By Daniel Huff (8th Grade)
In the land of Alanar, there was a young man named Mason. He grew up as the apprentice of the great swordmaster, Bord, a knight who fought in the Dragon Wars: a series of wars where the elves from the North and humans from the South teamed against the dragons and the black dragon king, Taconium. The dragons were created thousands of years ago by humans using dark magic, called Methanic, to alter their bodies. The elves and humans beat the dragons and forced them to retreat to the canyons in the east.
Bord walked up to Mason, with a look of pride in his eyes and asked him, “Are you ready to spar me and leave to join the Imperial Army?”
Mason gave him a look of excitement, fear, and impatientness. “I am ready to become a master in the way of the sword,” he replied. So Bord stood there while Mason charged, swinging his sword. Bord easily dodged and smacked his back with the flat end of the sword, knocking him down. Mason jumped up quickly, and paced around Bord, looking for a weakness in both himself and his master. Then they charged, exchanging blows and parries with their dull-edged swords, swinging back and forth until they heard a mighty roar. They turned and saw a huge black figure flying towards them.
“Dragon!” shouted Bord, who looked terrified at the sight it.
“But the dragons were sent to the canyons!” Mason shouted, already running for the weapons rack for a bow.
“Mason, go get a obsidian-tipped arrow and a crossbow from the armory! Hurry, we will have to find a chink in the dragon’s armor. So he ran to the armory, a huge shed with metal shelves of weapons; it even had a cannon. Mason headed to the bows and grabbed what he needed.
The dragon was already in the courtyard when he got back, its shiny black scales were sharp as knives, its teeth and claws were mighty spears, and it had deep red eyes, darker than the crimson blood of the mighty foe’s prey. He handed Bord the weapons, and stood back to watch. Bord knocked the arrow and aimed at the eyes. The dragon was not a dumb beast at all, but rather a genius with the knowledge of its parents, as dragons inherit the memories of ancestors. Before the sword master could fire, the dragon blew molten flames, hotter than the lava of Mount Vesuvius, at Bord. The man was swallowed by the flames, and burned to something past ashes.
The dragon turned for Mason, and Mason ran towards the armory, thinking about a weapon to use against it. Mason got there and saw the cannon. He grabbed a metal ball, put it in, and aimed for the dragon’s wing, which was spread so the dragon could show off before eating the young swordsman. Mason lit the fuse, and the cannon fired, ripping a hole in the once beautiful wing. Black blood streamed out from all of the edges of the jagged hole. The dragon looked at Mason and growled, “You may have defeated me this time, but there are thousands of us now, and every one of us is worth 100 of you.”
Then the dragon hobbled off, and Mason sat down and wept. He wept for his master and for the world.