The Eyes of the Storm

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

Most of the time the Valley was calm. Peaceful. Unremarkable.

Lush grass supported vast roaming herds of goats and sheep. Mild weather and fertile land grew abundant crops. Dense patches of forest provided valuable wood for shelter and warmth.

The world outside the Valley was not calm, peaceful, or unremarkable. It teemed with turmoil and uncertainty, with wars and violence, with the petty squabbles of petty men. And the Valley’s abundance had more than once attracted the attention of those who would seek to take it for their own.

But those greedy souls, each and every one, soon learned that the tempting flower of seemingly undefended wealth and resources was ringed by circles of thorns.

The high stone walls and sheer cliff faces of the surrounding mountains kept all but the hardiest and most determined of visitors away. The treacherous passes so steep that carts couldn’t be pulled up, and each added pound of weapon or armour made it that much more likely that the wearer would perish from exhaustion before they crested the summit.

This was the first defense.

The mountains let the Valley dwellers live calm, peaceful and unremarkable lives. They raised their herds in the lush grasses, gathered their wood from the dense forests, and built their homes into the Valley floor itself. Low stone bunkers of buildings, covered with blankets of dirt and grass like so many small hills. Sturdy doors and windows made from the oldest oak trees that could be barred and held against outside forces. Miniature fortresses that hunkered incongruously against the serene background of the Valley.

And beneath the homes ran the tunnels. Snaking through the fertile soil, they linked houses – brother to brother, neighbour to neighbour – that seemed isolated from above.

A man could traverse the vast length of the Valley and scarcely need to step into the open air. If he knew how to find the warren of pathways. If he knew how to navigate the unmarked twists and turns. And if he didn’t get lost forever in the dead ends and traps that guarded the routes through the darkness.

This was the second defense.

And sometimes, maybe once a year, maybe once a lifetime, the world would shift. The mild breezes would turn cold and metallic, biting like knives at the throats and lungs of the unfortunates who had to breathe the air. The birds would vanish, and the wild animals would disappear into their dens and burrows. And a roiling Storm, crackling with lighting and howling winds, would sweep down from the mountains.

And with it would come dragons.

The Valley dwellers would crouch in fear inside their homes. The same stone and soil that provided their riches and protected them from the greed of men sheltering them against the onslaught of nature itself.

Shelves and tables, chairs and beds, the very floors would shake as the screams of massive beasts collided with shrieking winds and booming thunder. And they would wait. Sometimes for days. Sometimes for weeks. And sometimes, if the rumours whispered by schoolchildren and rambled by the elderly were to be believed, for months at a time.

But the Storm would end, the clouds would roll away. And with them would go the dragons. They never stayed past the final rumbles of thunder. And no one would know when they would return. But everyone knew that they would.

It wasn’t clear why the dragons only came when the Storms did. Some thought the beasts were too heavy to fly without whipping winds to hold them aloft. Others thought it was the other way around – that the beating of their wings drove the wind before them, and they spat the lightning from their mouths.

And still others thought that there were no dragons at all.

Nobody had actually seen a dragon in years. In generations even. The oldest dwellers in the Valley would say that when they were children their elders had heard in their own childhood of a few who swore they had braved the storm and seen the dragons with their own eyes.

But that was no longer the case. Nowadays nobody even thought to see the dragons. And if anyone was brave enough, or foolhardy enough, to try to glimpse the beasts during a Storm, to try to linger a little longer on the grass with an eye to the sky, they would never make it to the safety of the houses before the getting caught in the onslaught.

But dragons or not, the devastation of the Storms was real. And they had all seen it. In the wake of the Storms would be destruction. When the Valley dwellers emerged into the daylight, blinking like moles, their watery eyes would be met with the detritus of chaos. Sheds and wooden structures would be flattened. Fields gouged open like they had been scored by massive claws.

Livestock that hadn’t been quick enough or lucky enough to reach shelter would be gone. Some few might be found days later, scattered to the furthest corners of the Valley. Most would vanish without a trace. And anyone unwise, uninformed, or unfortunate enough to be caught out in the Storm would be gone with them.

This was the third defense.

*********

It was into one of these Storms that Valia entered the world. She announced her presence loudly from the moment she arrived, her cries drowning out the calamitous cacophony that shook the outside of the house. So loud were the baby’s cries, so forceful was her entrance, that for a while nobody noticed her mother slip quietly out the same door her daughter had entered through. Within the first hour of Valia’s life the Storm had passed on, just as her mother had.

There were stories in the Valley about the Stormborn, those who had been born in the darkness while the world shook above them. They were cold and distant, like the icy winds that brought the dragons. They were quick to anger and violent in their outbursts, like the destruction endured by the Valley. And unlike most of the Valley-folk, they were always drawn away to the outside world. They would leave to fight in wars, or to chase adventure and glory, or just to wander to a place unknown. But they would always leave. Always by their twentieth year. And rarely would one ever return.

