The Dragons

The Dragons

Yellav eht ni snogard syawla t’nerew ereht, he was, as usual, unaware that he had said the words backwards. He was trapped in the same world he created every time he told a story. He was always in some other place. Living the tale he was spinning. And this vivid immersion made him almost too inwardly focused. Especially when it came to the world around him.

His deep black robe seemed darker next to his alabaster skin. The sleeves formed a slit that extended from his wrist downward while the oversized hood held his entire face in shadow. The slenderness of his body was hidden though it also made him seem taller than his seven foot frame. The image, especially in the growing darkness portrayed a sense of ominous strength.

He waited a moment. The fire crackled though he felt a chill. He waited just another moment before pushing the hood back and opening one of his eyes to see. He was greeted by a horse clearing its nostrils loudly. The small herd of animals was paying him even less attention than normal.

‘That, he said out-loud to now stamping horse, is not encouraging.’

He was, at his heart, a story teller. Everyone knew it though they all had unique ways of telling him so. To his dad his head was always in the clouds. To his mom he was just trying to find his way. To his friends he was somewhere between weird and entertaining. It all depended on what else was going on. And to the people from his village he was a little scatter brained. But they all agreed that he could tell a story. And while paying attention to the world often escaped him. The details in his stories never did. To him words were as crucial as air.

It was his attention to story telling, and the inattention to just about everything else that made him miss the change. The sun had almost dipped behind the mountains out west but it was already dark in the small copse of trees. The change was perceptible if only just. As he uttered the words it was if a subtle darkness had settled into the small glade. The trees seemed to lean inward, closing off some of the space that had naturally been between them. He missed it when everything in the clearing had seemed to pause, grow quiet, and hold its collective breath. Not from any excitement from the story but at the words. The words he had spoken backwards.

He was unaware that hundreds of years ago the ability to say words backwards had been a sign of a person born with magic. It was a sign that had all but disappeared and with it the knowledge that it even was a sign. In this he was not alone. Almost no one remembered any magical signs. There was magic around but it was removed, far away, and while it was good for stories in most of the world it was not practical enough to warrant attention.

He felt that the talking backwards was just a quirk of his personality. Another sign that he was not quite right in the head. When the talking backwards had first shown up, his friends tried to make him feel better by talking backwards for a word or two. One of his friends even managed to say a song backwards. Mostly. He had to stop every now and then, sing the words the right way, then resume. But no one could even come close to him.

So, after visiting the local healer, three times, and being assured that it was not a sign of pox everyone just sort of accepted it as him. A quirk that no one could explain or replicate. And, because of that, he was unaware of what potential lurked within him. The world with its unseen forces and machinations was not. Story tellers, like those with magic, were more attuned to these forces though many did not know it. And the world, when it sensed these persons waited in restless eagerness for the day when those born with magic come in to their own. Sadly most never did as they were never found or knew that they were magic. Meanwhile, he dreamt a life that took him to towns of all shapes and sizes where he would be received as one of the greatest story tellers around. He smiled at the thought as he stepped off of the log he had been standing on.

He was coming down from the mountains West of the great road that ran north and south across the valley. He was from the small town of Piper that lie at the foot of the mountains known as The Dragons; five days from home and one day from the town of East Centerville. He always stopped here to practice story telling and to fatten up the animals. The practicing of the story telling was just in case someone needed a good story. The second was so that the animals brought the highest price at the market.

He had eight horses, twelve goats, two donkeys and six of the crankiest cows he had ever known.

It was late in the summer and the last herd he would be bringing until after the snows. He was glad for that since it seemed as if the cows had a personal vendetta against him for the trip. They had given him a run for his money the last two days and luckily, tonight, they were too tired to do more than eat, drink and bed down.

The little field formed a natural pen that encouraged animals to eat and drink themselves too bursting. There was a small crick that fed a rather large pond that held the nicest fish with water that was just this side of freezing. He often felt that this would make the perfect home and often he thought he might just stay. It was a nice image. A little home that backed up to the cave. A place he could roam to towns from but come home to something that was just his and his alone.

