Fallen Soul

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

From where they came, no one knows. Why they came, no scholar can agree. Maybe for the food, perhaps for the climate. I don’t think we’ll ever know for certain. The one thing we do know for certain is that when the dragons did come, all sorts of others came too.

A soft snort and casual shake of her mane lets me know we have arrived. I rein Brin to a halt. Her head drops to munch on a patch of faded grass. I give the wiry chestnut a strong pat, loosen my leather jerkin and fold my hands across my lap. My eyes squint to the sky; the late autumn wind carries the perfume of pine along with a sharp chill. I stay mounted. I know I won’t have to wait long at the crossroads.

A hundred paces away, around a short bend, a cluster of birds scatter to a familiar and unmistakable clatter. Brin does not even consider raising her head to inspect the disturbance.

“He’ll be along shortly,” I say loudly as the Lord Regent and his entourage of no less than fifteen riders come into view.

The Lord Regent hoists his silver helmet from his head and tucks it under arm. He pulls his mount adjacent to mine. “Thirteen years,” he says. His voice is deep, commanding.

I look at him quizzically.

The Lord Regent grins and says, “I’ve not seen your sorry face for thirteen years, and the first words from your mouth are, ‘he’ll be along shortly.’ Not even a formal; ‘Good afternoon, Lord Regent.’ By the gods, I’d even settle for a ‘Hello, Braxton, my old friend.’”

I shrug and say, “Best to stow the horses before we carry on.”

The Lord Regent laughs. “Haven’t changed, or aged a day I see. It is good to see you though, Captain.” The powerful man extends a hand and places it on my shoulder.

His gauntlet is muddy, unpolished and stained. The rest of his plated armour is worn in a similar state. In fact, his whole party is remarkably unkempt. Unusual. The man I know always made a point to rendezvous in polished ceremonial armour.

An unfamiliar voice says, “Captain?” I turn in my saddle as a young woman peels off a battered helmet and, like the Lord Regent, tucks it under her arm. A smile as wide as the Crying River erupts upon my face.

“By the gods,” I exclaim, “is that little Senica?”

“Lady Senica,” the Lord Regent corrects.

“Apologies, Lady Senica,” I say bowing my head politely. She nods back.

The Lord Regent grins. “And not so little anymore,” he says. “A grown woman. And fierce. Calvary commander of the left flank, no less. A hundred men have fallen under that sword.”

Senica, ignoring her father’s boasting says, “Why did my father call you Captain?”

I cast a knowing gaze at her father. Sensing his mistake, my old friend mumbles something incoherent and then follows with, “… what I mean is, I misspoke, my dear. Too much time in the field, shouting orders and the such. This is Master Ramsey. A landowner, but pays his homage to the crown of course. He owns these parts.”

Senica raises a brow. “And which parts would that be?” she asks.

Lord Regent Braxton raises an arm to the sky and says wildly, “Why the whole Valley, my dear. The whole damned Valley.” He laughs raucously.

I rub my temples and say, “Enough, please, Braxton.”

“And what about you?” the Lord Regent says. “Where is your boy, he must be fully grown now too?”

“I did try telling you,” I say.

“Telling me what?”

“He’ll be along shortly.”

The Lord Regent smiles and wags a finger in my face. “You cheeky bastard,” he says.

I can’t help but smirk. “Tell your men to dismount,” I say regaining composure. “There is a row of hitching posts there, by the side of the road. You will travel the rest of the way on foot.”

Senica says, “And you, Master Ramsy? You will not be joining us?”

“Oh no, I will accompany you, my Lady,” I say. “But I am afraid for your safety, you should leave your mounts behind.”

“Ours? Why not yours?”

The Lord Regent smiles but says nothing as he hoists his large frame from his horse. I pause, waiting for him to offer his daughter an explanation. He gestures to me; indicating I ought to clarify.

“Because, Lady Senica,” I say leaning across my saddle, “Unlike your horses, Brin here is not afraid of dragons.”

