Hatch

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. But even before they arrived, the Valley was an ugly smear of land, crowded with old bones, choked by older curses. The dragons hadn’t come to the Valley because they found it appealing. They had come purely out of a sense of impending doom.

Like all creatures nearing their inevitable extinction, dragons had come to the Valley to die. To add their bones to the vast graveyard slumping between melancholy mountains. It’s why they called the place Malagangor—Valley of the Skeletons.

But Sir Peligern still preferred to call it the Valley.

It helped him maintain some positive morale after more than fifty years slitting the throats of senile serpents. And announcing himself as “Sir Peligern, First Knight of the Valley!” sounded much more romantic than his official title, “Sir Peligern, Forty-Ninth Custodian of Malagangor and Thereabouts.”

But in his heart, Sir Peligern knew the truth: he and the dragons were in the same boat, speeding toward the same cliff.

“Alas, yet another great serpent hath fallen! The raging fire of its stomach burneth no more. The hate of its mighty eyes hath dimmed. And…and…and its steaming innards doth blanket the grass.”

Sir Peligern delivered his speech from atop the ridged back of his latest conquest, brandishing his bloody sword. His freshly vanquished foe lay dead and bloated beneath his feet. But there was no one around to hear his proclamation of victory. Except for his doleful horse Dauntless. Oh, and his sword too.

“Oh, I beg you! I beg you! Throw me into a lake! Any lake!” rang a voice inside Sir Peligern’s head. “So long as I never have to hear another one of your miserable monologues.”

“They are not miserable,” Sir Peligern replied aloud, giving the sword in his hand an offended stare. “They are most honorable! For what else am I to do when I slay such a beast? Say to myself ‘Hmm, another lizard slain, now it’s time for tea.’”

“YES!” came the reply inside his head, tolling like a bell.

“Pfah! What ignoble nonsense,” said Sir Peligern. “What would Sir Wodelaunt say if he knew his old ward refused to obey the proper etiquettes? Why he would—”

“Wodelaunt has been dead for seventy years,” snapped the voice in his head.

“Even still, he wouldn’t like it. Not one bit,” Sir Peligern huffed. Then he took his long beard and used it to wipe the sword clean of the dragon-guts. The sword’s name was Garanhir, one of the Thinking Blades forged centuries ago by the Wizard-smiths of Sarn. He and Sir Peligern had been mystically bonded for nearly eighty years now, ever since a young Peligern had yanked the blade from an enchanted tree stump.

Once the magic sword gleamed clean in the light of the setting sun, Sir Peligern sheathed it and sat down heavily upon the dead carcass.

“What number does this make this?” he asked, picking out flecks of dragon-flesh from his beard.

“Four hundred and two,” replied Garanhir, its mind and memory still sharp, even if its blade was somewhat dull.

Sir Peligern let loose a whistle. “And to think, once upon a time, slaying one dragon would make a man into a lord. And if it were the right kind of dragon, a lord with a wife. And here I sit, four hundred and two dragons in, bereft of a lordship, bereft of a castle, and still as unmarried as the day I was born.”

“Ah, but you do have a nice tower with stunning vistas,” said the sword, muffling a chuckle.

Sir Peligern glanced over at the gloom-shrouded mountains in the east. He could spy a tall spike of stone among the cliffs. He rolled his eyes. Borogrund Tower was little taller than four stories, but just tall enough to see how vastly hideous the Valley could be.

He shut his eyes and fought with his clanking memory to recall the happier days of his youth. Days when his bones didn’t ache every live-long day, when his veins didn’t show purple beneath his waxy skin, when he still had all his teeth. When he had been called, among many other grand honorifics, the Sunrise Knight.

Now, he was a fussy old man in dented armor, wielding a cantankerous sword, resigned to murdering decrepit dragons that could barely fly.

Dragons, like Sir Peligern, had become antiques. Once upon a time, dragons were great and dreadful terrors, eclipsing the heavens with their leather-webbed wings. They had unleashed rivers of fire, bringing low mighty legions. They had hoarded treasures beyond belief, devouring whole kingdoms in their greed.

But now, they were fat and lazy. They had slunk their way into the Valley a hundred years ago, the best of their race long-ago slain by the Knights of the Golden Swan. On the edge of their extinction, dragons had become little more than swollen leeches, hoarding only trash and bones.

