Durand's Dagger

There weren't always dragons in the Valley.

Their earliest accounting was just an old tale passed down from generation to generation. From father to son, between aspiring merchants, lords and among thieves.

Hundreds of years ago, their arrival was heralded by unrelenting storms. The massive flying creatures were once revered by the old fanatics & priests as a blessing from the skies, only soon after to be regarded as a curse to the valley. Those few living witnesses of the dragons were enamored with the luminous beauty of their scales, but their shine was immediately overshadowed by the disease they often carried. Scalepox.

The scales that were shed seldomly by the dragons had once been coveted by lords and merchants to forge into luxury goods. After it was concluded that they carried such a deadly & contagious plague, the scales were quarantined & outlawed in the capital under penalty of death. They would remain where they fell as forbidden flowers of the valley.

The dragons and disease never did concern Durand, for he knew the true terrors weren’t found in scales & skies. They lived among the shadows.

Durand had humble beginnings in a small merchant family. His mother was an optimist, his father an opportunist. They were both very familiar with the risks & rewards of travelling through the valley. They also knew each trek through the treacherous trade routes promised limitless bounties and prosperity. It was the same stories father told mother every night. Fleeting memories of a full belly, a warm fire and tales of riches to be made at the capital. Since the dawn of the dragons, a shrewd merchant who braved the valley could always name their price for any of their goods at the capital as it was surrounded by dense murky swamp. There was no lush farmland, no forest full of game. It was a bold choice for a seat of power, but it left few options for a foreign army to invade. This was all music to a traveling merchant’s ears. The valley became known as the quickest path to deliver any goods to the capital, the quickest path to fortune and the quickest path to death.

Pale light beams through the swollen clouds above. Durand is awake. His shelter a mossy oak & his dampened cloak. The pooling emerald leaves gently cascade down his hood. Another lost dream of better days. As he cups the rain pouring into his hands, he briefly catches his own reflection in a nearby puddle. A tall, thin young man with a pale complexion & a clean shaven head. His features intentionally unremarkable & common at first glance, but his height & his dark bold eyes gave definition to his appearance. A looming, intense stature paired with an unshakeable, piercing gaze. A lone wolf among jackals.

Long forgotten are the appearance of his mother and father, as Durand cleanses the dirt from his hands, revealing twin scars embossing each palm. He now only remembers faces of brigands. The unwelcome thoughts return as he minds his surroundings and clutches his dagger. The scars serve as a harsh reminder that the blade was never made for such deplorable men. The dagger was perfectly balanced. It was made for soft, nimble, compassionate & loving hands. A woman’s hands. His mother’s hands. The double-edged blade was crafted with an unremarkable handle & the pommel was marked with a faded symbol. He often ran his thumb along the symbol, not knowing the true meaning it bears. Was it a family crest? A lost rune? Or merely the maker’s mark?

It had been nearly two decades since he last saw the three who stole everything from him. Had they died soon after their encounter? Would they only remember him as the young sniveling boy left in the rain with blood-soaked hands, grieving his family's remains? Were they still hunting for him after all these years? Did their senseless bloodlust match that of Durand's desire for revenge?

Durand preferred to reside within the woods along the trails of the valley. An orphanage of nature that cruelly welcomed all those lost and forgotten. The longer one remained hidden in the woods, the more truths were revealed concerning the hearts of men. There was no harmony, no devotion & no brotherhood. There was only hunger, desperation & betrayal.

Durand would spend his days waiting in densely brushed areas, scouting for any lords and merchants who travelled along the trails, some with their families in tow. A larger party always meant there were more provisions to pilfer, but this also meant more eyes on the pantries.

It was not enough to remain undetected when plying a thief’s trade. If one was too greedy with a single caravan, the hunt was on. The danger was much more apparent with hungered hounds in a party. The scent from a pound of cold bacon could lead directly to one’s demise. A wretched way to go. Durand had witnessed countless thin men consumed by the beasts, reduced to scattered bones. Even a single filthy bite could almost certainly seal one’s fate. The fever that followed a bite was often crueler than a hundred bites. They often served unlucky thieves as a fatal lesson of moderation.

Durand chose his procurements as carefully as he chose his marks. Some apples, potatoes, bits of cheese, a piece of bread, a few coppers or even a skin of wine could easily be lifted from most caravans with no repercussions. Often times, the food he could scrape together provided just enough sustenance to see another day. The coin and wine alone didn’t have much immediate use to Durand, but they could be used later for bartering. He never cultivated a taste for wine as it unsettled his stomach and dulled his senses, but he knew it would would fetch a good trade as it would ease another’s suffering for a day.

