Dragon Lore

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. At least not according to the ancient texts. They've been around longer than I, longer than anyone alive today, for that matter. For a time we only knew what happened from the stories that were handed down from one generation to the next. The Legends of the Old World they called them. We didn't believe them at first, they sounded too fantastical to be true, too unrealistic, like someone with an overactive imagination and starved of attention had too much time on their hands. But then we started finding the shrines. Then we started finding the truth. They didn't just appear, we didn't just find them, didn't stumble upon them hidden in the caves or the mountains, deep in slumber. No. We were greedy. We were evil. We were hungry for power and control, and in our desperation we did something truly horrible. We created them.

At first it was a hard truth to swallow. I mean, it didn't change anything. We were still locked in battle with the dragons, had been for centuries. We were still fighting to survive. But now we knew where we really cam from, what we had done, why they were here. The struggle then becomes, is that who we really are? Even now, after all these years, are we still the same people that laid waste to our own realm, for what? Glory? Fame? Power? Sounds to me like someone in charge was a few flagons short on their ale delivery. But here we are. Fighting the dragons. Still fighting amongst ourselves. So, maybe we haven't changed. Not enough, anyway.

Right now my only concern is Big Red. We've been tracking him for about three months now down the western coast of Amer. He's one of the biggest and oldest dragons we've encountered, some say more than one thousand years old. Keeping our distance has made following him a great challenge. We don't want to get too close should he sense our presence, so we've been riding the coast line as he soars above the mountains. We can still see him most days, the rest of the time we just have to rely on our instincts and follow his flight path. But our horses are tired. We're tired. We've been without our mage for two weeks now and our Talisman grows weaker by the day, but we must push on. If we lose Big Red we may never find the Valley of Fire, we may never finish our Quest and rid this world of the dragons for good. We may never return home.

According to the Legends the First Dragon is still out there, an immortal, just growing bigger with age. He controls all the dragons of the world, a magical being that is intrinsically connected to them all. Created by the Great Sorceror Ramman by order of the Emperor Visalia he carries the scars of ten thousand battles on his belly and on his face. Though many have tried none have ever bested him. Those that survived returned to their homes broken men, their minds warped and distorted, some with their skin half burned and melted, some no longer entire. If they didn't fall on their own swords from the hysteria they were hung for desertion, for failing their Quest. I wonder if Red is the One, the First Dragon. I still haven't been able to get close enough to see if the scars he carries are the same.

We first came across Big Red much farther north, near Calgar, while trying to make the crossing at Vermere Pass on the east side of the mountains. Having set up camp at the base of the mountain, we'd been patrolling the area for about a week looking for, well, anyone. We hadn't ventured this far north before, so we were hopeful of finding a local village, anyone we could use to bolster our numbers and strengthen our ranks. But we found no one. Calgar was decimated, a charred village in ruins, its people reduced to skeletons that turned to ash when touched, the surrounding forests getting ready to swallow her whole.

Looking more closely the village told two stories. On the first hand there was the blatant, brutal destruction. Buildings toppled and crumbling everywhere, stone slabs brittle with age & turning to dust. The remnants of the first encounters. This is what we'd read about, back when the first shrine had been discovered in York, we just didn't want to believe it. We denied it for so long, refused to believe that humanity could be responsible for such atrocity. Then, as we started to venture further out and back to the Old World we found more shrines spread across all of the lands. They all told the same story. As the evidence stacked up we no longer had a choice but to believe and start accepting our history. But not everyone could. Not everyone would.

Then there was the blackness. The ash and the charred remains of the burnt villagers, their horses, their livestock. The trees and any wildlife that had taken over after the first encounters. The villagers had clearly re-established their homes here, yet it looked like it had all just been set alight. This had to have been more recent. Although the smoke had settled, the surrounding forest hadn't quite begun to creep back in yet. But you could feel it. It wanted to. As if the forest had its own heartbeat, it wanted to.

There was an eerie silence in the chill air. We looked around, apprehension and uncertainty the flavor of the moment. We were outside the ruins of what looked like an ancient building of some sort. "Alber" said the remaining letters on a sign burnt, broken and punctuated with holes. There was such a feeling of emptiness as we walked, dust crunching beneath our feet, the snap of a twig more like a loud crack against a backdrop of nothing. And there it came. The giant, echoing roar as the dragon rose from within a crevice in the mountain, wings spread, deep crimson, almost black against the sky, a spectre of death above us.

