On Wings of Terror and Hope

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. For years, only debris from broken dreams drifted in the breeze. Flyers and trinkets unearthed by inquisitive children. Melhandra wasn’t old enough to recall the quiet years, but she bore the weight of the past all the same.

A gnat gamboled through the air, crash landed upon her sun-darkened arm. She watched it crawl, frenetic twitches, golds and greens, iridescent in the morning light. Pretty for a creature so inane, she mused. Crushing the critter with her thumb, she refocused on her trek through the Valley. Inattention could kill anywhere, but in the nesting grounds, danger was a mere misplaced step away. It wasn’t just dragons, the royal family's guards were just as dangerous to trespassers.

Melhandra slowed her steps, a whiff of smoke tickling her nose. She glanced back towards the village hidden behind the valley's hills. No smoke marred the horizon. She pushed on, her brow furrowed despite the clear air. The Cantor had acted content lately, but he often did before he rumbled from his throne. She hoped no village was prey to his temper or the fire it wrought.

Her grandfather had told her that the word Cantor meant one who leads a choir. Melandra shook her head. It seemed too soft a word for the iron-fisted rule of their leader. The family had reigned since her great grandfather’s time, emerging as the dragons first took wing. A different time then, when the collapse was fresh, and no one believed the Electric Days were over. Melhandra often wondered about electricity. Her grandfather said as a boy he remembered the days when power still flowed in fits and starts. Marvels she thought, or lies most likely. Sometimes, when the old man had too much brew, he even said his father had worked in the labs before...

A rustle halted her steps. She crouched, oblivious to the thorns carving red tracks in bare skin. Her heart pounded a loud tattoo. She willed her breath steady, wished the shrieking cicadas would rest. The dragons should be sunning themselves at the pools, or busy at the Cantor’s bidding. But what if she was wrong? Melandra unsheathed the blade at her side. A useless tool if a dragon lurked. She gripped it tighter anyway, a bulwark against panic.

A rabbit capered into a clearing, nose twitching and ears relaxed upon its fur. Melandra chuckled, slipped the knife back into place. She grinned at the bunny bounding away. The expression dropped as quickly as it rose. The valley was dangerous, and there was work to do. She pushed forward more cautiously than before.

Small birds darted in out of the long grasses, tiny creatures poked wary heads upwards before scampering away. Larger animals seldom ventured into the valley unless shepherded in as food. Spotting an elk or a deer, a sure sign guards and feeders were close, would have sent Melhandra back towards the village.

A swathe of flattened grass opened at her feet. She squinted into the depression. Her wheat-colored eyes widened and grinned at the lavender orbs nestled amongst the strands. Not orbs, dragon eggs. Melhandra watched the sky. She breathed deep, testing the air for the damp scent of scales. The valley was quiet, except for summer sounds and breeze. She slid an earth-brown bag from her back, the head of a heavy hammer peeking from the drawstrings. The knife would be of even less use here. Hefting the tool to shoulder, she stumbled, regained her balance and strode into the dragon’s roost.

Melhandra was not a tall girl, the eggs barely reaching her waist. The smooth surface reflected sunlight, casting a pale purple glow on her chin as she hovered over them. The shell would be thin, but it would take a mighty blow to euthanize the hatchlings within. She raised the hammer overhead, poised to strike.

“In the Cantor's name, STOP!”

The hammer slipped from Melhandra’s hands, banged heavily against her back and knocked her to her knees. To the right, the long grass rustled, the owner of the voice rushing forward. Determination battled fear, and emerged victorious. She scrambled, gaze riveted on her target. Spittle flying from her lips, Melandra kicked the eggs. She would die, she knew, but hers would be a death with purpose.