Hal the Helpful

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Only two sun-turns ago, it had been peaceful, and dragon-free: a fertile land where crops and livestock flourished, and the people prospered. But when The Great Terraquake split the ground, releasing a beam of intense, magical light, the dragons began to congregate in the Valley, flocking to it like moths to a flame.

They first came down from the mountains, only seven nights’ ride to the East. Then they came from further, wilder lands, where no horse can ride safely, and from where most explorers never return.

They came in such numbers and were so attracted to the beam that the people soon named it The Beacon. It took only three moon-turns or so for the Valley to become rife with dragons, and it had been so ever since.

The people of the Valley became restless and sore from trying to chase the dragons off their lands and keep their cattle and sheep safe. And they were tired - so very tired - from lack of sleep, as The Beacon illuminated the sky at all hours and drew all manner of noisy creatures to it.

Thus, considering the purported viciousness of dragons and his desperate need for a good night’s rest, Hal decided to circumvent the area completely as he made the long journey from Urndall to Armith. Though it was perhaps (in reality) more dangerous than encountering dragons, Hal guessed it to be safer and so opted to travel along the windy pass through the mountains that bordered the Valley to the west, his horse occasionally slipping on the rocky dirt road, which was barely wide enough for a horse to secure its footing.

Hal had been riding since sunrise. His legs and buttocks were now stiff and aching, and he knew that his horse longed for more than a few hours’ reprieve. He looked to the sun, approaching the horizon with determination, but still high enough for him to reach Dacon’s Inn before nightfall. That is, of course, if his horse didn’t slip and throw them both over the cliff to their gruesome demise.

Hal entertained this thought for a moment, and peering over the edge, wondered how long he would take to die after plummeting to the rocks below –

It would depend on if my head hits a rock, or if only my spine, rendering me immobile but still alive. Or, perhaps I’m impaled on a tree stump, but the stump prevents me from bleeding out immediately, so I just hang on in agony for hours. Or could I last days? I have my bladder of water on me - if that stayed in tact, barring an infection, I bet I could –

“Hullo there!” a voice called from up the road, snapping Hal out of his morbid ponderings.

Stretching his neck and squinting his eyes, Hal could just make out the figure of a man, standing amongst a small outcropping of trees ahead. He nearly blended into them, his robes and big bushy beard almost the same color as their trunks. And it appeared that the man stood holding a tall wooden staff, which looked like a sapling itself. As Hal’s horse drew nearer, he could see that the man’s face was also quite dusted in dirt - or soot? - rendering him one big brown blob by the trees.

“Hullo,” Hal ventured, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. “How goes?”

“Goes well enough,” the man replied, smiling, his teeth glowing an unnatural white amidst his general brown murkiness. “You look quite fit, my young fellow,” he continued, “might you be willing and able to assist me down the pass to Dacon’s Inn? Normally I would chance the weather and the beasts in the wild, but my ankle is sprained, you see, and I fear I may have broken a rib bone or two.”

Hal eyed the man, who continued to smile, but beyond the smile, Hal could detect the unmistakable strain of intense physical pain. Hal softened.

“Do you have any weapons?” Hal asked. Bandits frequently rode the pass, and he wasn’t about to lose his last few silvers - and possibly his life - for a lack of caution.

The man brightened and shifted a bit to pull open his long brown cloak. “I have no metal,” he replied, “and I’m happy to remove my clothing to prove it. The only weapons I carry are my staff here, and my wits.”

Hal almost smiled. Under the right circumstances, a man with wits and a staff could very well prove more dangerous than a skilled swordsman with a blade. But perhaps not under these circumstances.

“Can you ride?” Hal asked.

“I am capable, yes,” the man replied, “but the weight of us both may bend your steed.” He patted his belly, which was indeed rotund, though not more than most. Still, with two men and Hal’s pack, Mernus’ back would suffer.

Hal pondered for a moment –

If I allow him to ride and I take the reins and walk in front, Mernus would obey me above all. And the path is much too rocky and narrow for him to chance turning about or fleeing… It should be safe enough for him to ride and take hold of the saddle while I lead by the reins.

Hal looked to the sun again and counted fingers to the horizon –

We will arrive at Dacon’s after nightfall, but not by much.