Today’s quarry was closing in. A steed’s snort in the distance, a coach's axel rattling over the many bumps of the road. A true thief's beck & call. The driver of the coach appeared gaunt, feeble & mercilessly aged. The lone outrider was an older, large & barrel-chested man. He rode close to the coach, his breastplate poorly covering his plump torso. A long scabbard to match his large disposition. Durand never enjoyed the idea of wielding a larger blade. They were much too cumbersome and predictable. He believed the smallest blades often delivered the biggest surprise to the most skilled swordsmen.

After studying the coach’s companions, Durand wondered what precious cargo it was carrying. Was it a rich noble? A renown swordsman from afar? A humble merchant and his family? Before Durand could ponder any further, the coach came to a sudden halt.

The cabin door swung open. A fair figure emerged & darted hastily into the bushes. She began to heave relentlessly from her hunched posture. The rocky trails often unsettled most inexperienced travelers. The upset stomach was now voided. A long sigh, a brief moment of respite as she returned to the cabin. The cool air of the valley was soothing for many of it's weary travelers.

The moment of calm was cut short by hushed voices and a faint odor in the distance. Not one, but two voices. Durand knew hushed voices in the valley were never the welcoming type. The scents of brashness & ineptitude began to draw closer to the coach. The large man wearing a small breastplate was alerted to their foul essence. "HALT!" the escort belted out. The two reeking figures emerged from the woods.

"Lady off for a morning stroll in’she?" one of the men sneered. "We're just mere travellers hard onurr luck... Spare a bite o bread will ye?” “mmm..bite of bread..” A second voice mumbled. The two were unconvincing in both appearance and speech. The former spoke, while the latter mumbled mere echoes.

"Come any closer and we will cleave you in two!" The large man growled. His stead ready to charge, tapping its hooves in the muddy trail, tense with anticipation of another melee. The large sword drawn from its equally large scabbard. The way the man wielded the sword in one hand was a sign of skill and brute force. Was he the sole mercenary to guard this coach? Were there more mercenaries trailing behind? How long had they been on the road? The escort’s beard was full and greyed, matching the hide of his equally experienced warhorse.

The first man replied, "which of you eh? The fat old man or the tiny old man?" The second man once again, snickering & mindlessly mumbling his master's taunts.

Durand sensed their true game. The snapping of small twigs, the crunching of leaves and another peculiar scent rapidly closing in on the coach. A figure suddenly emerges in the flank of the coach. Before the feeble old man could gasp, a blade glides across his throat. The throat widens, fleeting moments of shock and horror draw out from his sunken eyes as he slumps forward, blood soaking his feet.

There's always three. This was something Durand had known well. He was familiar with this type of ruse. The third man was clearly the mastermind while the other two were merely pawns. What the plan lacked in furtive finesse was still viable enough to impede the coach.

The now angered large man turned and charged his warhorse towards the coach. The third man leapt from the coach, kicking the large man directly in his breastplate, knocking him clear from his stead. 'puhhft-!' the large man had landed hard on the wet and cold trail, air forced from his lungs. The other two began to close in like jackals on the now winded escort as he rallied himself to his feet and wielded the blade in both hands.

The third man continued to engage the large man, attempting to circle him as the less experienced two closed in at a methodical pace. They were clearly not as adept as their de facto leader. The large man began to swing his broad & cumbersome blade as his opponents weaved in & out of his path of destruction, biding their time for a counter offensive. During the chaotic melee, the third man's knife suddenly shot into the belly of the large man, where it had laid bare like fresh dough. The Large man howled in agony at the plunging of the blade. The first two brigands reveled and cackled as the third withdrew the blade as fast as he delivered it. The large man was now bleeding fast, one hand covering his wound while the other brandished the sword.

Emboldened by his dimwitted allies, the third man charged the large man once again. In a surprising feat of strength and agility, the large man feinted his blade and backhanded the daring brigand with full force, knocking him to his ass. Dazed, the third man attempted to crawl backwards not losing sight of the large bloody man lumbering towards him. The large man had once again rallied, gripped his large blade with both hands, and delivered a vertical blow that cleaved the third man into two. A sight that one might have mistaken for a lumber yard or a slaughterhouse. Intestines sliding out from each half of the split man, oozing towards one another, a futile effort to make the third man’s insides whole once again.

Durand watched the two woefully unprepared brigands cower at what they had just witnessed. Their fearless leader bested by a fat, dying & bloody man. Swiftly losing his faculties, the large man resigns to his fate, kneeling to the blood & rain-soaked road, not once taking his gaze off the two neophytes as he collapses. The large man has fallen and the fight leaves his eyes.

Seizing his opportunity, Durand removed his cowl & emerged from his cover, making his presence known to the remaining jackals. "You can fleece the old man for his coppers and the fat man for his silver but if anyone touches the coach, you both die." He vowed sternly. His distant stare and bold stance spoke his true intentions.

