Finally: The Epic Drualt-By Grace Good

The Epic Poem: Drualt

Originally by Gail Carson Levine from The Two Princesses of Bamarre

Completed and compiled by Grace Good

Out of a land laid waste

To a land untamed,

Monster-ridden,

The lad Drualt led
A ruined, ragtag band.

In his arms, tenderly,

He carried Bruce,

The child king,

First ruler of Bamarre.

Drualt fought alongside King Bruce,

And they went into battle

Against the monsters of the land.

King Bruce, armor shining,

Led the left flank, shouting,

‘Hide monsters, hide

From our might.’

Drualt, armor bloody,

Led the left flank, shouting,

‘Come, monsters, come

And meet our might.’

King Bruce frowned,

His mouth set grim, and

A dread light was in

His eyes. His soldiers too

Were grim, and battled

As a farmer plows

A stony field, with a will,

But no delight.

Drualt laughed, and

A glad light was in

His eyes. His soldiers

Laughed too, and fought

As a lad or maid begins a dance,

With a will and much delight.

Bruce and his warriors

Sang out-

Drualt and his warriors

Rang out-

‘Now carve my sword.

Now bite, my arrows.

Now die, my enemy.

Victory for Bamarre!’

When our hero was still

But a lad,

He made a visit to

The court of evil King Eldred,

Ruler of Tyor.

During the banquet, his host

Served the wine himself, causing

Drualt to laugh

And insist that he need not

Trouble himself,

A servant would do fine.

The servant returned with

A newly filled goblet,

Exactly alike to the king’s-

But with no poison.

Furious, Eldred inquired

Who Drualt was to tell

Him how to run his house.

Immediately after Drualt’s

Brisk reply, he was thrown

Into the dark, dank dungeon below

The castle.

The dungeon walls were stone,

Hard as a ogre’s head.

The floor was dirt,

Soft as milady’s powder.

Drualt burrowed,

His belt buckle for a shovel,

Singing all the while,

‘Dig or die, dig or die.

Lucky am I to own

A plucky silver buckle.’

Drualt the laugher,

Laughed and sang,

‘Lucky plucky buckle,

Plucky lucky buckle.’

And, laughing more,

‘Buckle plucky lucky.’

Laughing loud, he sang

Till his tongue

Turned topsy-turvy

And he could sing no more

For laughing.

Drualt, the laugher,

Laughed at the sun

On his shield,

The moon in his silver sword,

The drum in his heart.

Laughed at his someday death

Glimpsed from afar.

Drualt, the laugher,

Laughed at laughing.

He burrowed out into the

Glorious light of day,

And was snatched up by Yune.

The dragon carried him to her lair,

And he challenged her

Out on the scorching desert.

Fiery breath,

Snapping teeth, volcanic spittle;

Soft underbelly

Ringed by living spikes,

Poison-tipped.

Patient and relentless

As the desert sand,

Dealing hot death

In bitter morsels-

The dragon Yune.

No scales, no whipping tail,

Only a shining face,

Beacon in battle.

Only a man, the laugher,

Tall among men,

The warrior Drualt.

Yune’s hoard-

Knights’ bones,

Gnawed white;

Maidens’ bones,

Charred black;

Ruby brooch;

Tiara of diamonds;

My lady’s golden slipper-

Yune’s hoard,

Tall as a tower.

Drualt’s army-

Defiance, Drualt’s steed.

Gore-gouger, Drualt’s dagger.

Blood-biter, Drualt’s sword.

Drualt’s own sturdy legs,

Mainstay and Helpmeet;

Drualt’s own mighty arms,

Defender and Thruster.

Drualt’s army,

Sinew and steel.

The challenger dared Yune

To step into the light outside

Her lair.

She taunted him, and complied,

Saying he could not hope

To vanquish her.

Yune exhaled a cloud

Of vapors hot and thick,

Bitter as bile.

The cloud engulfed

Drualt’s army.

Within the cloud,

Defiance stumbled,

Choking.