Hal dismounted, patted beneath the man’s robes, double-checking for weapons, and then helped him onto the horse. The man winced and nearly cried out in pain as he hoisted his weight over the saddle, then he settled in and caught his breath a moment later.

“Would you like to take my staff while you walk? It may help you to navigate the path and the rocks more easily.”

Hal accepted, nodding, and the man relaxed into the saddle, now able to grip it with both hands. Hal also relaxed, knowing that the man now only had his clothing to fight with. That, and of course, his wits.

They walked along steadily, Hal catching himself with the staff more than once when a rock gave way underfoot, and though they traveled slowly in their party of three, Hal found himself grateful to be in the company of someone he could converse with.

“May I ask how you sustained your injuries?” Hal ventured.

“Absolutely,” the man winced, as Mernus’ foot slipped over a rock. “I’m sure you know of the dragons?”

Hal’s heart skipped and his eyes widened. “Aye,” he replied.

“I’ve been living among them and studying them for some time now. More than a sun-turn, in fact.”

“Truly?” Hal asked. “Then are you with the Coven of Dalthryl? Are you a wizard?”

“Truly,” the man replied, “and while I am indeed a wizard, I am not of Dalthryl. Dalthryl is… not for me.”

“A wizard,” Hal turned this over in his mind, “so you have more than your staff and your wits then.”

“A bit,” the man admitted. “But without my staff, I am not very powerful, I’m afraid.”

Hal eyed the staff in his hand, then looked back up at the man. “I’ll give it back, unless you give me reason not to.”

The man smiled. “As for my injuries – I have been studying the flame dragons that congregate not far from here. Early this morning, I managed to earn the trust of one enough that it would let me ride it –”

“You rode a dragon?!” Hal interjected, stopping and turning around wild-eyed to face the man.

“Yes,” the man laughed, “only this once, and not for very long, but yes. I rode it. Unfortunately, however,” he continued as Hal returned to walking, “we flew over the ridge and came a bit too close to a group of bandits – they shot at the dragon, spooked it, and it bucked me clear off. I fell quite a distance to the ground, and though I was able to blunt the fall with a quick spell, my ribs caught a tree branch on the way down, and then my ankle took a blow when I landed. I had been sitting beneath those trees all day before you came along.”

Could it be true? How could anyone really ride a dragon? Especially a flame dragon… Aren’t they vicious man-eaters who torch crops and wreak havoc?

“Dragons are actually very misunderstood,” the man said after a beat. “The entire world thinks they are hostile and violent beasts that need to be tamed. But in my experience, dragons - even flame dragons - are just the opposite. …In my experience, it is humans who are the hostile and violent beasts that require taming.”

Hal pondered this for a minute – how many times had he witnessed a human committing violence or inflicting pain? Too many to count. And how many times had he witnessed this of a dragon? Considering he had never even seen a dragon before, he thought perhaps he should investigate them before passing judgment.

“You speak as if you had encountered dragons before they came to the Valley.”

“Aye,” said the man, “I am fortunate to have traveled to the reaches of Terra, and I have encountered many magical beasts, including some species of dragon. Though I never had the opportunity to live among them and study them until then.”

“What’s your name?” Hal asked.

“Lyle,” the man replied. Hal smirked. “I know,” Lyle said, “it’s not exactly the powerful, intimidating name you might expect a wizard to have. But it suits. Lyle the Lumbering, Lyle the Loquacious… Lyle the Limping, at present.” He chuckled to himself.

Hal threw a smile over his shoulder.

“What’s your name, young fellow?”

“Halmiroth. Hal for short. It suits,” he shrugged.

“Indeed it does: Hal the Helpful, Halmiroth the Heroic, Roth the Relentless. You have an endless store of good names for your legacy. I find myself jealous.”

Hal shot him another smile; Lyle winked.

Dacon’s Inn should have been an hour’s journey from the trees where Hal and Lyle had met, and though they made fair time, nearly two hours passed before they reached the inn. It was well past nightfall when they finally arrived and brought Mernus to the stable, but the light of The Beacon in the Valley gave the sky above the mountains a greenish glow that illuminated the river and the exterior of the inn so that Hal could conserve his lantern oil.