The first man nervously belted back "Oi prick! why don't we just cut your throat and take everything?" He frantically gestured the second muttering man to check the coach as he picked up the large blade from the large dead man and charged Durand.

Durand knew well the same harsh lesson that both the third man and the fat man knew before they died. The element of surprise. Durand stood still clutching his dagger still sheathed in scabbard, once again running his thumb along the unknown symbol as his foe closed his distance with the large blade. He concentrated, focused on his breathing, everything centered around the loudmouth closing in on him. He drew his dagger and released it from his hand in the same sudden motion. The dagger sailed through the air effortlessly and met its intended target. The first man fell to the ground, speaking his final nonsense, seemingly not acknowledging the blade buried in his eye socket.

While Durand retrieved his dagger from his dispatched foe, the remaining mumbling man frantically searches around for the occupant of the coach. A desperate murmur, heard below the coach. Knowing she can no longer hide, she crawls to the end of the coach in a final desperate bid for freedom. The mumbling fool grabs her leg from the side of the coach, air leaves her mouth but there is no shrieking, no wailing, just another faint murmur. She cannot speak, she cannot scream.

Durand made his way towards the mumbling man dragging the voiceless, seemingly hopeless lady into open view. He desperately raises her up by the hair from the wet cold ground, stepping back from Durand. Both men have their blades drawn. Durand’s blade is steady, disciplined, unbothered by the frantic gestures of the remaining brigand. The mumbling man's blade is trembling against the lady's throat, fear emanating from both figures. The helpless woman locking eyes briefly with Durand, as she slowly produces a small satchel. Durand can’t help but wonder if she has ever felt a blade against her throat before today.

"Let her go. This is your last chance."

"W-why? sooo you c-c-ould stab me in the back with yurr knife?? You think I'm a f-fool? Lemme and the b-b-bitch go!"

Durand wasn't going to entertain the mumbling man’s demands. He was occupied with the calculations of his next move. He found he was very agile and dexterous when wielding a small blade, but he had always used them to take lives, not save them.

The captive woman reached into her small satchel. She clutched something inside firmly before discarding the satchel. What was her contingency? A fistful of coppers? Had she paid her way out of predicaments before? Did she think she could broker some sort of guarantee that she would leave unscathed on the promise of payment? She didn't bear any resemblance to a wealthy or entitled lady. Those types usually wore finer clothes and walked as if the all the paths to riches were carved to the soles of their feet. She looked very plain for a lady requiring an escort through such treacherous territory.

Durand noticed the lady’s closed hand began to emit an orange light. She suddenly pressed the glowing hand against her captor’s torso, causing him to shriek in agony as if a blacksmith had poured molten steel on his flesh.

He fell to the ground, moaning and wailing. The lady was now clear of his grasp. She seemed completely unbothered by the object in her hand which had severely wounded the mumbling man. She gazed briefly at Durand once again while she collected herself, then she turned her focus back to the pathetic, smoldering, mumbling man. The odors of soiled rags, fresh blood, & burning flesh were now abundant.

A sudden shift in breeze could be felt closing in around the remaining three. It wasn’t typical of the wind. It wasn't coming from the woods nor down the trail. The lady looked to the sky and continued to step back from her former captor. A Glowing beacon of light slowly began to break through the dark swollen clouds, followed by heavy gusts beating rhythmically down from the sky. The bright orange glow parting the clouds was accompanied by violent rumblings and a sudden sensation of heat.

As the mumbling man tried to get to his knees, a plume of fire shot through the broken sky. In an instant, he was set ablaze. He became as bright as the flame consuming him and then as dark as the storm clouds above him. Completely charred, his cowering form is frozen in time for a single moment. The fire from above abates, then a whistling wind wishes him the fondest farewell as he is reduced to ash.

Durand had seen many cruel things in his life as an orphaned child turned thief. Countless unspeakable ways a man could die. It was something he had almost become numb to. Men were stabbed, flayed, beaten, torn to shreds by beasts, and even cast to fires.

Fire was a most spectacular & cruel way to kill a man. Their suffering slowly escalated, prolonged by the all consuming flame, while others often helplessly watched on. This time was peculiar. There was no burning stake, no sacrificial altar, no weeping, no prosecution. Only a sudden and merciless cleansing from above. Durand was perturbed at the thought of how much pain was felt in such little time and by such immense power.

Just as fast as the fire struck the ground & enkindled the man, he was gone, returned to the maker. The clouds had remained parted and the flames were now few. The rumbling continued as a massive floating figure descended from the broken sky and completely shadowed Durand, the lady, the corpses, and the coach.

The creature slowly retracted it’s wide, luminous wings and landed behind the lady, gently embracing her. A sight similar to that of an elated mother swaddling her newborn in a silk blanket. As the woman unclenches her glowing fist, a bright stone falls from her hand. Searing the ground, the stone slowly dims its light.