The walk is not long, but as the road narrows and the bush becomes dense, the armoured warriors of the Lord Regents party begin to have difficulty trudging their heavy armour, weapons and shields along at a decent pace. For reasons that were not clear to me, I could not convince them to leave anything but their helmets with their mounts back at the hitching posts. My strong chestnut, Brin, acts as if she is losing patience with the slow pace. Having traversed the course more times than I can count, she nimbly steps her strong body down the narrow path weaving, bobbing and avoiding low hanging branches as if they were speaking their presence to her ahead of time.

Breaking the canopy of trees the company is able to exhale. Finding a modicum of respite upon the edge of a vast green field, some men lean on their shields to catch their breath, while others rest upon a fallen tree. To the west, the peaks of the Dry Mountains scrape the blue cloudless sky; like the edge of a razor, poised to rip open the heavens.

I point to the distant snowy caps and say, “Nesting grounds.”

I should have waited before speaking. For with my words, I have knocked the company out of their relaxed state. I can sense anxious energy ripple throughout the Lord Regent’s men. Senica too, seems nervous; though she hides it well. Braxton, however, becomes as giddy as boy waking to the sun glimmering off the season’s first snowfall.

“How long do we have to wait?” the Lord Regent asks.

“You do not need to reset your lungs?” I ask.

The Lord Regent waves dismissively.

I shrug. “We don’t have to wait. He’s waiting for us.” I say. The Lord Regent’s eyes widen. He begins scanning the skies obsessively. I draw a faint smile. “Braxton,” I say in a slightly patronizing tone, “would you like to do the honours?” I imagine there are few people in the world who could speak to Lord Regent Braxton as if he were a child. I quietly enjoy the opportunity to do so.

“Ha,” Braxton shouts loudly. “I would love nothing more.”

“Do you remember how?” I ask.

“Don’t insult me, Master Ramsey. A man never forgets his call.”

“Of course,” I say and motion toward the open field.

The Lord Regent sticks a hand under his arm and peels off a muddy gauntlet. Tossing it haphazardly to the ground he takes off the other and trudges out a few paces into the clearing. I use this opportunity to dismount and approach his daughter.

Senica is gripping the pommel of her sword; her hazel eyes locked on the clear skies above.

“Your first dragon, I presume?” I say.

Senica nods sharply, once.

A short distance away, the Lord Regent clears his throat.

I say, “Well, I imagine, once the fear goes away, you’ll be delighted … and then disappointed. But then delighted again.”

Senica turns her eyes from the sky; puzzled. “Disappointed?” she asks.

A bellowing sound erupts from Lord Regent Braxton. He lets this first call carry on the breeze as he inhales and prepares for a second. As before, the Lord Regent cups his hands to his mouth and shouts. It is a deep low rumble followed by a high pitched screeching. It’s rhythmic, deeply unsettling, and slightly comical. After a third and even longer call, Braxton gasps for air. He is spent. He shakes out his arms, spins on his heel, and strolls back to his company with a big smile on his face. A man at arms intercepts his stride to hand him his gauntlets.

“How did I do, Master Ramsey?” he asks.

I shrug and say, “Not bad.”

“Not bad? Not bad?” He scoffs. “Master Ramsey may be the expert but, in this, he is wrong. I was more than ‘not bad’, Sir. By the moon’s tits, I was spectacular.”

I cannot help but laugh.

Senica says, “Master Ramsey, what did you mean when you said I would be disappointed?”

I do not have time to answer. I point to the western peaks and say, “There.”

In the distance, like a pair of painted daggers, two darkened shapes shoot from the peaks at incredible speed. Rising high, piercing the blue veil above, the painted streaks pause at the apex of their climb before turning. Wings, like bats, unfold in the air, thrusting their frames forward in a terrifying swim through the sky. Within three heartbeats, the bat wings vanish; pulled in tightly against their bodies. With their wings tucked away, the two dragons begin their rapid descent toward the clearing. The men behind me chatter; their hands wander nervously clutching at sword, spear and shield.

