Dragon's Bane

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. There were myths and legends told around the campfires for hundreds of years, but that was what everyone living in the valley assumed; they were myths and legends. Things changed last fall, first with the mysterious disappearance of half a flock of sheep on the south slope of “the three heroes”, the mountain in the north end of the valley known for its very distinct three snow-capped peaks, which resembled three heads with white helmets. Brother Jerrol, a local monk and sheep herder, stumbled into the village of Merrywind, sobbing and holding a shredded piece of bloody wool and skin, and fell down in the center square. His normally clean brown tunic was rumpled and caked with mud, the knotted rope that served as his belt missing. White whisps of hair hung loosely from under his monks-cap, the thin round cloth askew on the top of his head. His eyes were wild, peering all around the town square, then down at the bloody skin. He screamed and buried his face in the dirt. Town folk quickly surrounded him and helped him to his feet.

Someone handed him a jug of wine and he gratefully pulled heartily from it and with a little help stood up straight, although it looked as if his knees could buckle at any time. “They’re just…gone” his raspy voice came out in a whisper as he rubbed his eyes and tried unsuccessfully to hold back tears. His free hand reached out shakily in front of him as if he expected the sheep to materialize there.

“23 of my girls… I left them by the stream on the slope,” pointing toward the mountain, “I went to hunt for a rabbit for my dinner, and it was so peaceful there I laid down and closed my eyes for a bit, never heard anything… came back and found this, nothing else.” His voice cracked as he threw the shredded piece of sheep-skin on the ground, his wrinkled face going dark as he stared at it.

A couple of the men gently took him by the arms and walked him to the Bear’s Den, the one tavern and eatery in town, which also served at times as city hall, the local hospital, auction house, and whatever else came up where there was a need for floor-space and alcohol. One held open the weathered door while the other helped him inside and to a seat. The other men banded together to go out to the slope and try to figure out what happened. They didn’t find much, just a lot of trampled grass, splotches of blood, and a couple of wild dogs that had been attracted to the smell. They returned hours later and found that Jerrol had dropped dead, presumably of a broken heart. He loved his “girls”, after all.

That was just the beginning of the troubles. As Fall gave way to Winter, stories of dark shadows flitting through the sky at dusk and early morning were being whispered about town, along with the sound of shrieking riding the winds. Everyone had their theories about what it was, but nobody was thinking about dragons until one landed in the village square. It was a particularly rainy afternoon, one of those days where people ran from one dry refuge to the other with their head down if they had to go outside at all. The wind was howling and no one heard the heavy flap of wings; the beast just appeared to fall from the sky with a heavy thud that shook the ground. It was about three wagon lengths long and covered with green and yellow scales. It gave a loud hiss as it gained its footing and swung it’s great head around.

Its golden eyes locked on a house across the square as someone moved inside, candlelight glimmering through the partially covered window. The dragon gave a low resonant growl and dove into the side of the house, using the bony protuberances on top of its head as a battering ram. Beams snapped and the wall crumbled as the dragon pushed his head through, then pulled back, a woman dangling helplessly in its jaws. It shook its head as it firmed its grip on her, then took off into the night.

***

The storm had passed, and many miles downstream, Farcus Fiestani was returning home after a long day of hunting. He had just turned sixteen a few moons ago and was already an accomplished hunter. He swiped his red hair back out of his face and smiled as he felt the brace of rabbits hanging from his belt bounce against his thigh. His bow was hanging comfortably over his left shoulder, his fingers strumming at the string. He was tall for his age, and already had the start of a healthy beard growth. His father had already brought him to the tavern for an ale on occasion, although he didn’t allow him to go there alone. Father will be pleased with a bit of rabbit stew, he thought as he looked up at the fleeting clouds already disappearing over the horizon. On nights line this they would talk long into the night after mother turned in, and sometimes father would share an ale with him and talk about his old days as a soldier.

Grundar Fiestani, “The Bear of the East”, as father was known in those days, was an acclaimed swordsman and a hero of the clan wars, when the king of the highlands began to push south and encroach on the people of the Midriff, as the loose confederacy of towns and villages of the lowlands and foothills were called. The people here had no need for a king; they just wanted to be left alone to manage their own affairs. They banded together as King Elvin started to force some of the northernmost towns into fealty toward him, and Grundar was widely accredited for taking the king’s head for his trouble. After the Highlanders retreated to their homes, Grundar married Elsa and settled in the valley.

Farcus followed the old game trail as it weaved up a small knoll and thought about all the long afternoons father had spent teaching him how to use a sword. He had fumbled at first, the weight of the sword ungainly in his young hands but he learned quickly, although he found that he preferred the bow. It came natural to him and for a long time was afraid to tell his father. When he did, Grundar took it in stride, telling him that it wasn’t the weapon that defined the man, it was how he chose to wield it.

He crested the top of the knoll and he lost the smile when he smelled smoke. Black rivulets of smoke rose lazily through the trees, dropping flecks of ash that covered the ground. His breath caught in his throat as he started to run, the bow forgotten as it slipped from his shoulder and clattered to the ground. He barreled down the hill, barely keeping to his feet on the steep slope, his eyes glued to the gap in the trees where the house should be. As he cleared the wood line, he let out a moan at the sight before him. A few blackened beams still stood like broken soldiers; flickers of fire visible inside the rubble. He saw a huddled form curled up at the edge of the ruin, but it was still too hot for him to get close. He fell to his knees and screamed as he could make out the shape of his father’s sword, still in the grasp of a charred hand.

Farcus didn’t know what to do, but he knew his parents were dead. He walked back to the tree line and sat down under an enormous oak with his back against the trunk, and sobbed uncontrollably. He remained there the rest of the day and the next night, getting up occasionally to try to reach his father, but the heat was still too great. He eventually fell into an exhausted sleep while trying to decide which god to pray to and which one to blame. He woke at daybreak and finally reached his father’s body. As he approached, he could see his mother just inside where the threshold had been, unrecognizable, but he knew it was her.

The normal tradition for his people was to burn the bodies, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that to them again. He kicked through the rubble of what was his fathers tool shed and found the blade of a spade, the handle burned off. He worked through the morning digging a large, deep trough in his father’s garden, then carefully dragged his parents to it and gently rolled them in. Tears came again as he buried them, making trails down his ash covered face and getting lost in the thin red beginnings of a beard. By the time he moved the rock pile at the corner of the garden to shield the grave from scavengers, the sun had found its way to rest in the western horizon. Farcus knew he should rest but couldn’t stay there any longer. With a heavy heart he picked up his father’s sword, tucked it into his belt, took a final look around the homestead, then started the long, slow walk toward Merrywind.