Valia wasn’t like that. Despite the upset of her earliest hours, she was a baby who laughed far quicker than she cried. She grew into a similarly happy child. Always helpful. Always smiling. Always sunny in disposition.

And the Valley stayed sunny with her. Throughout Valia’s childhood the icy winds never brushed her cheeks. The Storms and the dragons never came. Valia brought luck to the Valley. She had none of the brooding nature that afflicted the other Stormborn. She had only been born on the cusp of the Storm, after all. It was practically receding before she drew her first breaths. She must have escaped the temperament. And maybe, the old grandmothers of the Valley would whisper, she would escape the call to adventure as well.

There was very little to overshadow Valia’s childhood. Her father had loved her mother dearly, and he did not hold his daughter responsible for the loss of his wife. Instead, he doted on her, raising her in a household brimming with love.

But he did resent the dragons. And he feared them. And he taught his daughter everything he knew, and everything anyone knew, about them. Valia was raised on bedtime stories of the horrors that a shift in weather would bring, and of the oldest myths and tales in the Valley that told of the dragons themselves. She may have never felt the cold of the winds, never huddled in the darkness through a Storm, but she knew what to do if a chill breeze swept across her face.

By the time she was six Valia had been drilled over and over until she had all the entrances to the underground tunnels memorized. By the time she was eight she could point to the nearest one to her, from anywhere in the Valley, with her eyes closed. Her dad had done everything he could to teach her of the dangers, and to keep her safe. But he could not do enough.

Valia was nineteen when the Storm came back. She was out in the Valley, herding goats, when something shifted in the air. The goats knew first, before the cold breeze even reached the Valley floor.

Valia sprang into action immediately, herding the goats towards the nearest livestock stable, a sunken chamber with a sloping entrance. The animals sensed that something was coming and were already moving towards it before Valia could call to them. It was the easiest herding she had ever had to do. Valia followed the last of the goats underground and made a move towards the gate that blocked off the rest of the tunnels, but then she turned back.

In the back of her mind she heard her father’s voice. Valia, when a Storm comes get into the tunnel as quick as you can, and then make your way back home quickly. Don’t worry about the animals. If there are stragglers leave them to find their own shelter. If the ones in the shelter are hungry we can return to feed them once everyone is accounted for.

What harm could come from taking a glimpse at the Storm? The goats would be safe in this chamber, so why would she have to go deeper underground to be protected? Surely she could stay securely in the tunnel and just peek out the entrance towards the sky.

Valia, hurry back quickly. I will worry if you take too long.

Inside the chamber was still, but the air outside was whistling as the wind speed picked up and the light streaming through the entrance dimmed as the clouds rolled in. If she stood just inside the tunnel she would get a better view, and still be under cover.

Valia, what are you waiting for? It is dangerous to be caught too near the surface.

The scents around her were changing now. The musky, damp earth of the chamber combining with a new metallic tang that tickled Valia’s nose. If she stood right at the entrance, with one foot still inside, she would see what was coming and still be able to duck inside to safety faster than it could get to her.

Valia, don’t be foolish. Nobody can stay out in the Storm and survive.

The hairs on Valia’s arms prickled as she shivered against the oncoming wind. Rain drops landed on her face and soaked into her clothes. She could move quickly and find the tunnel even on the darkest night. It would take no time at all for her to run back a few steps to the entrance.

Valia. Please. Don’t do this. Please.

Lightning flashed across the sky, bringing a moment of daylight to the sudden night that had rolled in. The top of the hill was only a short way from the tunnels, and the view was better from up here. She was only going to do this one time – she wouldn’t want to miss anything while she was out.

The wind was louder now. Howling rather than whistling. It drowned out her father’s voice.

Valia.

She braced herself against the wind, squinting through the lashing rain. Her clothes were soaked through and did nothing to cut the cold. It was dark now, the world a swirling eddy of rain and wind and sound.

And above it all a screaming started, so sharp and high that she felt it as an ache in her teeth. And the lightning flashed again. And again. And so many times she couldn’t keep track. Dark spots swam in front of her eyes, completely blinding her between flashes. But the lightning also showed dark spots in the sky. Writhing, undulating shapes that swam through the layers of clouds, diving in and out of the rain. Each one longer than trees were tall.

The stories were true. The dragons were real. They danced and swarmed through the Storm. Circling with the winds. A ballet of overwhelming force that Valia saw only in flashes.

And they were coming closer. As if they were drawn to the woman who stood all alone on the hilltop. A single living, breathing form silhouetted against the tumultuous sky. The shapes in the clouds were shifting away from their wheeling loops. Moving in straighter lines. Descending upon her.

They were fast. And so close now. She could see their limbs now. Their faces. Their claws. Their eyes. And she could see something else.

She could see the figures seated on their backs.