“Stow your weapons,” the Lord Regent says.

The shapes get bigger.

“Which carries your son?” Braxton asks.

“The one on the left,” I say.

“Incredible.”

Another heartbeat passes and the dragons are upon us. Unfurled wings break their descent with a series of powerful thrusts. Gusts from the beating pulses press against our faces, and the grass beneath folds flat. Lord Braxton extends his arms as if embracing the beasts from afar while at my side, Brin munches away happily.

The pair of dragons land; digging their claws into the soft grass. Soft plumes from their nostrils dance like incense; curling majestically on the wind before slowly fading away into nothingness. An invisible musty fog reeking of brimstone and sulphur fall upon us.

At my side, Senica beams. Her hand drops from the hilt of her sword and she takes a step forward. One of the dragons turns a pair of yellow eyes toward her and she stops.

“Give it a moment,” I say. “The dragons need to suss you out first. Make sure you’re not a threat.”

From atop one of the dragons, a young man with dark skin and dark eyes slips his feet from a pair of specially designed stirrups and slides down from a long saddle. He wipes his face with the back of his arm, smiles, waves and begins expertly checking over the two dragons.

“There he is,” I say.

The Lord Regent claps me on the back and says, “By the gods, he has grown.”

“That’s your son?” Senica asks.

The Lord Regent says, “Master Claydon gets his looks from his mother, isn’t that right, Master Ramsey.”

“Yes, indeed,” I say. “One of a kind, she was.”

“I see,” Senica says.

I am thankful for the Lord Regent’s quick explanation to his daughter as to the appearance of my son. It is a conversation I’ve had too many times to count and, truth be told, one which I prefer to avoid. As a person who bears almost no resemblance to the young man I call my son, I often wondered if it would be easier to introduce him as my ward. I tried this once, but Claydon vehemently opposed this introduction. He told me later that even though I wasn’t his blood, I always was, and would always be his one and only father.

As my boy begins his inspection of the second dragon I notice Senica tilting her head to the side.

“Ah, the delight, followed by disappointment,” I say.

“What?” Senica says. “No, I’m not disappointed at all … I just thought … “ she stops.

“You thought they’d be bigger,” I say. “It’s quite alright, everyone does.”

The Lord Regent Braxton says, “She spent too much time staring at that hideous dragon skull in the university library.”

“I see,” I say. “It’s a fake you know.”

“What?” Senica says in astonishment.

“I tried telling her,” says the Lord Regent. “But at a certain age, daughters just stop listening to their fathers.”

“Real dragons,” I say, “are this size here. About the size of two horses. If a dragon were the size of that monstrosity in the library, she would never get her butt off the ground.”

“They don’t need to be any bigger,” the Lord Regent declares. Then, quite unexpectedly, his face drops. It is surprising as I cannot recall the last time I saw Braxton’s face lacking of the charisma and confidence which his countenance normally carries. I am about to speak when he says quietly, “These two will be enough to turn the tide.”

His statement draws my attention back to his muddy, stained armour. To his exhausted troop and their refusal to leave any weapons or armour behind at the hitching posts. News often trickles slowly into the Valley; perhaps the war is not progressing as well for my old friend as I had last heard.

Master Claydon, finishing his inspections of the dragons signals me as he approaches.

“The dragons look good,” I say. “No signs of wing tear, scale rot or breath decay.”

“Excellent,” Braxton says finding himself again. “Now, let me see if I remember … ” The Lord Regent waves at my son and then begins to gesticulate awkwardly with both his hands. He pauses for a response.

My son, Master Claydon, stares at the Lord Regent in confusion and looks at me.

“You just said, ‘Greetings my dear goat,’” I say to Braxton.

“By the Sun’s cock, I’m sorry,” the Lord Regent says. “I’ll just speak plainly, shall I?”

