Tamarri

“The yellow fog burns hot in the back of his throat and sears his eyes shut. His bare hands scramble in the mud beside him, searching frantically for his protective mask. His left hand dips into a pool of liquid, and a chilled sensation creeps through his glove to his skin. It’s a burning chill, as if he spent a night sleeping on the snow-capped peaks of these very mountains, woke up, drew a warm bath, and submerged his body in the scalding water. You know the feeling. Where you can’t tell if the water is hot or cold. It’s a temperate burn. He's lucky he can neither see nor sense the pain, for he’d surely cry out as his hand melts in the molten hot spring in front of him. But most of all, he’s lucky it’s just his hand.

The screams of the others stab his ears as he continues to fumble along the warm earth, growing desperate in the search for his mask. Finally, his right hand feels the mossy filter of the mask’s mouthpiece. He grabs it and reaches his other hand to the backstrap to fit over his head as his need to breathe hits its breaking point. But the mask flows through his fingers, then his palm, until it bumps against his wrist. He ignores his left hand’s failure and pulls the mask by the filter towards his face. The metal back smashes his forehead on its way up, drawing a stream of blood, but he finally gets the mouthpiece to his bluing lips. After several quick breaths, he brings his good hand to the backstrap and tightens it, giving him near full protection from the poisonous yellow haze. He tries to open his eyes, but the burning sensation is unbearable, and tears dilute his vision. His comrades’ screams are muffled by his mask now, but they still send a shiver down his spine.

He forces his eyes open and blinks rapidly until his sight slowly begins to return. A shadow of a man lies slumped face down on the ground in an awkward position with his right arm bent behind his back. He can’t make out which one of them it is. He shifts his eyes to the right, where a child-like figure walks forward. The massive dragon follows in obedience, trance-like in its steps that shake the ground yet do not seem to faze its companion.

He glances back to the left of his lifeless comrade and sees two more lying in hiding behind a fallen tree trunk. He reaches his left hand out to draw their attention to the fact that the approaching foes seem to know where they are, but only a stump of an arm moves forward. He lets out a whimper, fortunate that it’s muffled by the mask.

The small boy stops just a couple steps from the fallen trunk and raises his arms so his hands rest limply at chest height, as if waiting to grasp a two-handed shield being handed to him. The dragon takes two small steps forward to draw even with the human. Suddenly, the boy snaps his head almost without moving to lock eyes with the now one-handed Joran. He can only see a faint outline of the shadowy figure, but when it opens its eyes, they glow red, brighter than the sun, and it feels like they look through his own. Without breaking eye contact, the figure throws his hands forward violently, and simultaneously, the dragon lets out a ball of blazing fire that fully engulfs the tree trunk and the men sheltered behind it.

He closes his eyes in terror, waiting for the fire to engulf him next. But when he reopens them moments later, surprised to be alive, only a charred, smoking tree trunk with two indiscernible, similarly charred shapes huddled behind it remain. The dragon and its master are gone.”

...

The two men sitting opposite the fire revealed stark differences in reaction to Eoin’s story. Jack gazed with a blank stare into the flames, feigning indifference. He sat with a righteous air to him, but Eoin knew he was nervous. A man past thirty with a sword hilt as unblemished as Jack’s knew nothing of this region besides these stories. Why shouldn’t he believe it? His fur coat gleaned as though the bear pelt had been removed from its owner within the last fortnight. His beard was tame and his face without flaw. Blue eyes stared unceasing at the small wooden mug in his hand, interfered with carelessly by two spinning locks of blazing red hair that curled to the top of his cheekbones.

Samuel was younger, more innocent, stupider, and a coward. His nerves oozed through a clean-shaven face interrupted by streaks of dirt accumulated from the day’s journey. He sat like a child with his legs crossed, staring with hungry eyes at Eoin. Waiting for more. His body was rounded, plump. His messy jet-black hair glistened with melting snow droplets. His sword sat disregarded in a makeshift leather hilt that had acquired several holes since the group had set off from Ridge Keep three days earlier. His black leather coat was nowhere near as flawless as Jack’s fur, but Eoin sensed age was the deciding factor, not travel, and definitely not battle. Surely passed down from his father’s father to his father and finally to him, Eoin knew Samuel’s own spawn would eventually don that coat should he make it back to Port’s End.

