Stephen Paul

The Wells of Malakai

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. The cryptic words were etched into the ground with deep, uneven scratches—the beginnings of a sepulcher that never made it further than the blueprint. A hundred feet below the forest floor and rimmed by towering trees with thick trunks and full canopies, the sinkhole was perfectly hidden. The well was not devoid of life at the bottom, however. In fact, it was thriving except for one small macabre anomaly. Amidst a field of lush grasses, ripe with berries and wildflowers of violet and yellow, a circular patch of dried, dead earth nine feet in diameter marked the resting place of five great men centuries-dead and nearly forgotten. At the center, a long-dead king of legend sat cross-legged and upright, regal even in death. His crown still rested on his head, and the sword that named him was buried point first in the ground with long bony fingers entwined around the hilt. Fragments of long-ago frayed garments clung to his bones in scarce patches.