PRIMÆVAL

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. In the days before eons were known, when time was green and yet to bloom, all lands were one on the face of the earth. When tribes of men began to master wild-like things, and to forge, they came. Great wyverns, ravenous in all their forms, moved through the waters of the deep, and in the midst of the fog of the wood. Whether they were shadows sent up from the sea or out of realms beyond the stars, who could tell? Yet when skies grew dark and storms appeared, men woke from their dwellings in terror to find the primæval jaws before them – open.

Awake, O wisdom! Show us thy way

For the Sons of Night have descended

And given our paths to darkness

Awake, Seat of Far Knowledge!

Bring us closer to thy throne

Arise, arise, ere break of day

Send a son to bring us comfort in our curse

Lightning ruptures the night. Bodies lie scattered along the edge of the jungle, their ruined faces agape in anguish. The embers of their campfires murmur, unfed, now feeble in the growing mist. A distance away, at the top of a cliff, a towering man stands watch. His amber eyes narrow as it starts to rain.

It must not escape.

A distant roar tears through the tree line and ripples across the stony canyon. Branches in the high canopy tremble and part as something heavy draws near. Warrior-cries ring through the dark. Out of the forest, a band gives chase– their naked flesh adorned with claws and fangs of wildest game, their torches piercing the night. Nine and one make up the party below, each astride great running birds, goading their prey on its path. They draw ever on toward the heels of some great dark thing, retreating swiftly for the haven of the sea. The man on the cliff studies the chase, his eyes of amber all aflame.

His black mane falls about him in thick braided cords as he loosens his cloak of spotted pelt, casting it aside. He fastens his feet surely to his rounded shield of polished bronze, standing in its shallow, gleaming bowl. He fixes an iron spear to his back. The race nears him. A breath, a release – he drops over the cliff. He slices down the mountainside, careening toward the fleeing beast. He closes in. He strikes his torch against the earth as he moves, setting it ablaze. His light reveals the hideous face of the form he pursues, slicked and dripping with blood and rain, steam billowing heavily from its nostrils. The creature shrieks and turns further down its path, trailing the thick scent of brine. Still sliding downhill, the warrior hurls a rope through the air as a bolt from the hand of a god. The hook finds its mark, gripping rugged scales. The man's direction curves and he speeds ahead abruptly, surpassing the riders, holding to his line as he draws ever into the great fleeing monster before them. Hand over hand the man reels into the roiling form of the slate-scaled beast.

As a river in force they weave and break through the narrow pebbled canyon. Sparks hiss and fly as the bronze disc grinds over stones delivering the man over terrain to his prize. The hunter holds fast, sliding to and fro as the creature runs his course. Closer, closer- man and beast sail further on. The opening of the pass draws near. The riders call for the man to release. He refuses. Avoiding the tail and spiny limbs, he reaches for a hold. They burst from the confines of the stony walls and out onto the open coastal plain. Freed from the corridor at last, the creature accelerates, and expands. Rippling sinews rise and give wind to great sails. The leviathan takes to the sky.

Navigating wings and talons, the man pulls to the flank. Hands as strong as the tamarisk grasp onto quills growing like weeds on the stony back, seeking to reign the prey to earth. The wyvern shrieks and rolls through the darkening air. Wind and beast harmonize to shed the man as they climb ever higher over the angry sea – rising with speed into the heart of the storm.

Lightning tears through the air around them. Thunder resounds in their bones. The primordial duel ascends, relentless. At last the man raises his gleaming iron spear, crying out in triumph. The weapon seems to vibrate in his grip— strangely, hotter and hotter, until it nearly sings— a searing bolt from the storm connects, blasting the javelin out of his hand. It falls away defeated, smoking into the abyss. The wyvern turns suddenly, dislodging the rider from his perch, and sinks a heavy bite into the flesh of his arm. Far above the shadowy depths they arc as the wyvern again changes course, and like a great sea hawk, turns to dive. The warrior allows only a low growl to escape him. With his free hand he grasps one of the wyvern's horns and pulls back with all his might, willing the beast to yield. The creature’s broad wings beat the air as a thunderclap, sounding its cry of descent. Clouds fly away like garments rent in fury as they plunge through violent wind.

From the distant shore, the hunting party gazes on in awe as the twisting comet of man and animal erupts from the clouds— falling… falling… toward the darkly churning waves.