The Arch-child

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Once it was ruled by Fae, beautiful and winged and filled with golden power.”

“Are we Fae, Papo?”

“Stop interrupting Tayla! Let him tell it!” A boy of ten summers whose mother called him Nedrick but everyone else called Bones, nudged the small blond girl beside him.

The old man smiled, firelight flickering across haggard features, lines worn from exposure to wind and sun. He tilted his face to the stars before continuing. “Yes, little Tayla, we are the Fae. Until…we were betrayed!” He threw his arms wide, leaning forward suddenly, his expression fierce, causing the children gathered around the fire to squeal and lean back.

“Kishku!” Tayla yelled out the name, causing the other children to quiet instantly, some uneasily looking into the shadows cast by the caravan.

The old man settled back, nodding solemnly, “Yes, Kishku. He joined forces with the demons, wishing to gain power over his fellow Fae.” The old man pointed behind him where the cliff walls drew close, leaving a gap barely ten feet wide. In the space drifted a dull white mist, visible even in the darkness. “It was there, the place we must travel on the morrow, where the fateful deal was struck. In payment, the demons demanded Kishku’s wings, taking them for their own. And thus were born the dragons.”

“There are -dragons- in there?” This time it was Bones who interrupted, peering towards the entrance to the pass, his young face filled with fear and no small bit of awe.

“If there were dragons there, we would all be doomed. If we weren’t killed on sight then we would face the worse fate of being enslaved. They might look a lot like us, some even say they are beautiful- but don’t be fooled. Don’t wish for that, boy.” The old man turned his head and spit into the barren dirt at his side.

Bones’ head turned towards the caravan, glancing into the shadows that pooled between two wagons, gazing curiously at the strange looking figure who stood there listening, his arms crossed, firelight glinting off of the dull scales that littered his forearms. The shadowed figure turned his head towards Bones, white teeth exposed as his lips lifted into a menacing grin. The boy gasped, head jerking back to the story as the old man continued.

“No, that valley is filled with creatures twisted by the dark magic born there, deforming them, making them impossible to kill. Our–”

“But the faegon will keep us safe! That’s what mother says,” a second little boy interrupted, bringing a scowl to the old man’s face.

“Does the faegon have magic? Is he -really- half dragon?” Bones asked eagerly, resisting the urge to glance back at the figure looming in the shadows.

“I saw his wings. What happened to them? Can he fly?” Tayla piped up.

The old man’s hand balled into a fist, thumping it against his thigh. “Enough! If we still had our wings even the dragons would cower before us, let alone the half-breed.” He settled back, the attention of the children firmly recaptured. “But ever since Kishku’s betrayal, the magic abandoned us and our children have been born without wings.” A small smile returned to the old man’s lips, letting the silence linger and stretch as he peered into each eager face. “But some say that one day there will be a child born with wings and that child, the Arch-child, will defeat the dragons, bringing magic back to our people and we will once more rule the skies as we did a thousand years ago.”

A man approached the fire, his posture formal, a sword at his hip and light armor covering his chest. The old man squinted, “Captain Brandt.”

The captain tilted his head. “I think it’s high time everyone settled in for the night.” He scanned the small group.

There was a pause and then a scrambling of limbs as the children hurried to obey, quickly disappearing into their wagons. The captain followed in their wake, giving a brief nod to the figure hidden by the shadows. “Faegon.”

The faegon inclined his head in return. “Brandt.”

The old man also pushed himself to his feet, joints creaking, bare feet sending up puffs of fine dirt as he made his own way towards his bed for the night. As he passed the faegon, a deep voice emerged.

“You’re not doing them any favors filling their heads with that nonsense, old man. The world’s a harsh place for your kind, and the sooner they realize this, the better off they will be.’

The old man’s face contorted into a contemptuous sneer. “And what would you know of it, half-breed, eh?” He spat into the dirt at the faegons feet. “Should have been killed in the cradle you should have. No place for your kind.”

The faegon didn’t respond verbally, but there was a faint stirring at his shoulders, the withered and skeletal remnants of wings beginning to rise. The old man’s eyes widened slightly and he quickly shuffled away, muttering darkly to himself.

The faegon allowed the useless limbs to lower again, ignoring the pain that moving them always caused, staring into the dying flames of the campfire long after the sounds of the caravan had grown silent.

After making his rounds, Captain Brandt returned, leaning against a wagon wheel.

“The two new recruits are still awake at their posts. I have high hopes for them. Can’t say they’re too eager to enter the pass in the morning, not that I blame them. Still, enough coin can overcome fear.”