We were completely exposed as the dragon descended upon us. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. This is the moment, this is where you find out what you're made of. Do you have what it takes? While the faces around you are ashen and fearful as the blood drains from their skin what do you do? We've been here before. This is not our first dance with a dragon. Mace reacted first and with a quick scan found cover to our left. As he herded the others I flanked right and took shelter under what was left of an old building, a fallen slab of stone my only protection. But Ben was still there, unmoving. We screamed at him to run but our voices fell on deaf ears as the dragon roared down the mountain, another bellow accompanying it. Again we screamed and still Ben did not move, as if rooted to the spot. It was too late now. He wouldn't make it even if he did run.

I watched as the dragon swooped down over what was left of the village, almost in slow motion, skimming just overhead, exposing its bloated and scarred belly, let loose a final blood curdling roar, and was gone. Miraculously Ben was still standing there, although I'm not sure I've seen a more terrified man. As I rested a hand on his shoulder I looked down at the puddle of urine at his feet, looked back at him, smiled wryly and said, "I guess today's not your day after all."

"Did you see its belly?" Mace asked me. "It's been feeding. Probably the only thing that saved old Ben."

"Yeah, probably." I was looking out at the empty sky where the dragon had just flown.

"What is it, Nathaniel?" Mace asked me again. "I've seen that look before, what are you thinking?"

"Its belly," I replied.

"Yeah, it was huge. It's been feeding." He looked at me as if I'd not heard his first observation.

"No, the scars," I said, still staring after the dragon.

"What do you mean?"

"He thinks Big Red here is the One, the First Dragon", interrupted Amber accusingly. She was a tough one. Facetious at the best of times but unflappable, and her fiery hair gave justice to her name.

"No, my friend," said Mace, shaking his head. "We're not doing this."

"The scars, Mace," I looked into his unapproving eyes. "I haven't seen scars like that before. We've dealt with enough dragons, brother, and they've mostly all got scars, you've seen them. But not like that."

"No!"

"We're doing this."

"No!"

"Saddle up!" I shouted to everyone. "It's tracking time!" I turned and marched back to my horse, a beautiful beast about sixteen hands high and black as the night.

"You won't change his mind," Amber said to Mace. "I've seen that look before, too. He's been looking for the First Dragon his whole life. You know how invested he is in the Legends."

"I know," Mace said, resigned. "And stubborn as a mule, to boot."

"Isn't that what we like about him?" said Amber with a cheeky smile.

Mace looked back at her with a raised eyebrow. "Yeah, sure, that's what we like about him," he said sarcastically. "Where to, brother!?" he called after me.

"South," I told him matter-of-factly as I climbed aboard. "He's flying south."

Now, after three months of tracking and following Big Red south I wonder if we're any closer to finding the Valley of Fire, or Death Valley as it's named in the Old texts. Appropriate either way. It gets scorching hot there according to the Legends, like the air is on fire, an invisible enemy, inescapable. Many have perished there, and not from having met the peril of a dragon, although there's plenty of them, too. Any that have returned have been so deranged from their horrifying battles with the dragons and so twisted of mind from the heat that none have been able to retell their journey or recall where they've been. And so the whereabouts of the Valley of Fire remains a mystery, lost and yet still such an imposing force dominating the realm.

"Death comes to us all, brother," Mace reminded me from over my shoulder as I looked over my embattled and travel weary companions.

"Not today."

"It will if you don't sleep." He shook his head. "Nathaniel, you're not alone in this, brother. But if you persist with your single mindedness you will surely perish, just like everyone before you."

I hated it when he was right, and he usually was but I couldn't let him know that. The fire crackled under the blanket of night, barely another sound could be heard as the rest of our company slept from exhaustion. Mace sat down beside me, rubbing his hands and warming them over the fire. The soft, warm glow only helped to accentuate their stories. The scars, the cracks, the dry flaking skin, the missing finger on his left hand, all embelishing a life lived on the battle field. He was my best friend, and he'd been my brother for as long as I could remember, always looking out for me, always there when I needed him most, in battle and out, but how I hated it when he was right.

