Having abandoned cozy surroundings of Loriel, our heroes took the map and, having found a short passage near the main road, headed through the dense foliage of the elvish forest. They were surrounded by the unimaginable beauty and precious of rich nature of those lands: tall gigantic trees, delightfully rustling their bushy foliage, observed two wanderers making their way through the forestal wilds and tried to make their long way less tiring by slight rustling; forestal spirits, whispering something to the heroes, concentrated on the searches of the Source, were whirling around them in the fabulous, dizzy dance of flamboyant leafage, blowing their skin with smooth touches of cool wind. After a couple of hours of long, fruitless search our heroes were run off their legs.
—That's it! I can't go any further!—Esrael uttered, heavily journeying on the narrow footpath. Having meticulously folded the map and put it in the inside pocket of his coat, he stopped and tiredly nestled closer on a nearby tree.— My legs are trembling! Let's have a rest.
—Be patient, Esrael, we're almost there,—the dragon, having moved away from a large rotten log, assured.
—What does your "almost there" mean, I wonder?—Esrael, punching nearby shrooms, sarcastically asked.—Hour, two, maybe three? We even didn't manage to have a snack!
—Speak for yourself,—the dragon, having damned the spider web, in which he unluckily got, said.—Damn spiders... I've managed to satisfy the worm in the morning.
—Well, glad to hear that, I guess,—Esrael replied with the pure sarcasm.—I even feel full now!
During the conversation, the dragon had decently moved forward, while Esrael continued to slowly trace him. "When does this damn forest end already?!"—Esrael exclaimed and, having swung his leg, kicked the first little hill to come across. At that moment the dragon's acute hearing was startled at the desperate yell of pain, which had blustered from his friend's vocal bands. In a blink of an eye, he turned around and witnessed terrific accident's consequences: Esrael's calf was crippled by a large iron beorn spring-trap, left by absent-minded poachers, who seldom wandered through the forest. The blood was dripping on the clean green moss of that cozy place, branching into dozens of slim streams, which were filling tiny holes in the ground with red liquid, like little mountain rivers streaming through silent mountain halls.
The dragon realized that every minute was at stake, so he leaned over the crippled comrade and tried to free his leg from iron jaws of the trap, but Esrael's desperate painful scream made him stop.
—Get it off my leg!—Esrael, twisted with splitting, overwhelming pain, begged.—Please, hurry! For Zeus's sake! It hurts!
—Ok, ok, just wait for a while, mate,—the dragon answered in a trembling voice, trying to find any suitable stick in the bushes. Having grabbed the first seen one, he put it into Esrael's shaking hand and demanded:—Clutch it with your jaws — it's gonna' hurt pretty bad. Nod as soon as you ready.
Esrael silently grabbed the stick, put it into the mouth and clutched if between the jaws. Having put himself together, the crippled hero of Eldoras closed his eyes and agreeably nodded. The dragon, having grabbed two sides of the deadly trap, began to unclamps the poachers' deadly tool. It is hard to believe that Esrael didn't lose consciousness because of pain: our hero felt his soft tissues get off the rusty teeth of the trap, pouring blood on the soft fluffy moss carpet. It seemed as if thousands of arrows and claws had pierced into his leg, tearing muscles of his crippled limb. But his sufferings didn't last for long: the jaws of the spring trap opened, and Esrael's uglyfied and crippled limb was finally freed.
The wound instantly began to bleed — tiny streams of red body wine began to run from the torn muscles. Esrael started to moan more heavily. The dragon instantly grabbed tough elvish hood off his friend's shoulders and rapidly tightened it slightly above the wound to prevent bleeding. Shortly after slashing streams of red phlegm stopped — only tiny balls of red body fuel dripped on the red marshy moss. But the threat didn't fade away: there was still the danger of gangrene for Esrael to face. Gangrene... That devoted follower of death, which had slain many defenders of Eldoras during the siege. They were racing against time, so the dragon rapidly took Esrael from the ground and headed into the thicket.
—Don't worry,—he tremblingly assured his comrade.—It must be around here somewhere.
