Northmagic

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. Imps of varied motive and provenance certainly made their homes here, so too did enough domovoi that they could hardly be called rare. Amongst the secret, scaly things that shuffled about under cover of darkness lived more than one winged snake, surely, and at least one witch’s dog could fly her about in a pinch—but a fluttering mutt is no dragon, no matter how large or fearsome. Yet something had changed in the air one night before Midwinter, a kind of ache that passed through the senses of every being in the valley, waking the sleeping and stopping mugs of ale halfway between tables and lips. And though none could explain it, and few mentioned it out loud, this single shudder in time marked a changing of the world.

The first dragon to appear south of the Crown was only about the size of a small hut. A dun-colored, box-headed thing with no particular talent for might or magic, a few villagers in the northern foothills were able to drive it off with nothing more sophisticated than torches and colorful language. For a few days after, it made for an excellent story to tell in taverns, and those dwelling lower in the Yarrow valley thought the entire episode an invention, an exaggeration, or an aberration. But soon far larger beasts began to descend into the vale, some just passing through to other unlucky lands and others building nests in the caves and thickets of the forests, apparently satisfied that the valley was far enough away from whatever untold danger had driven them from their mountain homes. As their numbers swelled they grew bolder, eating at first only wild game, then livestock, and finally people. Small councils convened almost nightly across the network of towns and villages that dotted the valley, but no sooner had a plan of action been concocted for one unwanted guest than another was reported. By the time the hamlet of Porda’s Hill was laid waste by a monstrous red-tinted wyrm who sang death in ancient magical tongues, the decision had already been made to send for help to the powers that be in Irrigon.

But no help came, and in time the people of the valley learned why: the first dragons had already reached the great southern city, and sung down its magical defenses with even greater ease than they’d torn down its walls. Great dragons were spreading from the northern mountains now, creatures a century old or more, and the defenses of Irrigon were raised to repel the threat of human warriors, human mages, and all manner of lesser beasts. To live to such great ages amongst dragons, size was required, certainly, and some measure of magic too. But as the hapless denizens of Irrigon discovered, cunning is also a trait associated with the greatest among dragons. What could not be done with one set of talons or one labor of musical, arcane dragon magic could be made possible through trickery and uneasy alliances between great numbers of the beasts. The denizens of Irrigon, once the greatest city anyone for leagues had ever known, scrambled to save what they could of their lives and property. No aid was afforded the people of the valley from that source.

From the western cliffs came the Merlin riders astride massive birds of prey, as was their way. The giant Merlins had kept the dragons out of the terraced towns and farms of the western hills since time immemorial, fighting them beak and talon, their riders proficient with the longspear and in their own secretive school of battle magic. The streams of refugees climbing their hills alerted the Westerners to the plight of their neighbors, but soon their homes were under siege too, and the few riders who could be spared provided little more than escort for the fleeing. The hope that arrived with the great grey wings of the Merlins gave way to despair as the birds retreated westward, and soon the shadows passing over the valley once again meant only death and despair. Those fleeing to the east found sparse settlements nestled in the island ranges that dotted the land all the way to the far plains and the distant sea, but the stoutest swordsman and cleverest archer amongst the easterners was no match for a host of dragons. Hospitality and aid was found in any direction the people of the valley fled, as has long been the custom in this part of the world, but no force existed that could hold back the tide of so many dragons at once.

One by one the towns and villages of the valley dwindled in number or died entirely. Trade routes collapsed, old family alliances disintegrated, and the ancient ties of clan and community gave way to fearful isolation and hardscrabble living. Those who stayed moved into the lowest places, and the densest thickets—places even the smallest dragons wouldn’t fit—and carved elaborate tunnels into the earth to escape into at the earliest dragonsign. In time small colonies formed again, warrens that connected underground and unmarked trails that meandered under dense tree cover. And here an equilibrium was struck and a hard life was made by those who remained, a life of foraging at dusk and dawn, fishing under outcroppings under moonlight, with drinks sipped and old stories quietly told in deep underground taverns. And so the people of the valley came to live, with a quietude interrupted only by rainstorms and dragon wings, sounds so alike in their rushing. There was never quite enough, but deaths and disappearances became somewhat rarer, and in their makeshift homes the people dreamt of the world before and of all improbable worlds to come.

But for some, it was not enough simply to dream.