The Gods' Return

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. They had been content to call the mountains their home, unseen and unheard of for centuries. Few people south of the Jhorr Plains even believed in their existence anymore.

Their likeness still graced tapestries and paintings in nearly every kingdom—then again, so did many creatures of folklore and song—but their wings were often too small, or they had too few legs. None of the artwork came anywhere close to the terror and majesty of the real thing.

Within the Valley, however, thoughts of dragons still permeated the hearts and minds of every inhabitant. One was hard pressed to find a direction they could look without staring one down; they were adorned on armours and shields, sewn into the fabrics of clothing, even carved around the thresholds of houses as a symbol of protection.

These were their Gods, after all.

There was a time when all peoples worshipped the dragons. They had shaped the world with their breath, formed the winds with the thrusts of their wings. When they had finished crafting every mountain and river, they came to rest in the Valley.

Nobody knew why they retreated into the mountains, withdrawing from the very world they created. Some legends claimed that they had been betrayed by humans, forced back to the fringes of the world. Others claimed that the Gods simply tired of the world, and deigned to leave it for humans to enjoy unbidden.

As he stood staring one down, heart beating fast in his chest, Ral wondered how such a wondrous creature could exist.

It had started with nothing more than a vague dark shape circling in the sky above the mountains, enough to cause an uproar within the town. Songs and chants began to fill the air, praises being shouted to the heavens.

‘The Gods have returned!’

‘They’ve come back for us!’

Within minutes the streets were filled with jubilee, the townspeople cheering for the Gods who had finally decided to return to the world they left behind. Banners were raised on the sides of buildings, children were placed up on parents’ shoulders, and spectators filled the space between the stonework buildings.

The shape grew larger as the dragon left the mountain peaks, and the raucous celebrations grew louder to match. Ral found himself wondering about the Gods, his head filled with questions. Why would the dragons return after all this time? Why was it approaching the town?

He asked his father these questions, and was only told that their prayers were answered, and this God was coming to reward their faith. Ral felt that the explanation was too convenient, but who was he to question? His father was Great Watcher, charged with leading the town and ensuring the Gods received proper sacrifice and tribute. And Ral was barely more than a child, old enough to fight but still too young to wed.

When the dragon touched ground a few metres away from the outskirts of town, trampling crops and livestock under its massive weight, the celebrations began to peter out. The chants faded to whispers, the songs to vague humming, the children put back on the ground. Ral’s excitement began to wane, fear slowly creeping into its place.

This creature—this God—towered over even the highest of buildings, a single foot almost the size of a grown man. Its scales were alabaster and pearl, shimmering in the sun that shone hot overhead. The spines along its back quivered as it settled into place, eyes scanning the people spread out before it. Each claw pierced holes into the dirt and soil. Hot breath steamed out through its nostrils, mouth pulling back into the beginning of a snarl.

Ral listened as his father began to go through the prepared speech, passed down through the generations and rehearsed at every festival for as long as anyone could remember. He sang the praises of the Gods, thanked them for returning their grace to the world. Ral had heard this speech beginning to end a hundred times. But this wasn’t one of those times.

One mighty sweep of the claw and the speech was cut short, all the priests sent flying limp through the air. Silence only lasted a handful of seconds, until it was ripped away by screams of terror and heavy sobbing. Soldiers took up bows and aimed arrows, while Ral searched for anywhere to hide that might be safe. He clambered into his family home through a window, peering out at the dragon as its roar shook the very foundations.

A crimson frill unfolded from around its neck as its head reared up, forelegs rising off the ground. The air above its mouth warped and twisted, distorting the view of the mountains beyond. As it slammed back down to the ground, destruction spewed from its mouth. Flames tore through town, angry heat spreading between the buildings. Ral ducked as fire burst through the window, licking at his back.

He had remembered one time, as a kid, when he had spilled the water his mother had been boiling. It was the worst pain he had ever known. Until now. He wanted to scream in pain, to shout out for help, but no sound would escape. It felt like the air had been stolen from his lungs.

Hands grasped clumsily for his collar, and he fought to tear the shirt from his back. By the time he had it off of himself, half the fabric had already been burned away. His back still boiled.

Ral remembered the cellar, where his father kept barrels of wines and his mother kept jars of preserves. It was a slim chance of survival, but it was the only chance he had. The trapdoor slammed against the wall as it was flung open, but any noise it made was drowned by the chaos outside. Ral didn’t even bother searching for footing on the ladder; he flung himself into the hole feet first, slamming down hard on the basement floor.

He didn’t know how long he stayed down there before the sounds of destruction finally faded. Each second could have been a minute, each minute just as easily an hour. Even after silence returned, Ral lingered in the basement. His back still screamed, and he shuddered to think what it might look like. He was thankful the injury was somewhere he wouldn’t be tempted to stare at it.

Chunks of stone had fallen through the hatch as buildings were reduced to rubble, but the ladder somehow stayed standing. When Ral poked his head back up through the ground floor, the first thing he saw was smoke. The walls of his house were all but gone. A hesitant look around revealed that the dragon was gone, but Ral still took his time emerging from his hiding place.

Nothing remained of the town but debris and ashes. Not a single building was left standing. The once blue sky was grey with smoke, the cool summer breeze replaced with the heat that radiated off the smouldering ruins. Ral called out for anyone who might have survived, anyone who might be able to answer. But no responses came.

His father’s broken body still laid where the dragon had flung him, his mother likely one of the charred corpses strewn about the roadways. His whole life had been ripped away over the course of an afternoon. His home burned to the ground, his parents killed by the very being they had devoted their lives to.

As Ral stood, surrounded by the smell of brimstone and death, he wondered how a being that they once prayed to for protection could be the cause of so much suffering. He wondered what his people had done wrong, to deserve such a cruel fate. He wondered why he alone survived, whether it was luck or punishment. Among the death and destruction, there was only one thing that Ral knew for sure.

This world had no Gods.