A CASTING OF STONES

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Drake remembered when they were just stories from Old Gran. “The judgment of the gods!” she called them. “A stone cast at the wicked for their sins!”

A cloud of fresh smoke covered the keep, growing with the wind as it consumed every tower and hall and gate. The blackened corpses of the fallen soldiers reeked of rotten pork, seared and unsavory, serving as a feast for crows. Drake held his hand over his mouth, suppressing a justified gag, weaving his way through the courtyard of cadavers.

“How?” he asked himself. “How did we get here?”

He pondered the question, arriving at a memory rather than an answer.

. . .

It was a day that dawned like any other. The sun rose over the eastern mountains of the Valley, providing a warmth that teased at winter’s end. The hunt began at first light, fifteen men in total, led by Drake’s renowned father, Lord Tarragon. He was a dark-skinned man of forty years, towering and burly, with a thick and grizzled beard, a badge of wisdom and strength.

Drake did his best to mimic his lord father, straightening out his back and standing as tall as his thirteen years would allow. He kept his hand on the hilt of his dagger as his father did his longsword. “The Righteous Edge,” he named it. It was broad and taller than even Drake. The blade was made of puronium, the strongest metal known to man, believed to be magic, as it could shear a steel sword with a single fell swoop. But Drake knew better. Magic had gone from the world, lost in a time forgotten, along with those who knew how to wield it.

Lord Tarragon lifted his right hand, signaling the men to be silent and still. He crouched behind a wild hedge and peered atop its unkempt leaves. And there it was, a stag of grandeur, strapping and ruddy, wearing a gorgeous yet intimidating crown of antlers. The animal leaned its head into a stream and satisfied its thirst, oblivious to those wishing to claim its life.

Drake quietly approached his father, admiring the stag in all its glory. “It’s perfect,” he whispered.

“Aye,” his father nodded. “And he’s all yours.” A member of the castle guard handed Drake a bow and a full quiver. He nocked one of the arrows and aimed at the magnificent beast. “Don’t think,” his father whispered. “Trust your training, and let the arrow fly.”

The stag turned and faced the shrubs, locking eyes with Drake, paralyzing him with its innocence. He wanted to release the arrow, but mercy urged at his right while duty urged at his left.

“What are you waiting for?” his father asked. “You have a perfect shot. Take it.”

Sweat dripped from Drake’s brow as a sudden heat fell upon him. He thought it to be his nerves, but it grew a hundredfold, warming the right side of his face until it became unbearable.

A blinding light rushed toward the earth, as clamorous as it was devastating, deafening Drake as he ducked for cover. The impact was great and terrible, tearing through the trees by the dozen and leveling the forest into a clearing.

Drake’s ears rang like clattering steel as he struggled to gather himself. His lord father grabbed him by the arms and lifted him from the ground, shouting a phrase his ears couldn’t hear.

But eventually, the dust settled, and so did he.

Humming in front of them was a stone the size of a grand tower, fluttering with scales, continuously changing their color from black to red and red to black.

Drake’s father drew the Righteous Edge from its holster, carefully approaching the mystifying stone. He placed his ear on one of a thousand scales, each the size of a carriage, and listened.

“What is it?” Drake asked, breaking the long silence.

“A dragonstone,” his father answered.

“What does it mean?”

His father turned and faced the multitude, sighing with displeasure. “The end,” he told them.

But his father was wrong. It wasn’t the end. It was the beginning.