Silence greeted his attempt at conversation, and Brandt allowed it to linger. His head tilted back towards the stars, a light breeze stirring his salt and pepper hair.

Finally, he spoke again. “Overheard you and the old man. Nonsense you say? Bit surprised to hear that from you, given that medallion you never take off.”

There was movement at this. “Bit surprised you don’t mind your own business,” the faegon growled. There was a soft sound, a tapping of metal, and Brandt imagined the faegon now held the medallion, looking at the symbols inscribed into the bronze.

“I’ve only seen one other like that before,” Brandt continued, unphased by the warning. “Around the neck of a Fae woman. Breathtakingly beautiful, she was. Had a smile like a star filled sky, bright and lovely, yet mysterious. Long dark hair. Bit like yours, actually.”

There was a long-suffering sigh. “Is there a point to this, Brandt?”

“Curious is all. That you would call the Arch-Child nonsense, yet wear a piece of its prophecy around your neck. But maybe you just think it’s pretty.” Brandt pushed off the wagon not waiting for a response, making his way into the darkness, whistling a soft tune.

Left to his own thoughts, the faegon passed the night, finally stirring before the first threat of dawn, pacing to the entrance of the pass, peering into the perpetual mist. Behind him the caravan began coming to life, Captain Brandt’s men knocking against wooden supports and softly calling for everyone to wake. Just as the pearl gray of the false dawn began to lighten the sky, the group was organized and ready, a tense silence hanging over the caravan.

Brandt approached where the faegon stood leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed over his chest as usual. He was almost as intimidating during the day as he was at night, standing a head taller than Brandt himself, his dragon heritage evident in his larger stature, the scales that ended just before his elbow and the black sharpened talons where nails would be. The faegon’s Fae side was seen in the gentle point of his ears and the tawny shade of his skin.

Brandt gave the faegon a nod, noting with interest his dual colored eyes. One, the deep green of forest grown moss, the other, the gold of a wandering four-legged predator. The faegon grunted in response, “You know the drill.’

The faegon turned his back on the caravan as Brandt addressed the company. Many of the faces he saw were pale with fear.

“You’ve spared no expense to be taken through this pass. And for your coin, you’ve hired the best Naleda has to offer. You’ve heard this before but I’m going to be saying it again. Once we enter, there is no stopping. If we stop, that means we’re under attack. Arabis willing that doesn’t happen.” A few in the caravan touched their lips and raised their eyes to the sky at mention of the dark god. Others sniffed and glanced away. The story teller from the night before scowled and spat into the dirt.

“There will be no speaking once we enter. No noise at all if you can help it. Keep the children hidden and inside without exception. Anyone who fails to do these things will be left behind. Am I clear?”

Hesitant nods answered him, silence reigning supreme over the caravan. “Excellent. Faegon? I do believe we are ready.”

Without turning his head the faegon dropped his arms, striding into the mist. With the onerous creaking of wheels the caravan began to move behind him.

It was a small company that made its way into the pass, comprised of only eleven wagons, most of them laden with goods. It was an incredibly risky venture to take this route, but it would be very lucrative if successful. It would save the merchants, and the few brave families who had joined them, a month or more of travel to reach the coastal cities.

Rumor had it that hiring the faegon significantly increased the odds of a successful journey, leading many to look past their distaste for the half-breed.

The pass widened not long after entry, broadening into a narrow valley, thick trees to their left and a sloping mountain wall to their right. Twilight ruled here, the mist thick enough that the sun never pierced through. The road they took led them near massive pillars of stone, some of them fallen across their path, the road winding through the scattered remnants. The sound of the guards’ footsteps and the occasional creak of the wheels were muted here, heavy, falling back to the earth rather than being lost to the sky, the breath of those in the caravan seeming the loudest of sounds in their ears.

The faegon moved swiftly ahead before circling behind, keeping a quick pace, a dark figure that moved easily through the mist. Occasional howls pierced the silence, the oxen tossing their heads in response. Shrill shrieks were cut off suddenly as something died in the thick trees causing the guards to tighten their grips on halberd shafts and sword hilts. A muttered “Arch-child preserve us,” was met with hostile looks, the speaker shrinking back, cowed back into silence

The hours passed with aching slowness, each minute an eternity. But still the day passed. Looks were exchanged as they drew near to the end of the pass, the mountain walls drawing closer as the valley narrowed.

A child’s plaintive wail rose from somewhere inside the caravan. The faegon drew up short, head turning sharply towards the trees even as the child’s cry was quieted.