He found himself walking around the little field; checking up on the animals. Most of whom were bedded down for the night. As he walked in the waist high grass he did what he always did which was look for signs of previous human inhabitants.

The sun was almost down so he circled back towards the cave. He stepped between two of the four logs that formed a rough circle around the low spot where he put the fire. The logs were not quite three feet around, with no bark and were smooth to the touch. They were perfect for sitting. They also shielded the fire pit in the center just enough to make starting a fire fairly easy in all but the highest of winds. He took a moment to examine the opening to the cave. Someone had taken pains to make it look natural though he knew it not to be.

He knew from his time in the mountains that natural caves had rough, irregular openings. But this opening was different. It was taller than it was wide with smooth sides and a high arch. It had carving marks, mostly polished out, that he did not notice this until his fifth or sixth time at the cave. Even the walls of the cave were mostly smooth giving the impression that it was a tunnel with some purpose. He could not figure out that purpose though.

In all the years he had been coming to this little space he had never seen any signs of human life. He knew that at some point people had to have stayed. Who else would have put down the logs or dug out the hole for the fire. Who else would have spread the sand out from the mouth of the cave. Even inside the cave, which he had explored from front to back had no signs. It was as if this place was invisible from the outside world. He had walked by this little grouping of trees not knowing what it held inside. He only stumbled on the place while chasing one of his animals.

On the day he stumbled on to it he had been taking a small herd of goats to town. They had done okay, minus the one troublemaker, until they had gotten within a mile or so of this field. It was then that they all seemed to go a little bonkers and began to stray. Eventually, after herding them back to the path, they simply began to ignore him. What was worse was the fact that a storm was blowing in and he had no shelter and goats who seemed to not care.

However, when they all went into the trees he followed. The cave was visible at the far side of the small field and he trailed the goats as they went right inside. The rain and lightning were landing all around. Inside the cave he found dry wood, the little spring and with minimal effort he was able to make a small pen to hold the twelve goats. He rode the storm out quite comfortably. Even the lightning seemed to ignore the area though the rain fell steadily all night long.

He had stayed in the field for the next two days to fatten the goats and explore. On the second night he had been walk-in towards the cave but was at the very edge of the field. The sun was behind him and it was cold. He looked up at almost the same instant that sun had settled just over the trees. He clearly saw the opening of the cave and the white rock which protruded outward. The setting sun showed the arch and how each side was uniform. He thought he could see writing but he could never discern what it was.

He paused and let his eyes move upward noticing what seemed to be ridge that went from the center of the cave opening all the way to the top of the mountain. Further, on either side of the base he saw two more ridges that he guessed began over caves as well. He could not walk to either side as the ground gave way to a deep crevasse a hundred feet or so beyond the copse of trees. If there were caves they led in to thin air. In fact, most of this little field was surrounded by steep cliffs with trees right up to the edge. The only way into the field was from the West along the strip of land the goats found.

As he examined the mountain more he saw what appeared to be outcroppings of rock at regular intervals. The sides were mostly bare except for low grass, the occasional shrub and one or two trees. There did appear to be pathways criss crossed around the mountain but it was very steep and he never tried to explore these. And, after staring at the mountain for a few moments the sun dipped lower and the once lighted mountainside disappeared in a haze.

Coming out of his little reverie he realized that he had walked the length and width of the field only to be back at the edge of the sand just behind the log he had stepped off of. He swiped at a late season mosquito buzzing by his ear and stepped onto the edge of the sandy circle. Again, unnoticed by him, as his foot touched the sand the field got a little brighter, the trees moved back to their normal position and the world began to move again. Even the animals began to stir again though not in a panic or as if suddenly freed from a trap. No, to the animals, the power that had so briefly settled on the clearing was not evil or dark but tied to an energy that they were more in tune with. So subtle was the change from dark to light that even a trained eye might have missed it. He walked around the log while reaching out to pat the closest horse whose head was down. The warm coat twitched under his touch and a soft whinny greeted him.

