the usurper Bir. With difficulty he pulled himself from the morass of sleep and death and opened his eyes. He found himself bound and helpless. There was even a strong band around his snout to keep him from using the powerful weapon of his flame. Sura smiled cruelly down at him as one of her soldiers prodded him with a none-too-gentle claw. She had cast a spell on him to prevent his ferocious rage from coming to his aid.

For weeks he was kept imprisoned within the palace of Bir, paraded in front of Sura’s citizens during the day as a symbol of her power. During the night he wept over his fate, cursing the spell upon him. But at long last he remembered how the Queen’s magic had melted away in the fire after Feyora tried to murder him. He doubted that his own fire could do it; he would have to plunge his whole body into the flames at once to ensure that none of the curse remained within his scales.

So when the guards dragged him out of his cell in the morning for that shameful march through the town, Mokran went with a heart filled with hope. As he and the soldiers walked past the river of lava that wound its way down from the mountain on which the palace stood through the center of town, he put all of his strength into breaking away to jump into the slow-moving stream. Down, down through the molten rock he struggled, feeling the heat burn his unprotected scales. But he could feel that the spell was also burning. He wondered whether the spell or he would give out first. At last, as his scales became little more than ash and the chains around his body melted off, he felt the spell give way. The lava no longer hurt. In fact, he could feel the welcome heat healing his injured body.

Mokran rose from the gleaming river, pulling himself with difficulty from the thick liquid rock that gripped his hindquarters as he drew himself out onto the bank. He smiled as the soldiers stared at him in terror. Fury suffused his mind and body. The river rose at his call and swept over the town, crushing houses like eggshells and rolling over any dragon unfortunate enough to be caught in it. He himself flew toward the palace to destroy the one who had tormented him these long weeks. Sura came flying out to meet him, teeth bared in a snarl, trusting in her magic to save her.

But her spells were to no avail. The icy blades she tossed in his direction might as well have been directed against the explosive force of a volcano. Gold-gleaming Mokran smashed through them and caught her in midair. He tore her apart, scattering bloody shreds across the lava-covered land. A scream of victory burst from his throat. He had won. His greatest enemy had been utterly defeated.

Part Four: Warriors Of The Green Fields

After Mokran returned home, he took on the job of ruling both the Hannas Clan and the survivors of the Bir Clan. By now, his foster mother Ulhan was growing older and gave him a free hand in leading, though she still offered advice now and then. There was less bitterness than might have been expected from the Bir Clan--as it turned out, they had also been weary of Sura’s rule and the nobles living in her capital city had not been strongly liked either.

Yet a new threat was rising. Warriors from the sunlit fields beyond the Desert began moving south to attack the Volcanic lands, pillaging and destroying as they went. For the first time in over a century, a full summit was called between the dozens of Volcano clan leaders to decide what would have to be done about this menace. Eventually they voted to send a united force to meet the Grassland soldiers at the Vrao lava river which ran along the northern border of the Volcano. But they had difficulties in deciding who would lead that army. Each clan leader wanted the glory of that expedition. At last it was suggested that they should draw lots; the winner would lead the army.

The generalship fell to Mokran. So the next day the deep-red Numine set out with his soldiers toward the border. When they reached it, they saw a vast host of Rociri and Saurium approaching through the skies, with sturdy Tigrilias running below on the hot sands. Many of those in the air carried weapons, unlike the Volcanic forces. Mokran snarled his contempt of the steely claws as he led the army into a charge.

As the Numines and Magmips of Mokran’s army rose into the air, the Venu remained on the ground to face off against the Tigrilias as the Numines and Magmips of Mokran’s army rose into the air behind their general. The two armies came together like two waves crashing against each other. A few Volcanic soldiers died instantly as they ran upon the waiting blades. Mokran’s golden scales glowed warningly as he plunged into the heart of the cloud of Grassland warriors. He bellowed as he torched soldier after soldier with white-hot flames that seemed to have been born from the sun’s heart. The Volcanic dragons backed out of his way, knowing that death would be certain if they remained near their commander now.

Mokran fought on. Swipes of his claws and sweeps of his fire brought down yet more Grassland soldiers. But the swords and spears of the Grassland warriors were longer than his teeth or claws, and by sneaky maneuvering and dodging they surrounded him. Now he was on the defensive, using his blazing flame to ward off the attacks of the enemy. He fought on, filled with battle-madness, but a lucky spear throw tore through his right wing and he began stumbling in the air. Slower now, he was unable to counter all the attacks of his enemies. A sword cut through the membrane of his left wing and deep into his side. A knife blade cut through the strap holding his iron helmet upon his head and it fell to the ground.

Rage ran through his bones and blood as the Grassland soldiers forced him to the ground. His dragons wished to aid him, but they could not. For if they came close to him, they would have been cut to pieces by their leader’s mad swipes or fried by his furious blasts. Sword after sword cut into him as he roared defiance at the invaders. At last he grew so weak that he could hardly stand, but then he felt something familiar at his back. Behind him was the welcoming warmth of the Vrao river, running bright with lava. With a roar that rose from an earth-shaking rumble to a maddened shriek, he called on the river to aid him.

The molten rock answered him and overflowed its banks. It swept over the Grassland forces, embedding them in a burning tomb as the Volcanic dragons backed hastily away from the growing mass of lava. But the lava was rising over Mokran too. He no longer had the strength to pull himself out of it as the raging river’s contents rose higher and higher into a peak over his head that covered the entire army of the Grassland. He died as his enemies did, crushed under the molten mountain that rose eagerly to the skies.

When Mokran died, a strange thing happened to the lava that had risen from the river. It cooled and solidified almost instantly, as though the powerful Numine’s passing had robbed it of its heat. But within the heart of the mountain, a flame burned. The spirit of the son of Ifres melted out the inside and lava began to boil within. Then the new volcano erupted as though triumphing in Mokran’s victory.

The fiery mountain stands there still, a lone outpost of the Volcano rising proudly on the Desert’s side of the Vrao. From time to time it erupts again. The dragons who live nearby say that this means Mokran is roaring for battle once more.