Hooves beat the smoke.

Drualt, the laugher,

Heard Yune’s laugh.

He raised Blood-biter, and,

glowing white, the sword carved

A tunnel, a sun shaft

To pure air

And, unseen,

To Yune.

Within the moldering,

Noxious hoard,

Drualt’s living hand

Found the sword

Of long-dead hero

Arkule. Yune’s claws

Raked her festering pile

And almost plucked out Drualt’s

Keen right eye.

A claw found instead

Drualt’s scorched shoulder.

The dragon screeched her triumph:

‘You’re mine now. Mine!

Mine to burn, mine to crisp,

Mine to kill.’

She lifted Drualt.

And on that upward journey

To his doom,

Drualt thrust Gore-gouger

Into Yune’s soft flesh

And plunged Arkule’s long

And ancient sword

Into Yune’s stony heart.

Drualt took Freya’s warm hand,

Her strong hand,

Her sword hand,

And pressed it to his lips,

Pressed it to his heart.

‘Come with me,’ he said.

‘Come with me to battle,

My love. Tarry at my side.

Stay with me

When battle is done.

Tarry at my side.

Laugh with me,

And walk with me

The long, long way.

Tarry with me,

My love, at my side.’

And they were married

The following spring,

Drualt and Freya, and

She went forth with him

Into battle.

Bamarre’s ruler and citizens

Had once fought alongside them,

But they were soon left alone.

The heroes camped outside

Of Surmic, a small village in the

Eskern Mountains.

Drualt returned from

His hunt to find Freya

Calling for help, surrounded

By a dozen gryphons.

Not one villager had come

To her aid, though they’d camped

Close outside the village.

Two gryphons lay dead,

Entrails spilling

On the riverbank.

Two gryphons staggered,

And reeled, wings savaged.

Drualt laughed. His sweetheart

Was a doughty warrior.

Eight gryphons still

Set upon Freya, feasting

On her living flesh.

Freya, down upon

Her dimpled knees,

Fought on, but

Her life’s blood poured

Into the roiling river.

Drualt’s laughter died, and

Nevermore did Drualt laugh

Or smile in Bamarre.

Though gryphons bit and clawed

And set upon him, too,

Drualt reached his sweetheart

And knelt and tried

To staunch the rush

Of her heart’s red blood.

A monster pecked

At Freya’s dead lips.

Drualt arose in fury and

Slew it with one sweep

Of his angry sword.

The champion quickly

Dispatched the other gryphons.

When the monsters were

Defeated, the gate of Surmic

Swung open,

And the timid villagers

Stepped out.

‘Come you now?’ roared the hero.

‘Come you now, when all need

Is past? Come you now,

When my love is dead?’

Frightened, the villagers

Drew back and whispered

Among themselves, their voices

Dry as salt.

Drualt held Freya in his

Mighty arms, and turned

To leave the place.

An ancient woman hurried

After him, and asked

If he would return to their aid

In times of need.

Drualt told the crone,

‘Bamarre will see no more of me

Until the timid

Go forth with the strong.

But while her heroes

Still fight alone,

Bamarre will see no more of me.’

Drualt went then

Into the mountains,

Carrying Freya,

Bold spirit, lost love.

And he was no more

Seen in Bamarre.

Now when specter haunts,

Or dragon flames,

Or ogre attacks,

Or gryphon descends,

Bamarre fights alone.

Drualt, the laugher,

Tall among men,

Is gone.

But the tale has not

Run out-not yet!

So be brave, Bamarre!

Go forth, Bamarre,

The timid with the strong.

Let not your heroes

Fight alone.

Then one day,

In the spring of the year

When monsters are hunting,

A hero will come,

A laugher,

Tall among men.

Drualt, hero of Bamarre,

Will return.

So rise up, Bamarre!

Be brave, Bamarre!

Be worthy, Bamarre,

Of your hero’s return.

Step follows step,

Hope follows courage.

Set your face toward danger,

Set your heart on victory.

Victory for Bamarre!