My son signals to me with his hands, places a hand on his chest and bows low. I translate to the Lord Regent. “Pleasure to meet you, Lord Regent,” I say on behalf of my son. “My son hopes these two dragons will be suitable to your endeavours, and bring you many victories.”

“Finally, a Ramsey with manners,” chortles the Lord Regent.

“He does wonder, though,” I say, “if you have any experienced riders in your party?”

Lord Regent Braxton shakes his head. “No, it has been an age since we could deploy dragons in the field. The last two we had were … well, there was an incident. We lost our only rider. And both dragons, I’m sorry to say. We have not been able to train any new riders since. I would have trained myself long ago, but, as you can see, I’m a little large for those beasts to take flight. By the gods, my horse can barely stand me fully suited,” he laughs.

My son signals with his hands.

“My son says he can train anyone,” I say.

The Lord Regent says, “Well, young Master Claydon, meet ‘anyone’. My daughter, Lady Senica of House Braxton. She will be your new rider.” He lays an outstretched hand toward his daughter.

Senica does not introduce herself. She looks markedly confused. She raises an eyebrow at her father while tilting her head in the direction of my son.

The Lord Regent puts a hand to his head. “Oh, by the gods,” he says. “My apologies, I should explain; Master Claydon here is a mute … that is the correct term isn’t it, Ramsey, yes? Mute?”

I nod politely.

“But don’t worry,” the Lord Regent continues, “He’s not dumb or deaf or anything … oh, gods, that didn’t sound right … what I mean is, sorry Claydon my boy, … what I mean is that …”

I politely interrupt. “Your father is correct,” I say. “It is true that Master Claydon cannot speak due to a childhood affliction. But, he is sharp, strong as a bull, and he can understand four languages.”

Claydon raises five fingers.

“Oh, yes. Five languages,” I say. “I don’t usually count that last one. But, most importantly, Master Claydon here is the best-damned rider this side of the Endless Sea.”

“Exactly,” Lord Regent Braxton says. “That’s what I going to say.”

Senica nods in understanding, but it is clear she is not entirely convinced. “So, this man will be my teacher?” she asks.

“If you agree to it,” I say, “And if your father pays of course,” I add.

The Lord Regent laughs.

Senica says, “But how will … how can I …”

“You will find,” I say, “that when you’re in the sky, and the air is ripping at your ears, and your eyes are streaking with water; your voice will be the last thing you will need to communicate. Besides, the dragons respond to touch, not to voice.”

Still, Lady Senica hesitates. Though one cannot fault her for that. We are asking she put her life into the hands of a mute she has just met and climb onto the back of a dragon of all things. She turns her gaze from me, to Claydon, to the dragons. She takes a deep breath. “Alright,” she says. “When do I begin?”

Claydon smiles and clasps his hands together joyfully. He gestures for Lady Senica to follow.

“Now?” she says.

I shrug. “If your instructor insists, it is best to listen,” I say.

Senica rolls her shoulders back. Determined, and summoning a shot of bravery, the young woman slowly walks forward. Claydon raises a hand for her to stop, points at her sword, shield, armour, then the ground. Senica nods and loosens her sword belt. The pair of dragons eye her with suspicion.

“The one on the left is called Birdsong,” I say. “Her sister; we call Anthem. Though, admittedly they care little for their human names. Master Claydon will show you how to introduce yourself properly.”

Lady Senica nods again and drops her sword to the ground.

Then the dragons roar.

Confused, I look around the field. Brin, my reliable chestnut, has bolted. Not a good sign.

Birdsong and Anthem stretch high on all four legs and screech horribly in our direction. Then, without warning the sisters then leap to the sky.

With wings unfurled the dragons blast toward Senica and Claydon. The Lord Regent screams in panic. “Get down,” he cries as he races for his daughter.

But the dragons are not interested in Senica. They are not interested in any of the Lord Regents party. There is something beyond. Something in the trees.

I yell at the men, “Get away from the forest.”

“On me,” yells Senica, snatching her sword from the ground.