Jack was the first to address Eoin’s story in his easy-to-understand, noble-bred accent. “You mean to tell me that not only are dragons not extinct, but that the king’s own son, no older than six, crossed these mountains by himself – the same ones our useless savage guide—” he pointed to a fourth figure, consumed by a dense fur blanket Eoin had laid over him, sprawled atop a bed roll and motionless except for slight rises and falls in his chest indicating life remained within him, “—couldn’t?”

Eoin opened his mouth to answer, but Jack held up a gloved hand.

“That it wasn’t the Cult of the Realm, who, I may add, were seen by a King’s Guard member in Leviathan the night the boy disappeared. Not to mention a group of members were seen with a small prisoner by two separate people heading north. Nah,” he shrugged mockingly, “you’re probably right. Couldn’t’ve been them. Must be the dragon story.”

He continued, growing more animated now, “It must be that the Prince of Leviathan is dragonborn. It just must be, bastard,” he mocked. “No matter that no dragonborn has walked Tamarri in centuries. No matter that dragonborns were said to work in pairs. No matter that the bullshit about dragonborns is probably just lore in the first place. No matter, I say!”

Jack released a hearty laugh and Samuel joined in. Eoin gazed at them with contempt, as though they thought he himself would have made this up, let alone believe it.

“I’m just telling you the story I was told by an innkeep who heard it in her tavern just east of Ridge Keep from Joran himself.”

Jack scoffed, “Believe everything you’re told, do ya?”

Samuel, upon meeting Jack’s gaze, forced out a laugh. “Do you listen to the jesters too?”

“Maybe the drunks? Or perhaps the whores?”

The southerners giggled some more.

Eoin rolled his eyes, “You asked for a story. I gave you one. Believe it or don’t, see if I give a shit. You think it’s the cult? Great. Good luck getting him back.” Eoin was becoming angry now. “If it really is them, then they’ve already sacrificed the boy to appease their gods you fools.”

“Ah you’ve made the bastard mad, Jack,” said Samuel, his tone growing in rancor.

“He’s a feisty one, isn’t he Sam? On edge because his savage friend won’t wake up.” Jack spat in the direction of the unconscious guide, uncorked his wooden flask, and took a swig of putrid southern ale. “I’d lose the attitude, lest you want to end up like your friend here. We paid you to two to bring us to the boy. So far, one of you nearly died, and all you’ve done is tell a shit story.”

Eoin’s insides burned hot, but he kept his mouth shut. He turned away from the two men, lay down on his bedroll, and closed his eyes.

“That’s what I thought. Not another word. You work for us, remember? Tomorrow, we find the prince, we kill the cult freaks holding him captive, we bring him back to Leviathan to the king, and we collect our reward. Which you, you useless bastard, will see none of. To sweet dreams,” Jack raised his flask, “Of your whore mother and your forgotten father,” and he polished off his ale.

…

“Psst.”

Eoin’s eyes flickered open and Sayan’s face was mere inches from his own. The guide recognized Eoin’s flinch, apologized with his eyes, and inched backwards in silence.

“How long have you been awake?” Eoin asked, unsure if awake was the right word.

“Just before the final ascent,” answered Sayan. “Sorry for making you carry me up here, but I didn’t want to explain myself to them,” he nodded towards the slumbering southerners.

Eoin nodded.

“Listen to me,” Sayan looked back to ensure Jack and Sam were asleep, “I saw the boy.”

“What do you mean you ‘saw the boy?’”

“You have to trust me. I saw him. I can…” here Sayan paused, sensing the absurdity of his own words.

Eoin wondered if he were dreaming, though he felt he had only just laid down.

