Everburn

There weren't always dragons in the Valley.

These words, repeated so often, had lost any real meaning. They were the typical start to fairy tales and children's stories, fanciful delights and adventures. When someone said, "There weren't always dragons in the Valley," you could prepare yourself to sit back, relax, and be entertained for a short while. These words were an escape from the harsh reality of life. Until the day these same words brought an even harsher truth crashing down.

The day began like any other day. The sun peeked over the mountains and bathed the Valley in hues of muted red. The light filtered through the smoke rising from the Everburn, the swampy forest lining the Eastern edge of the Valley at the foot of the mountains. The Valley was a green oasis sheltered and surrounded by stark black mountains on every side. The tall craggly peaks were devoid of any color, all plant life burnt off long ago by the dragons that nested there.

It was in the mountains where dragons mated and were hatched within their fiery caves. Oh, that they stayed there. After each new dragon hatches, it sweeps down from the sky in death and flame to hunt and claim some portion of the Valley as its new Roost.

George looked across the Valley now at one of these dragon Roosts. Every day, the scorch crawled, burning grass, trees, and crops in an ever-widening circle as more dragons joined this Roost. He could clearly see the defined line of nature's death, even in the soft red light of dawn. Soon, in one moon, or perhaps less, the scorch would reach his lands and begin the slow process of destroying his farm.

But what could he do? The local militia in this part of the Valley was weak, made up of farmers and fishermen. Even all together, this small band of men had no chance of killing or scaring off a dragon, let alone all three that occupied this Roost. He also didn't dare contact the King to beg his army to intervene. The King's army defended his lands in the South very well, keeping new hatchlings from Roosting there only by keeping a constant guard and losing scores of men in bloody battles. All he succeeded in doing was drive the dragons to the North, where George and his people lived. The last man with the nerve to petition the King's protection had died at the King's own hand, furious at his words. With the King's refusal, the man had questioned his manhood, loyalty, and even the rightfulness of his reign. "If the king will not defend us, why should we reverence such a king? Better that your flame is snuffed before you burn out the heart of this kingdom." Such inflamed words earned a dagger to his throat, though somehow his story was smuggled out of the palace walls, beginning an insurrection in the Western lands.

No, his only hope for survival was to pack everything up and move on. This area wouldn't be habitable for another 10 years until after these dragons abandon this Roost to return to the mountains and mate.

George tried for the third time to explain this to his mother, Francesca. "Mother, you know this is the only way. The dragons will come after our flocks soon if we do not leave right away."

Her face hardened. "I will not leave my farm again," she declared. "I have done so twice already and your grandfather's health is not what it was during the last Scorching."

Hearing himself mentioned, George's grandfather looked over and smiled too widely. He spoke in a breathy weak voice. "So happy you came to visit, Paul. My Francesca will be a wonderful wife for you."

George grimaced. They had been arguing for over an hour now and his grandfather thought they were enjoying a nice dinner together. And that he was his father. And apparently that it was 30 years previous when his parents first met and were betrothed. Francesca's mouth softened for a moment upon hearing her husband's name, and George thought that she might relent. He watched the change in her eyes, however. Love, then deep sadness, and finally anger, burning just below the surface. They almost looked draconic with that fire in them.

"We are done discussing it, George. Either the scorch will stop and the Peaks will protect us, or I will finally join your father and begin that endless climb."

George sat down again, relenting today. He would try again tomorrow and the next day, as long as it takes. He would not allow his mother to destroy their family simply because his father was dead. She hated her husband for his words against the king, wishing he had just shut his mouth and come home to them. But George secretly reveled in his words. His father, the martyr of the resistance, the first life taken in the fight for freedom from tyranny. He took strength from this and pushed one more time.

"Mother, we must move on and rebuild. There is no other way to live in this Valley. The dragons cannot be defeated!" His fist slammed into the table of its own accord, rattling the dishes. He whispered, "Please, Mother. Father would not want you to-"

Francesca snarled and cut him off. "Enough! Do not speak of him. He left us to die in flames, and I will not listen to what he would have wanted." Signalling the end of the conversation, she scooped up the dishes from the table and stalked out of the room.

Sighing, George stood and walked over to his grandfather. "It's time for me to go, Pops."

Grandpa squinted at him, grinned again, and rasped, "Have you got the fishing poles out yet, Paul? I'm going to catch the biggest fish you've ever seen out there on the lake today. You just wait and see." His hands trembled as if in an earthquake as he lifted them out wide to show how big the fish would be.

George gave him a sad smile and turned away to leave. As he did, a grip closed on his wrist like a vise. Surprised, he turned back to see his grandfather holding on to his arm, fingers clenched so tight his skin was white beneath them. In a deep voice that felt oddly familiar, Grandpa spoke in an urgent whisper.

"There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Once there was something much worse. Dragons feared to leave their fiery caves on the mountains." His voice dropped even further, barely discernable even as George leaned in, his ear mere hair-breadths away from his lips. "Find the Sanctuary. Use the King's ring. Awaken the Qlyptol." With every sentence, the grip on his wrist tightened, punctuating the words. "Your father kept these secrets before his death, ever burning in the heart. Now they are yours to keep. Save us!" This last was yelled into his ear, his grandfather expending all energy to say it.

George fell back to the dirt ground as Grandpa's grip on his wrist was released. He stared up at his grandfather in shock, unable to form words or make sense of what was said. He finally managed to ask, "What did you just say?"

After a few moments of silence, Grandpa noticed him and a smile split his face. "Paul! Are you back from milking the cows already? Don't forget, no dinner until after your chores are done!" Just like that, he was gone, 50 years in the past.

Attempts to rouse him again were met with soft snores. George spent all that night replaying his grandfathers words, over and over again in his head. "Find the Sanctuary. Use the King's ring. Awaken the Qlyptol." He had one moon to save his family, and convincing his mother to leave seemed less and less likely. Perhaps there was another way. Could it be true? After all, every fairy tale and story he was told as a child began the same way.

There weren't always dragons in the Valley.