‘I know, I know, you want to be left alone. You all want to be left alone, he said to the collection of animals he was taking in to town. Well, almost to town since his dad had basically forbidden him to go in. He would make it as far as the sale pens on the edge of town, collect the money and move back out into the country before, as his dad said often, he could spend a penny of the families money.

He suddenly realized that he had started his story by speaking backwards. Anymore he was mostly neutral about this part of who he was. He had been dealing with it for some time but he thought he had had it under control. He chalked it up to the nervousness of the trip though he was not sure he believed that.

He had, though he did not know why, been saying words and phrases backwards for a little over two years now. It had begun out of the blue and at first he would catch himself. But after a while he became quite unaware that he was doing it. At least until someone told him that he was. But, the larger problem had become how to get his mind moving in the right direction again. Usually, especially with practice, if he concentrated then the words came out the right way. And it wasn’t like talking backwards was the only way he talked.

At first it had been only a word or two here and there. But, after a few months it became sentences or whole conversations. Sometimes he would talk backwards the entire day and his family who had finally been convinced by the local healer that this was not a sign of the pox or some other malady, would just send him out to watch the livestock so as not to annoy or scare people. But each time, though he knew not why, it would stop as suddenly as it had begun.

The longer this had gone on the longer he would talk backwards. Sometimes with no earthly idea of how to make it stop. Finally, after one whole day of talking backwards and frighteningly starting to move backwards he began to labor for a solution. It took him a few hours to figure out how to get things moving the right direction. Up to that point he would just stop talking, wait for bed and hope it was all sorted in the morning. Luckily, up to that point, it always was.

At the moment, he was trying to start the story again to no avail. Each word, no matter how hard he concentrated, came out backwards. It was fine in his head, but his mouth obviously had other plans. As the moments dragged on he could feel his mind moving backwards. He tried to itch his nose and hit the horse. He tried to sit and found himself up on his tip toes. He finally had to think, very, very hard about how he wanted to speak and this broke him from this backwards motion and seemed to correct him.

The horse moved away slowly casting one eye back at him as if to say, ‘You’ve got problems.’

His name was Alex. He was a dreamer who took to talking far more than working. He could be found, too often if you asked his dad, looking at trees or clouds and ignoring the animals and work on the ground. He told long and complicated stories usually building on legends he had heard. He could also make up his own. On many a winter night, and more than a few in the others seasons as well, people came from miles around to hear him.

‘Get your head out of the clouds’, had been his dads favorite phrase. But ever since he had been a very young boy everyone could see that he had a way about him that not only made people stop and listen but creatures too. It is why he was always tasked with bringing the stock in to town. He was the only one they’d listen to. Even the most cantankerous of creatures would follow him. They might twitch when he was near, fighting some inner instinct to bite him most likely, but they would go where he led them.

And his parents did not mind the story telling. It helped pass winter nights in the mountains. But a lot of that changed when people began asking for his son to come and tell stories. His dad, ever the pragmatist, liked stories but felt much better once they became a source of income instead of a distraction from work.

He was not yet twenty and out in the country his reputation for being not just a good storyteller but a great one had grown. A part of the appeal was that while his gangly, youthful appearance in the daylight turned somehow sage and ancient at night. He was overly slender with narrow shoulders, long arms, long hands and long, well, everything. He was close to seven feet tall, had a long neck over a slender face with a hooked nose, wide lips and narrow eyes that went up at the corners. He had thick, straight hair of black that hung past his shoulders with thick eye-brows and no facial hair.

Despite his size he had a grace to his movements. He also possessed an uncanny ability to run and jump so lightly as to make almost no sound. The ability had allowed him to move silently into places he should not have been. Like stores, meetings and a neighbor girls hay loft. And because all animals seemed to stay calm around him no animal ever betrayed him. If he had had one mean or dark bone in his body then he might not have been able to move around the animals but he was just a good kid with a kind heart and big, big dreams.