“What do you see, Faegon?” Brandt asked, coming up behind him as the man paused. The faegon’s eyes flared brightly, trying to pierce the perpetual twilight haze. He searched the thick forest, nostrils flaring.

“I am not quite certain…” A cry came from the trees to the right, a guttural growl that rose to a hair raising high pitched keen.

“Move! Quickly. Get as much speed as you can out of those beasts and run like Arabis himself is on your tail.” The faegon’s voice was low and even, but Brandt had worked with the man long enough to hear the tense urgency. Whispered orders were passed amongst the company, frightened voices of the merchants and accompanying families were quickly hushed, the loudest noise the scrape of wagon wheels and the nervous lowing of their oxen. The snap of leather was muted, the rattle of mail and the thump of feet quieter than it should have been as the caravan picked up speed.

The roar sounded again, this time closer and from the road behind them.

Captain Brandt’s breathing was even despite the jog he kept as he drew near the faegon’s side again. “Somethings tracking us…what is it?”

The faegon’s face was hard as he turned towards the captain. “You assured me, Brandt, that there was nothing in this caravan to attract the attention of the demons.”

“Are you suggesting otherwise, Faegon?”

The faegon pointed towards the trees. “That was a Duma, Brandt. You want to tell me what a Duma is doing here?”

Even in the dim light Brandt’s face visibly paled. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Right. Keep them moving. No matter what happens, Brandt, don’t let them stop. The Duma never hunts alone.” The faegon turned, marching toward where the last cry had emerged.

He left his sword sheathed at his hip, eyes on the mist that shrouded the stretch of road. He heard the Duma before he saw it, a heavy shuffle. Thu-THUD thump. Thu-THUD thump.

The faegon watched as his opponent finally emerged from the mist. Fur littered the creature's skin in patches, the flesh left behind looking leathery in parts, diseased and oozing in others. Its shoulders were the highest point in its body, its head hanging low between them, one of its forelegs shorter than the other. Its front two legs were longer and more spindly than the back. Its ears, or the one that remained, were wide and pointed, its short snout parted to reveal dual rows of jagged teeth. One of its eyes was clouded, a scar running through it.

“Don’t know what you or your master is after but perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

The Duma rumbled in answer, lifting its head as much as it was able to emit that rising keening cry. The faegon heard the noise of the caravan growing faint, knowing the end to the pass would nearly be in sight.

He shifted his feet shoulder width apart, stifling the grunt of pain as he lifted his withered wings, unfurling them to their full length behind him, listening to the tattered skin snap taut. His vision sharpened, picking out the details of the Duma more clearly, well aware that the faint magic was making his eyes glow.

The Duma kept its position, head swinging slowly to and fro, scuffing at the dirt with a massive fore-paw.

The faegon’s eyes narrowed and in a whirl of motion he turned his back on the Duma, sprinting back towards the caravan. “Brandt! It’s a distraction! Prepare for…” Blurs of motion hurled themselves out of the mist, too fast to even determine what form they took. They slammed into the caravan, a whirlwind of teeth and claws and savage growls.

The momentum of the caravan ground to a halt, all attempts at silence forgotten as screams pierced even the heavy mist.

The faegon barreled into one of the creatures with a yell as it attempted to drag Tayla off into the thinning trees. The wolf-like animal released its prey, turning to snap at the faegon. Tayla lay there stunned, bleeding from wounds in her arm but very much alive. His sword drawn, the faegon caught the bite of the creature with it, the agonizing shriek of teeth against steel ringing in his ears. With brute force he pushed the sword forward, snapping an incisor, cutting into the mouth of the creature. Grunting, he pushed harder still until he met the resistance of its spinal column, feeling the weight of the creature slump as life faded from its ancient eyes. Kicking it off of his sword, the faegon turned, catching sight of a guard. “Grab the girl!”

Without waiting to see if he was obeyed he sprinted towards the next creature. It looked nearly identical to the one he had just killed, lanky and thin, ribs showing through patchy fur, it’s snout nearly too long for it’s face and eyes that had seen far more years than any of the invading two-legged men.

One of Brandt’s men kept it at bay with his halberd, his face white but determined, an elderly merchant unmoving at his feet, blood pooling beneath the body.

The faegon’s sword slid through the armpit of the creature almost too easily, piercing it’s heart. A few wagons ahead he could hear Brandt bellow.

“Get anyone you can into the lead wagon! The gate! I can see it! Faegon! Where are you?”