Sayan continued, “I grew up in what your people call The Dunes. Before I was stolen from my own land to guide greedy men like them,” he nodded in the direction of Jack and Samuel, “I learned to see things.”

Eoin tried to remain calm. “Why haven’t you told me this before?”

“Why should I? I never needed to. But now I do.”

Eoin shrugged, “So you know where the boy is?”

“Yes. But Eoin,” he continued in his Dunish accent that made Eoin’s name sound more like the word ‘in,’ “that story you told,” he hesitated again. “It’s true.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I told you. I can see.”

“But you’re saying the boy is with—?”

“A dragon, yes.”

Eoin couldn’t find words.

“I can remember where I saw him,” Sayan continued, “I can get us there.”

Eoin tried to convey his shock through the darkness separating the two men. “In the name of the Gods, why would you want to find them? If what you say is true, we’ll be killed.”

Sayan nodded slowly, “So will they,” and nodded towards Sam and Jack.

Eoin, being a Ridge Keep servant and tracker who had less gold than he had blisters on his right hand, had connected with Sayan when they first met. The two lived similar, miserable lives accommodating the hopes and dreams of men with more money than they could even dream of. Brands scorched into their respective forearms making escape to a new life impossible.

A Southern babe born out of wedlock who was sold north as a child, Eoin was trained near the mountains to track. Animals, food…people. He had a knack for it, and over the years rose the ranks of other reject children, eventually becoming an apprentice for the Head Tracker of Ridge Keep, the last stop north for those venturing over the mountains into The Dark Realm.

Although perhaps sounding like a glorious job to those unfamiliar, it was not. Ridge Keep went through trackers like they did casks of ale: quickly, and carelessly. If not lost to The Dark Realm, they were taken and made servants by visitors who had hired them in the first place. Perhaps killed by a wild boar when leading a hunt. There were endless options. And Eoin knew it was just a matter of time before he met his fate.

He found solace in Sayan’s similar understanding of life. A cog in the machine of wealth and greed. Sure to be hastily dispatched once deemed his time. The two had gone on three expeditions prior to this one, two of which had taken them north of the mountains. They talked while others slept, conveying their fear, their anger, their reality. Conjured up plans to run away, to kill their greedy traveling companions, to find a way to pursue a life their own.

Sayan was from the eastern region past where The Ridge Mountains dipped south at the coast where the Great Sea met Tamarri. The people of The Dunes cut off from the rest of the Tamarrian world by nature’s fortress had been left alone for centuries. Left to farm and build and trade amongst themselves. Protected from the rough and deadly Great Sea by a sea of its own. “Dunes” of iron formed before man by the same massive earthquake that erected The Ridge Mountains, they protected the fertile farmland from the unforgiving sea. The Dunes was a sliver of land beset by nature’s boundaries. Until the Southern Nations needed more space.

The Southern Nations were made up of seven kingdoms set in the southern chunk of mainland Tamarri, separated from the northern half by the River Scoilt, which split continent in two pieces. The self-proclaimed “Civilized” world, the Southern Nations were semi-autonomous, each governed by a king. But the seven kings had to answer to one another, as well as to the Overseers’ Council, a three-member panel of the most powerful men in the south that preached fairness yet pocketed bribes, suggested peace yet schemed conflict, and advised civility yet accepted savagery.

Over the course of centuries, the Southern Nations’ population exploded, leading armies of men to venture north across the River Scoilt into the then lawless territory now known as The Federations. Then a group of dozens of constantly warring tribes and shifting territories, the Southern Nations sought to tame their uncivilized brethren to the north. This proved harder than expected, as the only thing that could unite the tribes were the common enemy to the south. Thus, the northern tribes formed The Federations.

United, the swath of tribal armies fought the southerners with unmatched brutality. Overwhelming the better organized and outfitted armies with ruthless determination. A stalemate came in a territory just north of the Scoilt called Lavaalny. Both sides suffered massive losses, and with their pride on the line, the Overseers’ Council proposed a treaty to the most respected tribal leaders of The Federations: The Southern Nations would be allowed to send civilians north into The Federations’ territory to develop small settlements and trade posts. In exchange, the settlers would pay a hefty tax to their respective tribal leaders, would be granted no autonomy, and would not be allowed to assemble an army or militia.