The inn itself was sturdy and built well to defend against the elements and the ne'er do wells on the pass. It sat on the plateau where the Berl and the Domerin Mountain Ranges intersected, and it butted up against the Berl River next to one of its many waterfalls, allowing for fresh fish, clean water, and a restful night’s sleep to all who traveled the pass. Hal anticipated all three of these amenities with impatience, as his stomach growled and his eyelids slumped.

The two men entered the inn expecting warmth and laughter and song. It was warm, indeed, but not in spirit, as it appeared that the inn had been split into two factions: one group seated along the wall near the hearth, in tan cloaks with a sun insignia on the left breast; the other group gathered along the far wall, in midnight blue cloaks with a star insignia on the right breast.

There were a few uncloaked individuals scattered throughout, but mostly seated at the bar, which seemed to be the neutral middle ground between the two hostile parties.

Hal had seen these cloaks and insignias before, but he wasn’t sure which groups they belonged to, and he didn’t care to learn at the moment. The tension between them was palpable. So he took a seat at the bar with the rest of the plainclothes travelers, followed closely by Lyle the Limping, who removed his own cloak before taking a seat.

Darga, a voluptuous barmaid with dark eyes, hair, and skin, swished her skirts as she walked over to them. “What can I get for you, handsome?” she asked Hal, hands resting on the steep curves of her hips.

Hal gulped.

“Fish soup, hearty bread, and dark ale, for the both of us,” Lyle interjected, “and a Medicine, if you have one.”

“The Medicine’s gone to bed for the night. Can you wait until morning or should I rouse –?”

“Morning’s fine,” Lyle smiled at her and placed a silver piece in her hand. Darga flipped it, winked at Hal, and went off to fetch their meal.

Hal raised his eyebrows at Lyle.

“The Medicine’s gone to bed, but not to sleep,” Lyle replied, “I wouldn’t want to pull him away from his pleasure.” Hal’s brow furrowed, as Darga set down two large brown ales in front of them. “An irritable Medicine won’t do well for my injuries. But this will dull the pain some,” he said, raising his glass and taking a deep gulp.

Hal shrugged and helped himself to a long drink as well.

Their food came shortly, and they ate their fill, licking the bowls clean of the rich fish stew and savoring each crumb of the hearty brown bread. Hal patted his belly and sighed, relaxing back into his seat.

Now that he was sated, he examined the cloaked travelers more closely; training his ears to hear anything they might say. But it didn’t seem that any of them were saying anything at all. The only voices he could detect were those from the men seated at the bar and Darga, who was currently swishing her hips in front of a white-haired gentleman for an extra copper.

Hal leaned toward Lyle. “What’s going on here?” he whispered. “Do you know who these people in the cloaks are?”

Lyle shifted in his seat and, keeping his head down, looked between the groups. “Yes,” he whispered, “those in tan with the insignia of the sun are of the Coven of Almyll; and those in midnight with the insignia of the star are of the Coven of Dalthryl.”

Hal perked up. “Really? I’ve never seen any of the Coven-ants before –”

“They’re not called Covenants –”

“– and I’ve only ever met a few wizards before; never a witch.”

“You probably have, but they tend to be a bit more… secretive. There was once a time when witches were reviled and hunted, captured and chained - outlawed. Times have changed, but even now, they aren’t as trusted or as respected as wizards by most institutions.”

Trying to contain his fascination, Hal bit his lip and stared at each group, one and then the other, thrilled by the number of magical humans currently seated around him. He wondered what drew them all here, and supposed it must have something to do with The Beacon.

The Coven of Dalthryl had been studying The Beacon since shortly after its appearance. They came to the Valley in droves to examine this great beam of buzzing magical light, thrusting forth from the crust of Terra and reaching up into the heavens. They had immediately determined that it was an immense source of magical power, the likes of which they had never before encountered. And shortly after they had made their determination, the dragons began to appear in the Valley. Given the potential of such a power source, the Coven of Dalthryl had been trying to harness it for some time, though without success. However, it was now rumored throughout the land that they had turned their attention instead to the dragons.