—Leave me here, near the tree,—Esrael weakly murmured. The clock was ticking: the wound got covered with terrible black abscesses, which secreted a black substance with tiny parts of decayed muscles. The dragon was conscious that things were getting hairy. Having stopped for a second, he touched the substance with a tip of his claw and tried it with his tongue. Having instantly spat acid liquid, he realized that the trap's crenels were covered with hydra's bile, mixed with black stringer's poison — the bug which elves used to poison their arrows. One cup of that mixture was enough to exterminate Eldorase's population. Having given Esrael a pitiful look, who went on pleading for leaving him near the tree, the dragon refused to carry out his request:
—No way, mate. We're gonna' find the Keeper of the Good together. I won't let you down. Don't even think about it!
With these words our scaly hero, making his way through the dense foliage, this time with the meticulous care, continued his searches for the Source. The time was flying, the dragon seemed to have gone through every visible footpath, through every road, there was no tree at the forest he hadn't encountered, but all his attempts to find the source were a failure: each road, no matter how broad or narrow it was, led him into deadlock, making his heart sink. Finally, when powers nearly left him, the dragon put Esrael near a giant oak and, having desperately sighed, sat nearby.
—Hold on, Esrael! You're gonna' make it!—the dragon, looking into his dying friend's eyes, assured.—Just don't pass away. Just hold on for a while.
But his friend didn't utter a single word in reply: all his thoughts were wandering somewhere in the furthest corners of his consciousness, squeezed with a giant boulder of despair and fear. Esrael couldn't think of anything. His mind was whirling in the stream of occurrence, leading to the abyss of doom and fatalism. He saw emerald ash crowns, the infinite bushy foliage of which hastened before his eyes, lullingly swishing over his sinful soul as if it was calling him with its delightful singing into the silent Hade's domain to rest in peace forever. The dragon, seldom checking Esrael's state, continued to hastily run through dense, infinite forest foliage, the spirits of which desired to mislead their long-awaited victims. But all of a sudden, when streams of desperation started to silently tremble in our winged hero's soul, a dilapidated den, covered in green-white moss and surrounded with strings of leaf patterns, caught his acute attention. Despite its abandoned and neglected look, that ugly den still radiated life: a grey smoke was slightly fuming from a chimney, evidencing that the house was not abandoned. The dragon didn't want the last chance of saving his friend to slip from his paws. Having straightened his back and looked into Esrael's unfocused eyes, our scaly hero hopefully whispered: "We're almost through this. I've found some help". Haven't waited for a reply, the dragon hastened towards the only particle of hope left, lost in the depths of desperation. The den was illuminated with a dim light, which penetrated through tiny, covered with ashen windows, through which a little moving shadow could be seen; it was fussing like a mouse in its shelter and pouring freshly-prepared potions from a bowl into a bowl. The dragon instantly came up to the door and loudly knocked it. All of a sudden the silence fell. Shortly after silent steps followed behind the rotten oak door, hammered with rust sheets of metal.
—Who's there?—an irritated voice, radiating unique old man's timbre, thundered.
—Please, let us in,—the dragon replied.—My friend is dying. He needs help.
A stunned silence fell. Shortly after the door opened and a short druid, holding an aspen walking stick, appeared before startled dragon's snout. He was in the ripe old age: his face, hidden with a bushy beard, was covered with waves of freckles, shielding his kind grayish brown eyes. The recluse was dressed poorly: a dim green robe, hanging down to the feet of the midget old man, hid his ragged canvas wrapper. His belt was full of bulbs with colorful liquids, suitable for potion-making. Having given the three-meter-tall ice dragon a startling, but heart-warming look, the Druid nodded and strictly ordered:
—Bring him into the house — I'll try to do something.