The mighty Anthem, hovering by the tree line draws in breath and, with a terrifying growl launches a stream of flaming death unto an unseen foe.

Screams.

Burning, flailing bodies emerge from the wood.

“Circle up!” commands Senica to her men.

“Arrows,” one of the Regent’s men yells.

“Shields!”

The first volley falls short of our position. The assailants weren’t aiming at us; they were aiming at the dragon. Anthem screeches from the assault. While most of the projectiles bounce harmlessly off her thick hide, a single arrow has ripped a hole through one of her vulnerable wings. The small wound is enough to discourage her from holding her current position. The dragon beats her wings ferociously and flies to a safe distance. Her sister, Birdsong, is more cautious. She doesn’t cease moving. Flying in a tight circle she releases a fiery torrent across the base of the tree line blocking in the attackers, if only temporarily.

The Regent’s men have formed a shield wall; a tight semi-circle around the Lord Regent himself, with his daughter Senica holding the front centre position. Behind this line, Anthem has landed less than a hundred paces away and is examining her wing.

“Get them out of here,” I say to my son. He nods, breaks from the circle and sprints toward the wounded dragon. He is cut off after a few strides by Birdsong who lands gracefully at his side. Claydon puts a hand on her chest, then her head, then points at the mountains. Birdsong screeches but obeys. She leaps into the air and breaks for safety. Anthem, seeing her sister in retreat, moves to follow but is struggling to launch with her damaged wing. The dragon cries out and flames spill from her nostrils. A second strained attempt thankfully sees her off the ground and my son, with a sigh of relief, moves to re-join me at the side of Lord Regent Braxton.

Braxton spits on the ground. “God’s piss on these dogs,” he says as he grips his drawn sword with both hands.

I glare at my old friend.

“I’m sorry, Master Ramsey,” the Lord Regent says drearily.

“You brought your war to the Valley,” I scold him.

“I did not think them foolish enough to follow.”

“Yet you knew they were tracking you.”

“I did not know for certain.”

“Well, you do now.”

The dragon flame at the edge of the tree line has begun to subside. Through gaps in the dying flicker, the enemy begins to emerge. I can count thirty, no, forty lightly armoured foes. Clad in black cloth with soft leather padding they wield short bows and swords. Armaments meant for stealth.

“Assassins,” I say.

“Yes,” the Lord Regent agrees. “A commando unit, separate from the main body no doubt.”

I grunt. “The Valley has been free of this nonsense for centuries.”

“I’m sorry, old friend. I did not think them foolish enough to follow into dragon country. You know I would not have risked it, had I a choice.” He forces a smile, “At least they’re human.”

I can feel fury swelling from within. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?” I say angrily.

It is here that I catch a glimpse of my son; he stands firm, tall and poised, but his eyes betray him. He is afraid. He has never seen battle. Having been through more than my share, in this moment, I am sorry I could not keep him free from these horrors forever.

“It will be alright, Son,” I say. “Stay calm, and stay in control.”

My son nods and swallows hard.

I turn to Braxton. “Give me a weapon, dammit.”

The Lord Regent scowls. “From where, exactly?”

A war cry erupts from the enemy as they form ranks.

“Incoming,” Senica shouts.

The Lord Regent’s men raise shields as the volley descends. Claydon, Braxton and I dive under the closest cover.

Arrows pepper into the ground and thump into shields. A man cries out as one of the deadly darts finds a gap in the line.

“Circle,” orders Senica. The men rise and semi-circle reforms.

“What I would give for my helmet right now,” says the Lord Regent as he rises from a kneeling position.

“To the hells with you and to hells with your piss pot of a helmet,” I cry, “Give me a weapon.”

The Lord Regent glares at me and says, “What did you say?”

“You heard me. You brought this violence to the Valley and worse, you brought my son into this. And you can be damned sure that, even in death, I will curse you and your family to all the eleven hells if anything happens to my son. Now give me a gods damned sword.”