With population soaring in the south, a massive number of civilians – most of them peasants, criminals, whores, or beggars, were sent north, pockets filled with gold given to them by their respective nations for “resettling.” A victory for the south, they rid many cities of the undesirables, while the north capitalized on an influx of gold – more gold than the treaty called for, though no representatives from the south cared.

The citizens of the Southern Nations lived comfortably for the most part for the next several decades, but they could not outrun the spatial limitations, and soon, cities were again overrun and plagued by disease, poverty, and crime. The Easterly Islands off the southeastern coast of Tamarri reached capacity quickly, and the Overseers’ Council turned its attention to The Dunes.

Soon, warships poured up the coastline, overwhelming the unprepared and immature defenses The Dunes threw at them. Armies of southerners enslaved the inhabitants, putting them to work hacking out iron that could be used to build upwards in cities in the south.

There, they also discovered Dunes dwellers who had ventured into the untamed land further north, past The Ridge Mountains: The Dark Realm. Where poisonous gases emanated from the ground and where monstrous creatures were said to roam. The south developed protective cloaks and masks and sent adventurers – always alongside a Dunesman guide, and sometimes, if it could be afforded, alongside a Federation tracker – on explorations into The Dark Realm, in search any livable lands or valuable resources.

Roughly half of those explorers returned. With them returned mangled arms and legs, scrambled minds, and of course, stories and rumors, one of the most popular of which told of Dunesmen who could live in the eyes of dragons. A seer.

…

Eoin awoke with his face blistering just a few arms lengths from the roaring fire. Standing erect and stoking the coals with a stick was Jack, his ginger beard a reflection of the fire’s blazing orange hue. Jack hadn’t noticed Eoin stir, and as he watched Jack, Eoin felt a wave of rage coursing through him. The son of a nobleman, Jack stood for everything wrong in this world. For greed, oppression, and righteousness. Bored of his safe and monotonous life, he had sprung at the opportunity for an adventure of a lifetime. One akin to the tales he heard as a boy of heroic explorers and warriors. Happy to drag a Northern servant and Dunesman along with his dunce of a friend into the jaws of death so long as he can play hero. Days spent dreaming of songs sung and stories spoken in his name, Jack’s empty gaze into the dancing flame now told of regret as he readied himself for descent into hell’s entrails.

Soon after, the men were on the move, slipping and sliding down the mountain, first through a deep snow that gradually gave way to sticky slush which waned down to deceiving, dirty white patches atop a slick mud. Eventually, the men reached the tree line, wet and filthy from the descent’s perils. The trees were blanketed in a yellow fog, and the men scrambled into their protective suits. They removed their outer cloaks and pulled tight leather hide suits fitted to their body shapes over their undergarments and boots.

The suits encompassed them head to toe, leaving the four men looking like stripped-down knights. One by one, they placed their masks over their head. The copper frame was heavy and rigid, but adjustable leather straps pulled flexible hide skintight. Over the eyes was a slit of glass that ran from one temple to the other and span from the top of the cheekbone to the bottom of the brow. The restricted peripheral vision an appealing sacrifice for most in that it also limited the amount of breakable material in front of the eyes. The mouth of the mask was also framed with copper but laced throughout the snout-like shape was an intricate maze of twine stuffed with layers of peat moss that effectively filtered the air for up to two days.

Once the four men’s masks were fitted, Sayan and Eoin took a few calm steps and descended into the yellow haze. Jack and Samuel followed reluctantly. The veterans of The Dark Realm set a blistering pace, unphased by the incumbering protective garb. Eoin feigned looking for tracks while Sayan led based on the memory of his vision.