—Thank you very much!—the dragon replied joyfully and rapidly, nearly hitting wooden cornice, entered the small alchemist's den. The old druid, having nodded and silently murmured something, followed the dragon and shut the door. The hut was full of cans, potions and stuffed animals for performing alchemical experiments. Somewhere in the farther corner a small bed, covered with a thick moss blanket, on which the old druid slept during warm forest nights, nestled. In another corner, slightly left to the bed, his working place — a little table, crowded with potion bulbs and frog limbs, was located. The rusty mining torch, which had a dozen of little glow worms sleeping on its sides, hung over the table. Despite the fact that the atmosphere inside seemed to the dragon slightly weird, our hero was a kind of imbued by it: a strange feeling of coziness and peacefulness was beating in his heart, something beckoned him, some strange power didn't let him go. —Put him on the bed!—the druid, rummaging in the desk drawer, hoping to find the exact potion, ordered. The dragon didn't go against druid's wish and carefully, trying not to touch the wound, put Esrael on the bed. The poor fellow was merely drawing a single breath: the poison had nearly taken all the life power from his body. The leg was now a black, rotting carnage, which was losing tiny particles of flesh, dropping on the floor planks.
—Can you move your leg?—the druid, having carefully touched the wound, asked Esrael. Our hero negatively bowed his head with a moan.
—Hm-m... Everything is worse than I expected,—the druid, having scratched the back of his head, said.—We must find the cure as soon as possible.
—We can go back to Loriel,—the dragon, overwhelmed with a flimsy hope, suggested.—The best medicasters of Uniearth live there. They will help Esrael.
—No medicine of this world is able to cure this poison,—the druid, having tiredly sat on a stool, contritely answered.—The only thing that can save your friend is hidden in this forest by the ancient — those, who created our world. And only the one with a clean soul and good intentions, the one, who has sacred and truly divine blood streaming through his veins, the one, who can gift people with hope in the most desperate hour, the one, who will destroy the evil in the finest hour, can control the power.
—You're talking about the Keeper of the Good, aren't you?—the dragon asked.—Do you know him? Is he here? In the forest?
—Yes, I know him,—the druid mysteriously replied.—I once knew the other one. But he was slain in the decisive battle and gave his life for peace. His descendant was born long ago in this world, but he was too weak and young to mount responsibility on his soul. But now, when his bones and flesh have become tough when his mind has purified, when honor and courage boil in his heart, he is the only one who can save this world from the new tragedy.
—Will he be able to help Esrael?—the dragon asked hopefully.
—There is a great force in his hands,—the druid replied.—If he applies this force wisely, he shall make the burnt grass rise from the ashes, make the cut forest sparkle with its dense foliage, and rivers shall stream again, cutting ancient rocks.
—Will you help me to find him?—the dragon, having stared into the Druid's eyes, hopefully, pleaded. The old man, having slowly opened his eyes and pleasantly smiled, sedately uttered:
—Yes, bold scaly warrior. I will lead you to the Keeper of the Good,—with these words the druid opened the rotten door of his den and, leaning on his short staff, slowly, like a mighty ent, headed towards the dark part of Loriel's forest, well-protected by large paws-branches. The dragon, trying to keep up, rapidly followed him.
The path of the dragon and the old druid led through impassable forest thicket: any way they chose to pass was blocked with giant decaying trees or deep marshes, covered with a green layer of ooze. Clutching knots and snags, tripping over tree roots and stumps, pulling out his paws, stuck in the black resin, the dragon was hastening after the druid towards his aim. Infinite swamps exhausted our scaly hero, drew the last drops of stamina out of his tough scaly body. Nevertheless, the dragon stubbornly followed the old druid, excited at his light step. At last, their journey finished: the old man stepped onto a little island, which was occupied by remains of a large fortress wall, covered with a thick blanket of moss and hidden in the shadows of glorious oaks. Only a few remained crenels and a crippled watch-tower, which had tiny streams of pure water pouring from the arrow loops, testified its attachment to the past elvish glory.
—Once here was the mighty fortress called Stone Tooth, built by elves to defend Loriel. During the Third National Strife, it was grounded down by orcs. Dicoturar the I the Demolisher, the father of Grishnak the Headslicer, had been sieging this impeccable stumbling block for fifty days until the whole garrison died hero's death. Elves thoroughly honor that day — it was called Elyimarian, in honor of the great nobleman Elyimar, who was in charge of the defense. This fortress saved Loriel. Centuries have passed, years have flowed, but there's still something in these ruins that contains the most miraculous power in Uniearth, the one Elyimar's warriors were defending that day — the Source of Infinite life.