Braxton is taken aback. “You forget yourself, Ramsey,” he growls. “I am the Lord Regent.”

“Alright, fine,” I say. “Lord Regent, please give me a gods damned weapon. How’s that for manners?” I’m shouting now.

Braxton has gone red in the face. He barks at me, “You want a weapon, then go get one.” He points his sword at the enemy.

The assassins appear to be preparing to charge.

“Hold the line,” Senica bellows.

Braxton, still glaring at me shouts at the top of his lungs, “What? No sarcastic tone now, Ramsey? Amazing.”

“Braxton, I swear to all the gods that …”

“And since when does the Captain of the Ravenguard need to be handed a pig sticker to do his dirty work, eh?”

A few paces away, Senica, upon hearing the term ‘Ravenguard’, drops her shield – and her jaw. She turns to look at Braxton, then at me. My son too stands in disbelief. Eyes wide.

Braxton, having realized what he had just said, opens his mouth to take it back.

“No,” I point a finger in his face. “No more from you. Lord Regent or not, you’ve done enough. You may have started this battle, but I will end it. Just know, that I’m not doing it for you.” I look at Claydon, then back at Braxton. “But I warn you, if anything happens to my son today, nothing on this earth will protect you from me.”

“Here they come,” a voice from the line calls. A roar erupts from the assassins. Senica, turns to the enemy and raises her shield. I can see that, because of their superior numbers, their charge will come on the left flank, the right flank and the centre.

I take a step back and embrace my son. He is now more terrified than ever. Releasing him I hold two hands on his shoulders and look into his eyes. Quietly I say, “Don’t utter a word. Not unless there is no other option. Only if your life is in danger. Not for anyone else but you.”

He points at me.

“No, not for anyone else, not even for me. Do you understand?”

Claydon says nothing.

The assassins crash into the line. Senica curses and thrusts her sword over her shield. Blood sprays, Claydon winces.

“Do you understand!” I scream at my boy.

He nods and I let him go.

I whisper and vanish.

My first victim, an assassin on the right flank, will never know how he died. I appear behind him and snap his neck before he has even reached the Lord Regent’s line. I take his sword. I vanish.

The next assassin sputters on his own blood as the blade pierces his spine. He stares at the blade protruding from his belly in confusion. I rip it out silently. I vanish again.

I take the next target out at the knees, rise quickly and slash into another’s neck. I vanish.

The assassins have felled several of the Regent’s men. The Lord Regent himself is now in the melee. I cannot see my son.

I sever an arm. Smash a skull. Vanish.

I slash at a wrist, parry a blow, stab a thigh. Vanish.

I’m not fast enough. More of the Regent’s men are falling.

I need to get to Claydon.

I slit a throat, parry another blow, see my son; he needs help. I run. I forget to vanish.

A blade catches my shoulder, I spin, dispatch my assailant. Vanish.

Where is Claydon?

I taste copper.

Senica is covered in blood; she fights on. The Lord Regent still stands, four men left … three. More than a dozen assassins remain. Senica takes a blow to the side, she falls.

“Claydon!” I scream.

Time seems to slow.

I see my son. The Lord Regent is fending off assassins, but he cannot hold them all. I am too far away.

Then Claydon shouts.

It is a word in the ancient tongue. Few know that such a language even existed and even fewer alive today know how to speak it. A deafening boom from his chest radiates outward. The word my son speaks roughly translates to ‘fallen soul.’

Claydon is inexperienced. He cannot direct himself with care. He captures three assassins with the word and, unintentionally, one of the Regent’s men. The four men become rigid as their faces drain of life. After a moment, their hollow shelled bodies tumble limply to the ground.

The battle pauses. This pause allows Senica, her father and the two remaining men at arms to regroup. My son stands alone.

The assassin numbers have dwindled from forty to under ten. Yet they do not retreat, and I understand why; there is no going back for them. Success or death are their only options. But now, in the face of Claydon and this new threat, they hesitate.

I, however, do not.