Pools of noxious liquid interrupted the monotony of the dead trees, the earth between the landscape’s two dominant features interspersed by short mounds of dirt and craters of mud. Though the protective suits could weather a momentary dip in the pools, increased exposure would wear down the leather quickly. Thus, the four men traversed the landscape like a mountain pass, winding left then right then left again.

The silence can grow deafening within the muffling suits, but Eoin and Sayan were conditioned to it. When they were forced to stop to allow Sam and Jack to catch up, the two southerners appeared wide eyed and scared, chests heaving from reduced oxygen levels.

Once Jack caught his breath, he hollered through the mask, “I’m starting to think you two have no idea where to go. I haven’t seen a single track.”

“That’s because you’re not a tracker,” Eoin responded quietly.

“Yell, bastard. I can’t hear shit in this thing.”

“I said I’ve been seeing fresh footprints heading east.”

Sam chimed in, “Any sign of anything else?”

“Like a dragon?” Sayan had spoken few words to the southerners on this trip, and his mocking tone enraged Sam.

“I’ll have your head if you speak to me again you filthy savage.” He reached for his sword and yanked on the hilt, but it snagged in one of the sheath’s holes, and the blade only just peeked into view.

“Perhaps not,” said Sayan.

“Enough!” Jack hollered, loud enough to sound normal even through the muffled mask. “Take us to the boy, bastard. Now.”

Eoin nodded and snuck a glance at Sayan, who beckoned eastwards.

The dense forest of decimated trees became increasingly sparse, and the pools of deadly water grew in size until they dominated the path forward. When the men next paused, they stood facing two pond-sized collections of water with a small patch of earth splitting them in two. The path was mostly dry, but there were patches where the water connected via shallow streams, upon which were hastily formed planks made up of tree branches.

“We’re close now,” Sayan whispered to Eoin. “Stay beside me.”

The men formed a single-file line, Sayan directing Sam and Jack to go first, then Eoin, then himself. The path stretched a little over a quarter of a kilometer, and close to the midway point, Sayan tapped Eoin on the shoulder and whispered.

“The boy and the dragon. They’re coming.”

With that, the ground gave a soft tremor. And then another. They became consistent. Growing slowly in intensity. Sam and Jack were too focused on the perilous path in front of them, and after another hundred steps, Sayan again tapped Eoin.

“Now’s our chance. We turn and we walk,” he scrunched his eyelids together, “until we put some distance between us. Then we can run.”

Eoin nodded, impressed with his friend’s timing.

Sayan turned back the way they came, and Eoin followed as the ground began to shake. He did his best to soften his steps, not remembering they wouldn’t make noise through the masks anyway. Sayan was a few steps ahead of him and moving faster. He didn’t dare look back.

The ground rumbled now, impossible not to notice. Eoin quickened his pace but lagged further behind Sayan. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he was yanked backwards, turned around, and socked in the face. His mask was knocked ajar, but he grabbed it and reset it just as Jack pulled him level with his own face.

“You traitor!” he screamed. “You led us here to die.”

“Sayan, run!” Eoin screamed. Sayan stopped and looked back. His slight frame stood only a few steps away. But it felt worlds apart. A plan gone amuck, Eoin accepted his destiny, and nodded definitively towards Sayan. At that, the Dunesman turned with a sliver hesitation and bolted back towards the labyrinth of withering trees, even those still standing simply awaiting a fate like the one approaching Eoin.

Behind Jack’s broad shoulders, Eoin saw Sam glued in place, watching as the imaginary became tangible. The dragon and the boy walked at a pace fit for an old man. Both trudging through the murky water to the men’s right, Eoin struggled to understand how the boy’s skin withstood the water that had melted Joran’s fingers and hands like it was nothing.

Jack dragged Eoin towards Sam, shoving him into the middle between the two southerners.

“If we die, so do you.”

Beside him, Eoin could neither hear nor see Samuel’s face, but he could sense the man crying, his body releasing intermittent heaves that were growing in size as the boy and the dragon grew closer.