Sir Peligern laid his head back against a long spike jutting from the dead dragon’s spine and looked up at the darkening skies. Stars began to peek through the burgeoning dusk. He liked this time of night best, the moment before the purple moon stepped out and stole the center stage. The quiet stars reminded the old knight of silver chandeliers. He remembered golden flames upon silver sconces, shining down upon golden crowns and silver capes. He could almost hear the minstrels and their lutes, the fair maidens tittering and flittering like birds, and the old king on his throne, laughing his thunderous laugh.

Tears welled up in his old, rheumy eyes. They cascaded down his leathery cheeks, running alongside his gnarled old nose.

Sir Peligern had sworn to obey the new king when the old king died, and his new king had commanded him to bring an end to dragonkind. It didn’t matter the new king was a petulant brat with outrageous demands. Sir Peligern had sworn his oath with blood. An oath to spend his days in Malagangor, slaying dragons until the last dragon died.

But not for the first time in the fifty years since, he wished something new would happen. Something new and bigger than his burdensome oath.

He settled in deeper against the spike, closing his eyes to sleep. The smell of the dead dragon was terrible, but Sir Peligern had long ago grown used to dragon-stench. And besides, the scaly hide was warm against the cold air.

Before he drifted to sleep, he chanced one more look at the stars. And in that glance, he saw something…new. He saw a star un-pluck itself from the night sky. And it soon came hurtling toward him.

He sat up at once, rising to his feet.

“Gar, Gar, do you see that?” he exclaimed, raising to his feet. He held the sword’s hilt, allowing the mind within the blade to use his eyes.

“See what?” snapped Garanhir. “How am I supposed to see anything with your dreadful cataracts—”

“Hush, it’s coming this way!”

The star became a comet, wreathed in silver fire. A high-pitched whistle could soon be heard. It grew louder and louder—soon it roared like a dragon of old, full of fury and fire. Sir Peligern laughed like a giddy child. He danced upon his dead dragon’s back.

But the comet did not strike Sir Peligern. Instead, it streaked over his head and flew over the Valley. The old knight watched it soar before it crashed out of sight. A massive plume of smoke shot into the air and a shockwave of debris exploded across the land. The blast knocked Sir Peligern off his feet and landed him right into a pool of the dragon’s spilled intestines.

“Aha! Did you see that? Did you see that?” he cackled as he leapt up onto his feet, ignoring the ropy organs clinging to his backside. He chased after his horse Dauntless, who had barely raised her head through the whole ordeal.

Flinging himself into the cracked saddle, he jabbed his heels into the horse, urging the old girl northward. Dauntless, rarely ever in a hurry, plodded northward. Her master bounced up and down in the saddle, waving his sword in circles over his head.

“Tallyho! Tallyho!” he cried. “Onward to mystery and magic, onward to destruction and death, onward to something new!”

And so, they journeyed through the muck and misery, passing the Bones of the Valley wherever they went. Whether jutting up from the dirt or wreathed in thorny vines or half-consumed by sinister fungi, the Bones were all monstrous and monstrously sized. Before the dragons had come to the Valley, the trolls had made their way here. Their great, horned skulls lay everywhere. Before the trolls had come, there were the manticores—the remnants of their teeth and their claws still sharp, sticking up like shark fins from the ground. And before the manticores, there were the hydras, their colossal spines undulating through the mud. And before the hydras, thousands upon thousands of other great creatures, unnamed and ancient, yet their bones still terrible to behold.

Malagangor held a strange and morbid power in its soil. For thousands of years, that power had drawn monsters to its valley before their final doom. As Sir Peligern passed beneath the dark gaze of a troll skull’s empty sockets, he pondered whether mankind would one day be drawn here well.

It took several hours to reach the crater. Dauntless had gotten distracted by a field of wild grass growing near the ash-dunes. Then she had gotten lost among the dead forests. Then she had gotten stuck in the corpse-bog, forcing Sir Peligern to heave her out with thinly veiled death threats.

When they finally reached the crater, the thrill of the fiery comet once again exploded in his chest.

The crater was perhaps a hundred feet wide and still full of smoke, obscuring whatever had fallen from the sky. He heard not a sound, nothing save the shrill whisper of hot steam.

Leaping from the saddle, Sir Peligern unsheathed Garanhir and slid down the steep decline. The scorched dirt hissed beneath his tarnished metal boots. When he reached the bottom, he still couldn’t see what lay at the crater’s heart—only a soft, pulsing glow. A red glow.

But before he reached the pulsing glow, Sir Peligern came upon a severed head.