"Where is the mage?" I asked, pretending to ignore what he'd just said. "It's been two weeks, he should have been back by now. Our Talisman grows weak, we need him to heal her."

"He'll be back when he's ready, you know that."

"Send a rider out to find him."

"Find him?" Mace shot back at me incredulously. "He's a mage! If he doesn't want to be found do you really think one of our riders will be able to find him?" He looked at me, as if expecting an answer, but we both knew he wasn't finished. "Besides, you know how he gets when he's interrupted. He's worse than you."

A chuckle pierced through the darkness behind us. We were on our feet in a flash, spun around to face the intruder, swords drawn. But saw nothing. Just darkness. Again, the chuckle came, echoing through the emptiness of the night.

"Show yourself!" I demanded.

And then a glow. Two. A pair of red, glowing orbs hovering steadily. Eyes. I sheathed my sword. "Mage!" I declared in frustration. "How long have you been standing there!?" He stepped forward out of the darkness, his hood drawn over his head, the glow in his eyes fading, his chuckle turning to laughter as he sat down with us by the fire.

"Long enough," he said in his crackly voice. "Long enough to know you are a fool, Nathaniel. You will get yourself killed one of these days."

"Now you're starting to sound like Mace," I shot back at him.

"He's a wise man," said the Mage. "I like him."

"But not me?"

"You're a fool."

"I feel like we're going around in circles here."

"Would you prefer squares? I can dance at right angles, you know."

"Enough, enough," said Mace beginning to laugh. "He's just playing with you, Nathaniel."

"So, is that one of your visions talking, or are you just being a pain in my arse?" I asked the mage, not in the mood for yet another lecture, but here it comes anyway.

"That's coming from a friend," he replied.

"I have enough friends," I indicated to the tents full of sleeping warriors around us.

"Then use them!" he shouted back at me. "This war is not your own. You are not alone, Nathaniel. You have warriors at your disposal, you have friends, you have us," he spread his arms, referring to himself and Mace. "Yet you still fight this war alone. It will be your undoing, my friend. If you keep going this way you will get yourself killed, and everyone around you. Everyone you hold dear will perish. It is time to let go the ghost of your father and behold that which you still have around you."

"Are you finished, Mage?"

"For now."

"Then go heal the Talisman," I ordered him.

"She is healed," he declared. "She sleeps, as should you."

"I'll sleep when I'm dead."

"Of course." He shook his head gently.

"Get out of here, old man," I told him. I'd had enough of being lectured for one night.

"Old man!?" he retorted. "I am barely one month older than you."

It was true. We were all born around the same time, grew up together. First Mace, then Raimin, and I the youngest. As boys we spent all of our waking hours together, the best of friends, inseparable. As men Mace and I were schooled in warfare and combat, while Raimin chose the arts and joined the Magery. But wizardry had aged him and he looked more like our grandfather than our friend.

I shot him a cheeky grin. "Get out of here."

"He's right, you know," said Mace as we watched the Mage disappear back into the darkness.

"Don't you start, Mace," I said, agaitated, my face in my hands as I attempted to massage my worries away. "Go. Go get some sleep. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow."

"Promise me you'll do the same." Always looking out for me.

"I will, I promise," I told him. "Go."

"Sleep well, brother," he said placing a hand heavily on my shoulder, a squeeze for comfort, and he too disappeared into the night.

I stayed, staring into the fire. The flames continued to flicker, yellow, orange, red, white, a reflection of the inner turmoil I felt. They were right, always were. I was holding on too tight, but how do I let go? How do I become my own man? How do I let go of the ghost of the man who is all I see in my dreams? Battle was all I knew, the only way I could distract myself from the horror that waited for me in the night. Just visions of him, hanging, his eyes empty and lifeless, his body broken from his failed Quest. And I was there to watch it all. How do I let go?

As I sat there in contemplation tears found their way out, rolled down my face, carrying with them the toil of the day now gone. The screams inside of me were drowned out by the silence of the night. And somewhere in that silence, sleep found me.