Prior to The Beacon, the dragons had not been seen in the territories of humans for at least three ages. When he was small, Hal’s great grandfather would regale him with stories of the forest dragons and river dragons that lived throughout his homeland when he was a boy. He claimed that the dragons of the forest and the river didn’t breathe fire like the great fire dragons of the mountains. And, in fact, they were quite gentle and only attacked when threatened, so if you were clever enough, you could befriend one, and it may even allow you to touch it. His eyes lit up bright as gemstones in the sunshine when he described the way dragon skin felt:

“Hally, my boy, have you ever felt hot wax between your fingertips? Not so hot that it burns, but hot enough that the wax just coats them and you can glide your fingers past one another, smooth as silk? That’s what dragon skin feels like: like warm wax between your fingers, and you can glide your hand over it like there’s barely nothing there.”

Hal would sit on his great grandfather’s lap, listening to the stories, wide-eyed and gawking. And whenever dragon skin was mentioned, Hal would trace his tiny fingers over the backs of his great grandfather’s hands, imagining that these very hands that had once touched real, live dragons now held the magic of them below their surface.

His great grandfather’s encounters with dragons ended after his boyhood. As he grew into a young man, dragon sightings throughout the land had become increasingly rare, until the time came when he wished to show the majesty of the dragons to his own son, and no man in his village, or in any surrounding, had seen a dragon for five sun-turns or more.

Now, all manner of dragons had gathered in the Valley - some for which humans had no written record yet! - and it was a veritable smorgasbord for researchers and wizards wishing to capitalize on the opportunity. Dragons were powerful creatures of various types of magic: they were said to hold the secrets to ice, fire, water, wind, earth, and even spirit magics, making them a possible source of magical energy… That is, if The Beacon couldn’t be tapped. This was what the Coven of Dalthryl was now hoping.

The Coven of Almyll, however, was a mystery to Halmiroth.

“It’s best not to stare, Hal,” Lyle cautioned. “These Covens are very powerful, and the air is already thick with their distaste for each other. It would be wise of us to keep our noses in our ale and retire to bed sooner rather than later.”

Hal nodded and sat back in his seat. He wished to ask Lyle a hundred questions, but he kept his mouth closed and his ears open.

The patrons at the bar were growing rowdier by the second, so Hal didn’t hear the two men enter the inn until they were an arm’s length behind him. Hal recognized one as the stablehand, and they were leaning on each other as they walked, eyes drooping and cheeks ruddy from ale. The men were laughing and hollering about something indiscernible until one sentence rang through, clear as glass:

“And then he said he could kill dragons!”

The men hooted and fell into each other, taken with the hilarity of the claim. They pawed at each other’s clothing, each trying to stay upright.

At the mention of killing dragons, Hal felt the energy in the room stiffen. He glanced over his shoulder at one coven and then the other and saw that several members of each group were now leaning forward, poised at the edge of their seats. Lyle looked uneasy and ready to bolt, and the rest of the patrons at the bar had fallen silent, anticipating what might unfold next.

“I told him he was nutty as gnome shit, but he showed me a sack of scales he had to prove it!”

The men continued to laugh as they made their way up to the bar to order more ale. Darga pursed her lips and glared daggers at them as a towering, broad-shouldered man in a midnight cloak rose from his seat along the far wall and sauntered up next to them.

“Good even’, my fine fellows,” the great man’s voice boomed.

The two men craned their necks to meet his gaze, and to Hal they looked like small children staring up at their father. One hiccuped while the other ventured, “Good even’ to you, sir.”

“Darga, would you please fetch my friends some of your fine fish stew? And some cold water to help them settle back into their bodies.” He tossed a silver over their heads, and Darga snatched it from the air and went off to the kitchen. Then, a thick, toothy grin crawled across the man’s face, as he patted the two drunks on their backs and guided them to a small table near the bar.

“Do you mind if I ask you fellows some questions about this supposed dragon-killer?”

The two men, mouths agape, exchanged a look before managing a head wobble that passed for an affirmative nod.

Darga brought their food and drink, and they answered questions between slurps of stew. Both covens sat forward and listened with eager expressions and tense bodies.

Where had he come from? They weren’t sure.

Where had he gone to? He had mentioned heading to Varn.

Was he going by way of Fetterbeth? Or was he planning to take Vy’s Pass? They weren’t sure.

What was his name? He called himself Slayer.