—So, that's true after all...—the dragon happily murmured.—The legends were right. Will it help Esrael?
—It will,—the druid, having mysteriously nodded, assured.—But it is not that simple, my friend... There's still one problem left.
—I'm at all ears,—the dragon, trying not to miss any scrap of information, said.
—The source itself cannot heal since only the one who possesses its power can soothe the suffering of the wounded. If a single drop of holy water pours on a wound, the source will take all the years of an unfortunate, which he has lived. And so that's why the Keeper of the Good, the chosen one, was created; to subject and control the force, gifted by the Gods. To possess this power you must drink the water from the source.
—Why don't you try it yourself?—the dragon suggested.—You are an experienced and wise wizard, you are the one who can apply the force properly.
—I can't,—the druid answered.—I was chosen by the Gods to guard this source and I'm forbidden to sip a single drop from it.
—It turns out that it is me, who must do that, doesn't it?—the dragon murmured puzzlingly.—But my soul is not pure. I have so many sins — there's too much blood on my paws... I'm not even a human, elf, dwarf, orc... —Let the purity of your intentions be judged by the Gods and the source itself,—the druid calmed the dragon down.—If you wish to save your friend, you must try. Esrael's life depends on your decision...
The dragon was in two minds. But it didn't last for long. Having chewed the cud for a while, he put himself together and said:
—I will do it. For Esrael.
The druid nodded in agreement. After that, he turned towards the fortress and, having lifted his freckled hand up, silently murmured a spell. In a blink of an eye, to the dragon's startling amaze, the impeccable wall started to rumble, break into thousands of tiny pieces, and in a moment the glorious elvish fortification turned into the pile of ash and shatters. When the dust had scattered, a flamboyant green valley appeared before the dragon; it was festooned with the blanket of hundreds of snowdrops, among which, surrounded by powerful stone lumps and motley trees and bushes, the sacred source of the whole Uniearth was boiling. The dragon couldn't believe his eyes: the landscape before his eyes seemed marvelous Elysian Fields of Tartarus among the grim world of mortal existence. The source radiated a strange feeling of stillness and peacefulness. All the haste around the dragon faded, stepped out of the way; his heartbeat became slower, filling each cell of his body with a unique sense of harmony and enlightenment. Our hero couldn't resist the magical precious of that divine place; he stood in one place, immobile, dazzled with the amazing beauty of that marvelous, unbelievable fascination of that reserved place, and he could stand there forever if the druid's voice didn't interrupt the unique feeling of complete relief:
—If you are done with sightseeing, you may go.
The dragon was brought into senses, and when he slowly, cautiously headed towards the Source, sudden druid's exclamation made him stop:
—Wait! There's something I must warn you about.
Our hero turned around.
—If the Gods find your soul worthy of such glorious title and gift you with titan-worthy power, the time will never end for you — your life will be free of the burden of oldness, the fresh, unspoiled blood will stream through your veins, your mind and thoughts will be clear forever, even after dozens, thousands of years. If you become the Keeper of the Good, your path will be full of suffering and grief: your friends will get old and pass away, while you will continue to live. No terrible recollection shall ever vanish, faces of lost friends and folks shall poison your mind. You will have to secure the happiness of others, but refuse your own forever. So I ask you, my friend, — are you ready to carry such a heavy burden? Do you desire this fate?
—I do,—the dragon replied, having sighed heavily.—In any event, someone has to accept this offer. Moreover... Once, a long time ago, I lost my happiness and I don't want others to lose theirs.
—Well, this choice is yours, my friend, and I have no power to force you to move out of the way. Success attends you! May the Gods be with you!