The severed head greeted him with dead eyes, a slack jaw and a prodigious black tongue splayed out the side of its mouth.

“I suppose there are now four hundred and three fewer dragons in the world,” whispered Garanhir inside his head.

The head belonged to a mighty dragon, one with wicked horns and obsidian-black scales. It looked nothing like the sodden-faced reptiles he he slayed so many times before. By the size of its head, Sir Peligern estimated the dragon once stood taller than the royal city’s walls.

Here lay the head of a true dragon—and one that had just been pulverized into meaty chunks by a plummeting star.

Its body parts lay scattered around the crater, the pulpy ends still sizzling from the blast. Sir Peligern found two great wings, torn from the body and their membranes tattered. He found the tail, studded with savage spikes. Its stomach was muscular and strong, not bulbous and bulging. He could still feel the vicious heat of the fires inside its ribcage from several feet away.

“How did you elude me for so long?” Sir Peligern pondered aloud, staring up into its great maw. Eventually, he left the dragon’s head and ventured deeper into the crater, his sword held ready before him.

“My, my, what have we here?” he said as he reached the red glow.

A great metal egg lay at the center of the destruction, surrounded by a nest of five dragon eggs. The metal egg was several times larger than the dragon eggs, but nestled right in among them, having only nudged them out a few feet.

The metal egg must have been the comet. It had landed right in the middle of the dragon’s nest, destroying the mother but leaving the eggs unharmed. Dragon eggs were impossible to break until the dragon within hatched—even resilient, it appeared, to great burning metal objects hurled out of the heavens.

Sir Peligern could see his reflection perfectly in the metal. There wasn’t a single dent or scratch in the hull. He had never seen metal worked so flawlessly. Not even the Wizard-smiths could make a metal so fine and perfect.

The egg was about five feet in height and wider than the span of his outstretched arms. The source of the red glow was a ribbon of red light embedded into the hull, encircling it like a ring. One end of the egg was flatter than the other end. From the flatter end protruded three black trumpets. Each one smelled potently of fire, as if they all had been blasting with it a few moments ago. The top, however, was not metal, but glass covered in dirt and dragon-guts. Using the tip of his beard, Sir Peligern wiped away the debris. Once the grime was cleared, he leaned forward to stare at what lay inside.

A pair of bright blue eyes stared back.

“Great Swan!” he exclaimed, jumping back from the metal egg.

Suddenly, the red circle of light turned green. And then the egg spoke. It said a string of words Sir Peligern couldn’t understand. The words were clipped and very…efficient. If he had understood the words, he might have been offended, for the voice said: “Non-threatening humanoid specimen detected. Instigating omnilingual translation sequence and disembarking procedure.”

Sir Peligern watched in amazement as whirring noises emanated from the metal egg. Then there was a great hiss. He spun around, his sword slashing the air. But there was no other dragon, save for the dead one lying around him chunks. The hissing had come from the metal egg, resounding through the Valley as the glass top of the egg slowly opened.

The egg was hatching.

Bewildered with amazement and fear, Sir Peligern watched as a plume of white smoke poured out from inside the egg, spinning and drifting into the air. As it cleared, Sir Peligern stepped closer to it again.

“Be careful, Peligern,” cautioned Garanhir. “Whatever’s inside, it can’t be good.”

The old knight poked his long nose into the egg. A chubby, little hand shot out at once, seizing his nose.

“Why…it’s a baby,” said Sir Peligern with a nasally voice

Inside the egg, an infant boy lay swaddled in a shiny blue blanket. A twist of a blonde curl hung on his forehead above his bright blue eyes. He giggled as he held on to the old knight’s nose.

“Oh what did I say? It's not good! Not good at all!” complained the sword, who detested children.

“By the Golden Swan,” exclaimed Sir Peligern, scooping the infant out of the egg and detaching it's hand from his nose. “Here be a human babe hatched from an egg from the heavens. Wonders upon wonders!”

“Undoubtedly it’s a new dragon breed disguised as a human to deceive you,” said Garanhir.

“Balderdash,” said Sir Peligern. “He smells perfectly human.”

“He smells like he needs a change,” grumbled the sword.

Once the baby was lifted out of the egg, the ribbon of light changed colors again, turning to blue.

“Omnilingual translation protocol complete,” said the incomprehensible voice. Then it spoke in words the knight could understand. “Beginning primary carrier message display.”