What did he look like? They couldn't be sure: he wore a black cloak and always kept his hood up, and a cloth covered his nose and mouth. But he was tall (“though not as tall as you, sir!”) with a barrel chest, and when he walked he ever-so-slightly favored his right leg.

He favored his right leg? Yes, his right leg.

Did he come by horse? Yes. A black stallion.

All black or did it have markings? All black.

What did he do here? Bought some wares and moved on.

What weapons did he have? Swords. Daggers. A short staff.

And you saw scales? Yes.

You’re sure they were real dragon scales? They had never touched a dragon before, but the scales seemed real.

How did he say he killed dragons? He didn’t.

Why did he say he killed dragons? For money. People want the dragons gone, and they’ll pay per head.

How much did he say he charged? He didn’t.

Did he mention trapping dragons as well? Or only killing them?

Upon this final question a witch from the Coven of Almyll stood and thrust herself between the men and their interrogant.

“That’s quite enough, Qerryn,” her voice rang through the inn. “Killing dragons is sufficient to upset the balance of Terra, but trapping them? Trapping them in an attempt to harvest their magical energy like one might milk a cow? The potential misuse and abuse of such power would destroy Terra as we know it.”

“Pipe down, Elmeera,” a gray-bearded Dalthryl man called out. “You’re being dramatic. Tapping a source of magical energy won’t destroy Terra. That’s absurd.”

“Absurd?” Elmeera scoffed. “Dalthryl is championing the enslavement of dragons in service to their own greed. It absolutely will destroy Terra, as it will upset the balance of life as we know it.”

“And what of Almyll?” boomed Qerryn, the man who had been inquiring after the dragon slayer. “Terra is already out of balance, and you would have us do nothing? You would have us leave the dragons to destroy the livelihoods of the people in the Valley? You would have us leave our people to suffer?”

“Don’t pretend, Qerryn. This isn’t about the people,” Elmeera snarled.

“No, it’s not. It’s about the dragons and what needs to be done with them. They are a nuisance and a menace, and an untapped resource of great magical power. By tapping it, we can restore balance to Terra, clear the dragons from the Valley, help our people to prosper, and usher in a new age of peace and magical innovation.”

“No, you can’t. Not like this. Not by exploiting the dragons and their magics. That foolish thinking will be the beginning of our end.” Elmeera glared at the man a moment longer, then turned to her coven. “We leave at first light to find this Slayer. And stop him.”

The Coven of Almyll collectively poured whatever remained in their respective glasses down their throats, stood, nodded to Darga, and went up to bed.

Qerryn then stood, turned to his coven, and announced, “We leave at first light to find this Slayer as well. And to find out what he knows.”

The Coven of Dalthryl then went up to bed, and Lyle insisted that he and Hal retire as well.

Alone in their room, they removed their outer clothes and whispered about the events of the evening:

“I think I understand what Dalthryl wants, but what is Almyll after?” Hal asked.

Lyle folded his cloak and propped it beneath his swollen foot. “They want to find the cause of The Beacon, restore balance, and help the dragons to return to their home territories.”

Hal crawled under the wool blankets and shuddered with relief to be in a warm bed. “But the true home territories of the dragons are everywhere - all over Terra - and only in the last hundred sun-turns or so have they disappeared.”

“Aye,” Lyle sighed.

“So, does Almyll want to restore them to all of Terra? Or do they want them back to wherever they’ve been hiding? Out of sight?” Hal pulled the covers up to his chin and peered at Lyle with glassy eyes. He resembled a child requesting a bedtime story.

“That, my dear Hal, is a very good question. And one to which I do not know the answer. But I do know that while I trust neither coven fully, I align much more with the aims, vision, and ideals of Almyll. Dalthryl, I’m afraid, seems to have only their personal and financial interests in mind - they care little, if at all, for Terra or its people.”

Thinking on this for a moment, Hal tried to recall exactly what the large man Qerryn had said to Elmeera. But his eyes became heavy, and they soon won their battle to close.

Snoring softly, Hal dreamed that he was riding a lit candle, its wax soft and malleable between his hands and thighs; its flame a tiny heartbeat that resonated through his whole being. And though they soared high above the mountains and the Valley, Hal could hear his great grandfather’s laugh echo in the night sky, and he felt completely at home.