The dragon silently nodded and, having turned back on his old mentor, slowly headed towards the desired aim, cautiously stepping on slightly moistured grass. Those couple of minutes, which he had spent to reach the most sacred place for Uniearth, seemed to him an eternity. His heart was in his mouth. The paws were trembling with anxiety and fear. The barrage of thousands of odd thoughts were entering his mind, fogged his consciousness, but all of them were unimportant in the face of the one: "What if I fail? What if all the sacrifice was useless?" But it was too late to hesitate: clawed paws had already touched the stony edges of the Source. There was no way to retreat. Is that step so fearful? Is the fear worthy of all those terrible moments, when the blood of the young and innocent poured on the white walls of Eldoras? Is the fear worthy of all who fell on Tempestwind's walls? The mind is fogged with unnecessary thoughts... The mind is misted with unnecessary thoughts... Enough of hesitation! His paws are trembling with fear, double-edged snake tongue licks shaking teeth. Finally, our hero put himself together and dipped some water from the source. It is so precious in its simpleness and so holy in its importance...
The seconds were snailing by — the time seemed to freeze at all as if it had been stopped by the great force of Phobos. Having set lips to the water, our hero suddenly stopped: fear was still powerful; that instinct, that devoted ally in all dangers he had faced, continued to defend his owner. Animal instincts were still boiling in his veins, were beating with the rhythm of the heart. But our hero knew that they had to be pocketed. Forever. To become enlightened, to understand orcs, humans, elves and dwarves, to extinguish the fire of conflicts to come, to draw a line of the piece between the lands, to see how the peace against the evil stands. Having shut the eyes, the dragon touched the cool liquid. Enough of trembling and doubts! No place is left for them in the soul! The narrow stream flowed through the dragon's throat... No holy liquid is left in the moistured paws. During a couple of seconds, the dragon couldn't understand, why nothing was happening. Was that all? What did that sign mean? But all his expectations rumbled when sudden pain in the chest kneeled him to the ground. Our hero hastened to draw a tiny particle of air in his lungs, but his attempts were inconsequential: something powerful prevented him from doing that simple moment of life. Having fallen on the grass, the dragon grabbed his throat, meanly trying to take a tiny drop of air. He felt how his heart stopped, how his sight was failing, how the blood stopped streaming in his veins, how his powers were sinking in the dense moss. The last thing he saw was the smiling druid's face, staring at his eyes. Darkness... Darkness... Darkness...
Shortly after our hero opened his eyes and, surprisingly, found himself alive amid completely unfamiliar surroundings. Having looked around and touched his chest in hope to feel that there were no wounds left, the dragon realized that he wasn't on Earth anymore: pure clean lakes, which had tiny fish splashing in its water, were sparkling dazzlingly; enormous forests, blooming with flamboyant green foliage, housed preciously tweeting birds, the chorus singing of which created an impression of complete relief and peacefulness; right in front of him a wide, azure stream was flowing, with its clean water sparkling in the rays of light.
"Just great!—the dragon thought.—It seems, I'm in heaven. Well, I'm dead... Wait! I'm dead?! What?! No way! But... Uniearth! Esrael!"
—He is going to be alright, dragon,—an unexpected bass thundered behind our hero. Having stepped aside in awe, the dragon instantly turned around. The thing he saw startled his imagination: thrusting his soul with frowning sight, three main Gods of Uniearth — Zeus, who was holding a lightning in his hand, Poseidon, the ruler of the seas, who pointed his trident at the dragon, and Hades, the Master of Tartarus, who held a strange shining ball in his hand — stood right before him. Zeus was the first to speak:
—Greetings, dragon! We have been waiting for you.
—For me?!—the dragon puzzlingly specified, trying to put himself together after facing three mighty Gods of Olympus.—Why me? My time has already come? So soon?
—We have decided that you are worthy of the title of the Keeper of the Good, —the Poseidon uttered.—Your actions, which were made in the name of greater good and balance between the good and the evil, forced us to make this decision.
—You are the only one, who managed to unite four kingdoms, which had been adsorbed by hostility for hundreds of years, in the face of the new threat,—Hades said huskily, gently palming the shining ball.—Your species is known for its violence and immorality, but you are different. You value life in the heart of hearts and do everything in your power to keep it safe.
—Clean blood is streaming in your veins,—Zeus said.—You managed to do the impossible by uniting hostile peoples, it was you, who evoke the will for enlightenment, will for victory and struggle in their hearts.
