The Hunter, the Dragon, and the Door

The Hunter, the Dragon, and the Door

A.C. Watson

There weren’t always dragons in the valley.

Once, they proudly ruled the skies, but the discovery of obsidian – a metal that negated all magic – instigated their downfall. They fell from kings to refugees, fleeing the flood that were hunters seeking glory. Now, it was not ‘dragons’, but ‘dragon’. Only one remained: Vahlstrath, the Great Shadow and Last of His Kind, and he’d come to the Aborvitium Valley.

Vahlstrath. The name itself was poetic, like it had been plucked from myth and legend. It was a lonely name, though, and needed company.

Harkon Baelor. Now there was a name. A name without a title, mind you, but that would be soon rectified. He envisioned what they’d call him for centuries to come: Harkon Baelor, the Great Hunter and He Who Ended the Line of Dragons.

And so, Harkon had come to the Aborvitium Valley. An unnatural fissure in the earth, mountainous terrain stretched for miles in every direction, yet the densest congregation of life Harkon had ever seen blossomed in the valley. A panoply of trees formed a dome like canopy over its expanse, which equated to the size of a city, and all manner of animals cried out from within.

There was magic here. Of that, Harkon had no doubt.

For the first day, Harkon watched as the trees swayed amidst the wind, which also blustered his cloak about him. He was not perturbed, even when it rained; even then, he watched, though no secrets of within revealed themselves.

He spent the second day – a day of sun glistening in the water pooled amongst the leaves – searching for entries down into the valley. He found four. The first and second, both involving scaling sheer rock face, were traps that concluded with the satisfaction of hungry lions. The third, a path that had been made to look as if ancient and abandoned, possessed hidden runes that only the most trained eyes could identify. What would happen on Harkon’s approach, he did not know, though he imagined himself exploded, stabbed, launched, and even frozen, so he would be as eternal as his ambition sought, though as lifeless as a statue.

The fourth path into the valley was cleverly disguised. A tree branch on the south side, if struck correctly with a missile, promised to lower. Following the precarious crossing, several discretely placed footholds on the trunk enabled a safe passage to the ground. From there, it was a direct trek north, to the centre of the valley, where the dozen and tallest Aborvitium Trees – the prompt for naming the valley.

As the sun rose on the next day, Harkon took the fourth path. History would tell of his deft touch as he shot an arrow, his swift feet as he crossed the branch, and his silent climb to reach the ground.

The air was thick and heavy with moisture within the Aborvitium Valley. The canopy trapped the air and heat, like one of the rainforests of the far north. Harkon wondered how many undiscovered species of plants grew here, when anyone had last had the chance to research this place, and when was the last time someone had escape with their life.

“Leave,” came a whisper.

Harkon drew his obsidian sword in a whipping motion. Normally, he would prepare for an attack coming from the direction of the voice, though it had come from all around, as if the forest had spoken.

His eyes darted between all movement; a breeze among the trees, water dripping between leaves, and a half dozen scattered monkeys watching him back. He strained his ears and heard little besides the droning choir of insects and the fluttering of unseen birds.

Several minutes passed, his concentration unwavering.

“Leave,” came the voice, this time firmer, louder. Closer?

The wind rose. A section of trees rocked violently, as if something the size of three men passed between them, though Harkon couldn’t see anything. He searched the ground around him for tracks – an invisible assailant approaching?

Nothing.

As quickly as it had picked up, the wind died. Silence reigned in its wake.

“I told you to leave.”

Harkon reeled, tossing a dagger even as he turned to face the voice’s owner. The blade planted itself in the trunk of a tree, its journey otherwise unchallenged.

“Ah, the etiquette of a hunter.” The indifferent voice came from where the blade had struck.

Harkon had fought mages with the ability to cast their voices great distances, while their bodies remained safe. He considered this situation to be similar – be it by Vahlstrath himself or a companion mage – and even if he was wrong, little would be accomplished by attacking again without visibility.

“And the cowardice of a mage,” Harkon spoke.

“I am no mage.”

“Yet you hide. Face me.”

“Your arrogance is unfounded, human.”

Where there had previously been a myriad of insects darting about a moment before, there was now a human shape. Yet, it was not human. It had no skin or body; it was like highly concentrated air filling in an outline, with a lifeless face and empty eye sockets staring at him.

Harkon had been surprised before in a fight; disturbed and shocked, too, but never awed. “But … wind nymphs went extinct a century ago,” he said as much to himself as he did the magical creature.

“There is much you don’t know, hunter,” said the wind nymph, “and much more you will never get a chance to.”

As if the force of a hurricane had been summoned within this small area of forest, gales erupted and battered the trees. Harkon’s feet slid as he raised his arm to shield his face as branches flung past him. The wind nymph soared at him. Harkon made to swing at the creature, but a branch hurtled into his legs. He crashed, and the nymph was on him.