The night was beautiful. Being one of those early fall nights up in the mountains where the stars cascaded across the black as individual points of light. The wind was cool, hinting at the season to come, but not yet cold. A full moon bathed everything in its soft, white light and nothing was he was in one of his favorite places. A cave that sat in front of a small meadow, surrounded by pine trees with low grass and a shallow pond off to one side. The pond grew the most amazing trout and those fish had made a good dinner.

He was on his way to East Centerville. A mid-sized town at the head of one of the six valleys that made up the Dragons Foot. The valleys themselves were hundreds of miles across and long with deep lakes, tall mountains to separate them and lush, wide open plains. The valleys were perfect for farming, ranching and supplied many of the kingdoms with food.

The collection of valleys, when taken together, were known as the Dragons Foot given their overall shape. The fact that some few dragons lived in the high country helped. They were northern dragons, often called fur dragons, that lived and hunted the highest of the ranges. They rarely came down into the lowlands unless the snow drove them. In winter they hibernated in caves that no one could reach and no one could be sure how many of them there were.

The Fur Dragons had scales that were covered with a dense thick fur that kept out cold and moisture. The dwarves wore coats made of dragon fur but no one else. The coat was such a rarity that every year hunters came to kill a dragon. Almost none of them ever came back. The ones that did were always barely alive, devoid of any of the possessions they had taken in with them and, of course, had no dragon pelt to show for their troubles.

The fur dragons were between twenty and thirty feet long when fully grown. They were dark except for turning white in winter. They had massive wings over heavy chested bodies and long, thick tales. They had four paws that ended in claws for carving chunks of rock or ice. Their necks were long and their heads were wide and flat. It was rumored that if mad enough they could spit fire but none had ever seen it. Although in the summer months, when the lightening was high in the mountains there were other flashes. Old timers said that the dragons were fighting the lighting.

There were rumors of other dragons but they were just that. Rumors. But for those groups of hunters that came through, not all of them disappeared in the high country. Some disappeared following other trails that. The Dragons Foot valleys were home to dark and dangerous things even if not all of them were known or visible.

There were also rumors of larger, much, much larger dragons who could spit fire. The kind that hoarded gold and killed without mercy. The legends of dragons that hoarded and killed also said that these dragons had long ago gone underground to sleep at the bidding of the great, mother dragon. But this was another legend of the mountains.

Tonight Alex was thinking about dragons. He was also dreaming of East Centerville and the audience he would entertain.

He walked back to the mouth of the cave, skirting the large but dying fire, and turned. He threw more wood on the fire. Probably more than he should have but he wanted a roaring fire. The kind that most inns had. The kind of fire that helped a story along.

He stood on top of the log that was a few feet inside the opening of the cave. The walls were smooth, as was the arch at the front. Both inside and outside had a natural depression for fires. Inside there was a small cistern filled by a spring and warm, sandy soil. It was not a deep cave, ending about one hundred feet from the opening. It faced West and at certain times of the year the sun filled it from front to back.

He closed his eyes, cleared his throat and formed the image in his mind of a bar he had been in once before. He populated the bar with patrons he imagined. When he opened them he was no longer standing at the mouth of a cave in the mountains. He was in the bar with rough chairs, tables and a rougher crowd. They were sitting as they lived. Separately. In small groups of either like minded, like species or both. He saw hunters, sell swords, minotaurs, gypsies, elves, soldiers and other factions of the members who called this valley home. He was also aware of those he did not see. The sprites and half-men who lived under the building. The wraiths and short folk. The bar was not just a local place to get information or hear stories. It was truly at the center of everything on this side of the valley.

Elsewhere in the valley, in a bar in the town of Centerville, another, far older man took the stage. It was a small crowd, he thought. Not much money to be made. The story teller in this bar had a reputation for being average at best. The size of the crowd reflected that. A part of the problem, other than his usual lack of enthusiasm, was that he recycled the same ten or twelve stories. Still, for the smaller establishments where watered down drinks and stale bread were normal, he was good for business. Oftentimes, by the time he got to the stage, many of the crowd were too far in their cups to really listen.