Jack’s anger towards Eoin seemed to have overwhelmed him and rid him of any fear. Both of his hands now gripped the hilt of his sword hard, and Eoin could picture the whitened skin underneath his leather gloves tugged taught around his fingers and hand, the same shade of sickly pale white as the moonlit snow atop The Ridge Mountains.

Eoin wanted to explain himself. Tell Jack how he was sick of being exploited. Sick of toiling for men like him and Samuel. Sick of watching men no better than himself have everything when he had naught. Sick of the ceiling atop humanity’s tiers that kept him from clambering above subhuman. Sick of the hopelessness.

But Jack wouldn’t understand. Wouldn’t care. Wouldn’t let him say these things. So instead, Eoin reached up with both hands towards his mask, loosening the back strap and slowly pulling it off of his head. His eyes burned shut and the air scorched his mouth. Hotter than anything he could imagine, he pictured it searing a hole through the back of his throat and out the other side before it even had the chance to get to his lungs.

He heard the noises around him. The trees groaned and creaked in a soft breeze. A creature let out a clicking sound. Samuel indeed wept, loud enough to where it came out as a muffle on the other side of his mask. The footsteps splashed beautifully. Eoin felt a sudden joy amidst the impending doom. He felt his mouth peel back into a smile and he forced open his eyes. To his surprise, the sight of the yellow-hazed milieu was clear as day. Clearer even. He turned to his right where Jack stood watching him. Eoin couldn’t see below Jack’s cheekbones, but his eyes displayed the shock he suspected the rest of his face imitated.

The dragon and the boy were close, and Eoin could see that the boy’s eyes were closed. Glancing down, he saw the Leviathan serpent wrapped along the bracelet on the boy’s left wrist. A giddy feeling came over him. He couldn’t believe Joran’s story had been true. A boy of just six, he had left the Leviathan palace and ventured north, over the Scoilt, into The Federations, across dozens of kilometers of civilization and wilderness, up The Ridge Mountains, down The Ridge Mountains, through The Dark Realm. How could it be possible? Eoin had so many questions, but instead he stood speechless as the boy slowly brought his hands up from their position on either side of his hips. The dragon seemed to take a breath. Eoin took a breath. He had mere moments to wonder why he wasn’t choking on the yellow haze before the boy opened his eyes. They beamed an otherworldly red color as the boy threw his arms towards the three trespassers.

The dragon hurled a ball of fire, more magnificent than anything Eoin had ever seen. He felt his arms reach instinctually to his face. The fire encompassed everything in its path. It lunged over them, searing flesh to a crisp. There were no screams. As quick a death as one could ask for. The glow in the boy’s eyes surged.

But then, Eoin opened his eyes. The dragon sat still as a statue next to the boy, whose red eyes were subdued now, a faint glow that felt gentle as Eoin attempted to regather himself. He looked down at his own body, now totally nude. His clothes, boots, gloves, all gone. A small, smoldering pile of ash hiding his toes was the only thing covering any part of his body. Eoin was frozen to the spot when he realized he was still alive. The burning sensation within hadn’t left, but it felt appropriate. Like it belonged there. He was compelled to walk forward. Stepping into the pool of water in front of him, he felt no pain, only cleansing. No fear, only elation. When he reached the dragon, the creature bowed its magnificent head and pushed its snout against Eoin’s outstretched hand.

With its wings spread to the side, Eoin couldn’t comprehend the size of the beast. Its head alone was roughly the size of himself. The char gray scales were rough but soothing, and Eoin closed his eyes as he rubbed his hand against the beast. After a few moments, Eoin heard the sound of the boy’s soft steps splash beside him, and he opened his eyes to face the Leviathan prince.

The boy reached a small hand out from a ragged cloth cloak and Eoin was compelled to kneel in the pool to bring his face closer to the child. They locked eyes, and Eoin felt an extraordinary bond unlike anything he had felt before with this boy he had never met. The boy placed his hand on Eoin’s shoulder and spoke.

“Fáilte roimh dheartháir.”

Welcome, brother.