The faegon made his way towards the front of the caravan, the sounds of battle fading as the attack was pushed back, the dead and dying littered the ground, a few of the bodies achingly smaller than the others. The faegon spied the small form of the boy called Bones huddled behind a wagon wheel. Snatching him up the faegon began to run, reaching the lead wagon in seconds.

Brandt and the three remaining guards were hurriedly dumping goods off of the wagon, making room for the remaining survivors. The faegon set Bones down in the wagon bed, the boy clinging to his forearm.

“Is it…will they be coming back?” Bones asked, fingers pressed tightly into the faegon’s skin. As if summoned by the boy’s words the shriek of the Duma shattered the air. Thu-THUD thump. Thu-THUD thump. The Duma hurtled out of the mist towards the caravan, distant howls suggesting a second wave was on it’s way.

The faegon sent a pulse of his magic down his forearm, liquid fire moving through his veins, the heat scorching Bones’ hand, causing him to gasp and let go. “Take what you can, kid, and run. Don’t look back.”

The faegon turned to face the Duma, listening to the screams and yells behind him as the wagon was abandoned, a small group of people sprinting for the visible gate that marked the end of the valley.

“Come on you wily bastard,” the faegon growled, widening his stance as the Duma barreled towards him. He twisted at the last second, bringing his sword down hard towards the neck of the creature…only for his sword to meet hard packed soil, the impact jarring his arm.

The Duma had also dodged at the last moment, rushing past the faegon, its gaze intent on Brandt. Brandt whose hands gripped his own sword, an expression of determined resignation on his aged face.

The faegon lost sight of the man behind the massive bulk of the Duma as the pair met in a clash of tooth and steel. The faegon recovered quickly and gave chase, lowering his shoulder and ramming it into the side of the Duma, sending the beast slamming back into the side of the wagon.

“Get out of here Brandt,” the faegon said between clenched teeth, taloned fingers pushing against the Duma’s head, keeping the snapping teeth away from his own face.

“Won’t do any good, Faegon. There’s more where that came from. Too…too late anyway. For both of us.” Brandt nodded towards the weakening Duma, Brandt’s sword buried nearly hilt deep in its chest.

The faegon stepped back, out of reach of the thrashing Duma’s death throes, finally giving his full attention to Brandt. The captain sat in the dirt, muddied with blood, his hands clasped firmly over his stomach, crimson seeping far too quickly from beneath his fingers.

The faegon dropped into a crouch at his side, mismatched gaze quickly assessing. “You’re right.”

Brandt chuckled then coughed. “Always were one to…speak the truth now weren’t you.”

“Why didn’t you leave with the others?” The faegon asked, looking away from the grievous wound. Howls sounded again, closer now, both men searching the trees.

“It would have followed…me…had to…give the others a chance,” the captain panted shallowly.

“What is it they want from you, Brandt? You’re dying. No sense in hiding it now.”

Brandt’s eyes followed the faegon as he cleaned then sheathed his sword. “In my…pocket…help…me get it…out.”

The half-breed hesitated. “You know what, I changed my mind. I don’t want to know. The ones left alive will have reached the gate by now. My job is done.”

The captain’s hands left his stomach, a fresh wave of blood gushing from the wound in his abdomen. He fumbled with his chain mail, trying to lift it enough to reach beneath until the faegon growled in annoyance, helping the captain to free himself of the now useless armor. Brandt gasped with effort, his skin clammy, finally drawing free a small leather bound sheaf of paper, dark splotches marring its surface.

He pressed it into the faegon’s hands even as the half-breed slowly shook his head. “Take this, Faegon. Find the…Illuriadi. Give it to them. Everything…you need…is inside.”

“Whatever this is, Brandt. I want no part of it.” The faegon tensed, readying himself to stand, the howls drawing ever closer.

One of the captain’s hands left his stomach, reaching for the faegon, bloodied fingers curling into the tattered linen of the half-breeds shirt. The movement caused the bronze medallion to fall free, dangling from a leather tie around the half-breed’s neck. “Listen to me! You might…not believe…but she…she believed until her last…breath.”

The faegon growled, wrenching the dying man’s hand free from his shirt. “I don’t know who you mean old man.”

“I guess you don’t…always…speak the truth…half-breed.” Brandt coughed, the sound wet and rattling.

The faegon waited, watching, the leather of the small book creaking as his grip tightened around it.

“I now know what she…knew. I have seen…with my own...eyes.” The captain paused, the rise and fall of his chest slow and irregular.

Finally the faegon relented, “What have you seen, Brandt?”

“The Arch-child. She lives.”