—So we found it necessary to entitle you as the Keeper of the Good,—Hades said and drew closer to the dragon. Having opened his jaws with cold hands, the God of death showed a strange glowing ball.—We gift you with eternal life and youth. This divine light will give you the power of healing any wound or disease you encounter. Now go and lead peoples of Uniearth to battle with the common enemy! Surpass your ancestor's achievements! Your mission, for now, is obeying the will of the Good on Earth!
With these words, Hades put the tiny ball into the dragon's jaws and shut them. Having swallowed the odd object, the dragon felt that something started pulling him down, back on Earth. The last thing he heard before vanishing was Zeus's words: "Carry out your destiny! For now, you are the new Keeper of the Good!" Hardly had the dragon utter a farewell word, he instantly found himself back on Earth. Having opened his eyes and shielded his snout from the dazzling light, our hero confusingly looked around. The druid was sitting near his paws, who seemed to have lost all hope to bring the dragon back. His freckled face was full of desperation and grief. But when his acute hearing caught the noise of a movement, the druid turned his head towards the dragon, and his face shone in the dazzling light of happiness, revealing his broad, warm smile.
—Gods be praised! Zeus has heard my worships! The new era is coming! The new dawn shall appear over Uniearth and... What do you feel, the Keeper of the Good?
—I... I don't know...—the dragon replied with confusion, trying to concentrate on his feelings.—I feel as if my soul has become younger for thousands of years, I feel a strange power streaming through my veins... I feel light in my soul...
—It worked,—the druid silently murmured, merely holding his tears.—It worked! It worked! Now we're going to teach those bastards a lesson...
—Wait, wait, wait — calm down for a minute,—the dragon interrupted druid's heartwarming compliments.—We're going to return to that later. Esrael's life is at stake.
—Yes, yes! Exactly! This is a chance to apply your new powers!—the druid hastened and started helping the dragon to get up.—Hurry! Esrael is going to die!
With these words, the Druid turned around and hastened towards the forest thicket, which had led them to the Source. The dragon, after being brought into senses, rushed after the druid, when all of a sudden an odd loud cracking sound stopped him. Having turned around, he saw a stunning spectacle: the remains of the fortress, rolling into the deep water abyss, rumbled with a loud cracking noise into tiny pieces, burying the holiest place in Loriel's forest. In a couple of seconds, everything was over — in the place of the most sacred place of Uniearth an enormous pile of crippled boulders formed, which lonely mounted over green forest bushes. Having heavily sighed, the dragon looked at the wandering druid and, having recollected spirits, hastened after him.
When the freckled druid's hand opened the oaken door of the hut, Esrael was within an inch of death: his face was blue and didn't show any sign of life, the flesh around the wound became black like ash. The dragon didn't know what to do. His thoughts began to wander, interfering with making the right decision. All of a sudden he remembered about the gift of healing, which the Gods had been speaking about. He rapidly put his right frontal paw on his dying friend's leg, and how surprised he was when it poured soft white light. In a couple of seconds, the dragon couldn't believe his eyes: the wound began to heal itself! Soft muscle tissues filled with fresh blood, the darkness around the wound faded, and in the place, where the bone only remained, the rows of muscles began to appear, instantly hiding the pure white bone. In a moment there was nothing left from the terrible wound, left by the severe beorn spring trap. The paleness faded from Esrael's face, and how happy the dragon was when his friend's cheeks filled with the glow of health. Having opened sane eyes, Esrael amazingly looked around and, having given his hands admirable look, excitedly murmured:
—It's impossible...—he joyfully stared at the dragon, who was hardly pocketing his happiness.—How did you do that?
—Holy Zeus — you're alive!—the dragon enthusiastically exclaimed and without paying any attention to the silently smiling druid hastened to squeeze Esrael. His joy was overwhelming. The dragon noticed that he was facing a new feeling, which had never crossed his heart before. He was boiling with the unique delight, which instantly filled each cell of his immortal soul. —What... What happened to me?—Esrael still couldn't believe his miraculous healing.—I only remember the trap, piercing through my leg... And then...
—It doesn't matter anymore,—the dragon replied.—Your leg was gruesomely t