Suddenly a beam of light shot out from inside the hatched egg, shearing through the night. Sir Peligern held the infant close, wary of the sudden magic. Then the beam twisted in upon itself, taking a different shape—that of a woman.

That of a woman in pants.

Sir Peligern gasped and covered the baby’s eyes.

The woman was made entirely of the blue light, hovering above the metal egg. She wore pantaloons tight against her shapely legs and a long robe with skinny sleeves. She had round spectacles upon her face and her hair in a formidable bun. Sir Peligern almost cried out “enchantress!” but the woman wasn’t beguiling enough to be an enchantress. Despite her unseemly leg attire, she seemed more studious than seductive.

“Greetings, I am Augusta Sunday of the planet Earth,” she said, her voice clear and strong. “You have not heard of my planet, for it does not exist within your universe. By making an incision-portal in the interdimensional super-barrier, I have been able to deploy this vessel into your universe.”

Holding the baby in one arm and only half-listening, Sir Peligern ran his sword through the woman. The blade did nothing, merely passing through her as if she were a phantom.

“Are you an elf-trick?” he demanded. "Or be ye some ghost from the yonder beyonds?"

The woman of light flickered for a moment. “Unable to answer question,” she responded, then proceeded on with her monologue.

“The infant within this vessel is the last surviving child of the planet Earth.” Then the woman’s firm expression softened. Whereas before she was like a queen holding court, now she held a face full of deepest grief. “This is my son, whom I dearly love. Using a trans-universal telescope, I discovered signs of humanoid life upon this world. I ask—no, I beg—that you care for him as you would your own child. Love him, care for him, treat him well. Despite all of the technology, intellect and power at my disposal, I can only pray he finds his way into loving hands. By the—"

Zzzzt!

Suddenly, a spray of sparks shot out from the egg and the woman of light vanished. And all fell quiet around the egg.

Sir Peligern looked down at the gurgling baby boy in his arms.

“Don’t even think about it,” said Garanhir.

“Why not?” asked the old knight.

“Because you know nothing of child-rearing! And besides, you’re more than ninety years old. You could be dead tomorrow.”

“Sir Wodelaunt lived till one hundred and thirty-three,” answered the knight, “all the while raising myself and seven other wards.”

“It’s a terrible idea,” warned the sword.

“It’s a wonderful idea,” said Sir Peligern. “And besides, the lady did plead for us to care for him. And I am duty-bound to serve all maidens in distress, regardless of how they appear."

He sheathed the sword and looked the baby close in the face. The babe would be a strapping young lad one day, no doubt about it.

“Squire,” announced Sir Peligern suddenly. “Thou shalt be my squire. And thus, that shall be your name. Squire.”

The matter settled, Sir Peligern trudged his way out of the crater. His young squire bounced and burbled in his arms. His sword muttered and complained inside his head. Dauntless, when they reached her, couldn't have cared less. But once she was pointed home and toward her warm stables, she carried Sir Peligern and his new charge away from the crater with a lively pace.

They were long gone by the time the lights of the egg flashed once more. The purple moon had descended and the sun had begun to peek over the horizon.

There was another spray of sparks from inside the egg and the woman of light returned, her expression the same as when she had vanished. Her monologue picked up where it had left off.

"—the time you receive this message, planet Earth will have ceased to exist. Our advanced technology and exploration into other universes has attracted the attention of an entity from beyond our cosmos. In the days since its arrival in our atmosphere, this entity has obliterated my world's militaries and initiated the destabilization of our planet’s core. Our doom fast approaches, and so I have made this one desperate attempt to save the life of my son. But now I offer you this warning: Unless you destroy this vessel, the entity that destroyed my planet will come for your world. The great technology this vessel contains will inevitably draw the entity from my world and into your own. So I implore you, destroy this vessel. Melt it to slag and pour it into your deepest chasm. If you don’t, then Ba’alzaloth will come for you. I repeat, Ba’alzaloth will come for you—”

Zzzzt!

Another spray of sparks burst into the air. The vessel once again malfunctioned, this time looping the woman of light’s final sentence.

“Ba’alzaloth will come for you.”

“Ba’alzaloth will come for you.”

“Ba’alzaloth will come for you.”

As the woman of light echoed her warning, over and over and over again, the dragon eggs at her feet began to stir. Then they began to crack. Then they began to hatch.

“Ba’alzaloth will come for you.”

And as the eggs began to hatch, the Bones of the Valley began to stir.