An icy probe pierced Harkon’s skull. He screamed and convulsed, his head jutting this way and that.

“Tell me the truth,” the nymph’s voice rang in his head. “Why have you come here?”

Harkon saw images of his journey, all the sacrifices and betrayals he’d made flashing in his mind; leaving his childhood love, who’d never understood the pursuit of glory; spying and selling secrets to who best aided his cause; double-crossing partners for the reward, to afford the very obsidian blades he carried. They were initially bright and golden, like the sun shone gloriously to validate his cause, but the memories darkened and dulled. Shame took glory’s place.

“To slay a dragon,” he heard himself reply, though had not spoken – he was too busy screaming.

“Liar. Why have you come?”

“For legacy’s sake,” came Harkon’s voice again. The new images were of the faces of those he’d killed – both who he’d meant to, and those he had not. Shame swelled within him, and the memories lost all colour, like the leaching of shimmering gold.

“Tell me!”

“To be loved!” Harkon answered in his own voice. The images he saw this time, he did not recognise. He sat amongst a field of grass beside a clear lake, in the light of a rising sun. Resting next to him was … an egg. These visions didn’t provoke the previous shame or dullness, but peace; the gold glistened.

The probe and pain receded, and the nymph hovered back. Even though Harkon had registered his freedom, he remained on the ground, panting. His body tingled, and he was reminded of a pot of water that continued to boil even after withdrawn from heat.

“You must speak to him,” the nymph said in the same indifferent voice as before. “I may have been wrong.”

The wind slowly rose again, and Harkon heard the trees brush against one another. Knowing the nymph was leaving, the hunter tossed his sword at the creature. The nymph’s body twisted and contorted to open a hole through which the sword flew. The blade landed next to Harkon’s knife.

“Think, Harkon Baelor, not of who you are, but who you may become.”

The nymph faded into the forest and the wind died. Harkon hauled himself up and staggered over to his blades, dusting himself off on the way, and reclaimed his weapons. He waited several minutes to ensure the nymph wasn’t toying with him, or if the creature might return – in any case, Harkon considered that if either were true, he wouldn’t know until the nymph decided to reveal itself, something which may take years. Cautiously and feeling more vulnerable than he had on all previous hunts, he continued north.

The central cluster of the dozen Aborvitium Trees that loomed above seemed so far away that it would take the better part of a day to arrive. However, it took less than an hour. It made Harkon even more uncomfortable, for he knew this was magic’s doing and he was at its mercy.

Blocking his path north stood a wall of exotic, bell-shaped trees he didn’t recognise. Harkon walked along the barricade, expecting to find a break, though it was resolute and he promptly returned to where he had diverged from his path. Magic had a way of forcing a man towards a route or method he didn’t expect – or want – to take, often ending in a trap. His path now was dictated by magic and he would have to pass through this wall of trees, the other side of which he could not see. Gripping his sword tightly, Harkon pushed shoulder-first into the wall of trees.

Drooping vines dragged along his torso, like arms trying to prevent his progression. Branches stabbed at his legs. A pinpoint of light emerged ahead, and he pushed on resolutely, hacking the branches until he broke through the foliage.

An expansive clearing contained the dozen monumental Aborvitium Trees and a lush bed of grass and moss covering the earth, only halting at the edge of a clear stream. Harkon’s mind processed the tactical advantages of the area, though acknowledged little of the clearing’s beauty. One thought stood out above the rest: where was Vahlstrath? Everything had indicated the dragon’s presence here, so why was he not?

His question was promptly answered.

As if a door opened in the centre of the closest Aborvitium Tree, a taloned and night-black scaled foot stepped out. A second came forth, the ground quaking under the weight. Harkon reeled as Vahlstrath’s head passed through the tree; a head the size of a house, with barred teeth like spears and emerald, reptilian eyes peering at the hunter. Next came Vahlstrath’s body. Of this, none of the stories had done justice. His height matched the surrounding Aborvitium Trees, and a millennium of battle wounds was painted across his body that glistened even in the absence of the sun. Spikes ran down his back, spreading to the tips of wings that had carried the dragon to victory countless times, and to a tail that dragged along the ground. In the past, and perhaps again in the future, Vahlstrath may have been worshipped as a god, for what force could stand against this titan?

Behind the dragon, Harkon saw the door in the Aborvitium Tree. Rather, he saw through the door: open fields, snow-capped mountains, and a boundless ocean. It was an entire other world. In the sky, flaming birds soared, and riders without a divide between human and horse road across the plains. A myriad of other creatures long since believed extinct – manticores, pixies, mermen and merwomen – existed beyond that door.

Vahlstrath, the Great Shadow and Last of His Kind, stooped and brought his colossal head before Harkon. Smoked drained from between the dragon’s teeth, and Harkon was reminded of a hawk eyeing a trapped mouse.

“Have you come to kill me?”

Harkon’s grip tightened on his sword. “I have.”