His name was Sebellius and he had been selling stories for more than sixty seasons. He had been a fighter and his body, though worn with age and time, bore the scars. He had gray, stringy hair over deep blue eyes, a heavy nose and chin with an almost perfect set of teeth. His teeth, or more accurately his smile had started more fights than anything. He would just smile at a lady with a man or at a man he wanted to hit. It really didn’t take much.

He had broad, though slumped shoulders, heavy hands with scarred knuckles and a brutish body that had gone soft in the middle. He still looked the part of a fighter though he had not thrown hands in years upon years. He still got mad he just chose not to act on it.

He sat up from the chair he had been sitting in and scanned the twenty or so people strewn about the room. His eyes had caught the face of a dwarf in the crowd. A dwarf that he felt he should know. A dwarf that appeared to be in a sour mood.

‘As if dwarves were ever in any other kind of mood,’ he chuckled to himself though the slight smile he accidentally threw towards the Dwarf made his heart race. One did not smile at dwarves unless you were family or on their good side. A smile, to a Dwarf, was considered an insult and was met with cold stares at best and their battle axes or fists at worst. Luckily the small warrior seemed to not notice or not care. Either way, Sebellius cleared his throat and began as the boy did, with the first line of his story being backwards. The line had the same effect on the mostly drunk patrons that it had on the animals up in the hills.

Once he heard the man speak backwards he groaned inwardly as he had found another dead end. Though his mind began to race with ancient lore of wizards and what it took to identify them. Speaking backwards was one of the more peculiar things about those born with magic.

The way their minds worked was different. The way they had to speak and the words they had to use apparently played a part in the need to speak backwards. Because of the gift of magic they had different mannerisms, processed information differently and, as a rule, tended to be able to speak just as fluently backwards as forwards. The ability to reverse speech was one of the more rare signs of magic. At least, a few hundred years ago it had been that way. Since that time so many charlatans had perfected the art of talking backwards that most people paid it no mind.

The Dwarf, Myridon, was the third son the house of Kilganor. His folk and people ruled the hill country for hundreds of miles, mostly inside the tunnels they had crafted to move more freely. He was large for a dwarf, being just over five feet tall. He had huge hands in front of thick wrists, arms and shoulders.

He was a smith and his skill in the metal arts was legendary. He wore all black leather breeches. A black shirt under black chain mail and a cape of black. His beard was black and his skin, where it showed, was pale given that he had lived most of his three hundred below ground. He had soft boots, two axes across his back, two short blades on either hip and wide, black leather bracelets with protruding metal on either wrist. He was known as a fierce warrior, tireless tracker and his temper was sudden and explosive.

He tossed two coins on the table, which were quickly swiped up by the bar maid and walked out the back door. He had what he needed. He paused at the faintest of sounds buzzing in his ears. He turned east and stepped quickly off the low, wooden steps and melted into the forest. His folk, the mountain dwarves, were as adept at the forests as they were the tunnels beneath.

A few moments after he passed into the night a pipe was lit by a dying ember from a small brazier that had burned itself down to a simmering red. The small flair was up on a second floor balcony of the building next to the bar. No face could be seen and the momentary flaring gave way to the sullen, brooding red that it had begun with. The figure sank even further into the shadows while in the room a middle aged couple lay dying. Victims of a drug they did not know they were taking but one that was fatal every time.

As Alex moved through his story, sometimes speaking backwards and other times forwards. He was so caught up on the telling that he could not say when he did this or how long. He also did not notice that the wall, at the far back of the cave, turned from rock to obsidian and back as his words raced along to their climax. The story he was telling was of the ancient dragons their great mother who had fought the war with the giants. The war that shaped the world.

Behind the wall, in a hall long forgotten, deeper down and farther in than any living creature had been in thousands upon thousands of years a fire smoldered. Slowly, at the center of this great hall, on the only raised dais in the room, a single eye opened only just barely. The dragons were waking.