The Iron Claw

"There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Not that it was safe before, you understand. A wild, dark forest still covers the valley floor just beyond the plains, and it was teeming back then with wild, dark things: bears, vipers, great dusk-grey stags with antlers as sharp and deadly as any platoon of spearmen. Then there were the direwolves. They're not around much nowadays. People call 'em wolves, but they have about as much in common with regular wolves as their hulking wardens have in common with natural men. Big bastards, the direwolves, with enormous yellow fangs and shaggy, coarse fur. Their paws are as big as a man's hand, and tipped with rending claws. The wardens are giants, 8 feet if an inch. They wear wolfskins, and carry bone axes. They eat raw meat too, just like their companions. Tear it right off the bone of their kills. Hard to tell the two apart from a distance, and that's as close as anyone'd get anyway. 'S a pair vomited up by the Undergods themselves, if you ask me."

Jeckel knows how to keep them interested, Dara thought as she stood listening behind the polished oak bar of her little tavern while her patrons thronged around the grizzled man and his grizzled table in the middle of the common room. And having him on staff was better than paying some apprentice crier to go around shouting, "Come one, come all, to the Fire and Wing, owned and operated by Dara the Dragonslayer herself!"

She actually did that when she first opened, hoping to trade on her own fame by opening just down the road from the now-famous and newly-renamed Drakevale. She sprung for a colorful wooden sign heroically depicting her battle with the fire serpent Razma. She hung her spear and greatsword on the wall behind the bar, right where you could see them as you walked in. And when she hired Jeckel to put the chaos of her fight with Razma to story, she made sure he left out all the dismal bits.

And it worked. She wasn't rolling in coin, but she was doing well. Well enough that not only was she able to pay Jeckel in more than beer, she was also able to keep Stega as her full-time bouncer. The village itself was only a few furlongs up the way, so she had plenty of visitors come in excited to meet the Dragonslayer. She was making good, in other words.

Of course there was also the endless raft of questions about why she didn't just kill the dragon in the Valley, like it was as easy as getting rid of rats in the cellar and not, say, a suicide mission that at best kills all your closest friends and leaves you with crushed ribs and 2nd degree burns all over your arms and back.

And there was also the small matter that Drakevale's income, as well as Dara's, entirely depended on that very dragon being a living if remote threat. It gave a thrill to the tourists, knowing that a real live dragon was stalking a forest with its eaves in sight of the Fire and Wing.

Last but not least were the fame-seekers. A bustling town with a dragon slinking around next door in a gloomy wood was absolutely going to attract would-be adventurers. This little corner of the county was peaceful as far as things went these days. No big wars or upcoming apocalypses, no dark kings of dark kingdoms bent on taking over civilization. Not much for a fighting man to do except work for hire (which ran the full spectrum from 'basically legal' to 'immediate execution by horrified officials') or, like some of the more self-destructive ones, hunt a dragon for clout.

One such adventurer was sitting in a far corner of the tavern well away from the gathering, wrapped in a black travel-stained cloak, his eyes glittering from under its hood. The cloak topped off an inky black quilted tunic that terminated down the arms into black riding gloves. Black hosed legs clad in heavy black boots stretched out from the shadowy mass of folds like an outcropping from an obsidian stone. An arming sword sheathed in a worn black scabbard leaned against the table, and a shield made of some strange material lay on top. It was the only thing in this stranger's kit that wasn't black, but the way it caught light was odd, revealing what seemed like depths. It looked like a deep blue lake had been shrunk into a heater shape and laid over with a sheet of steelpane.

At Jeckel's table, his crowd was getting rowdy. "What about the dragons?" a buxom ashen haired woman shouted at him even though he was close enough to smell the ale on her breath. "They eat those direwolves or what?"

"Eat? No." Jeckel said. A completely soused villager streaked with coal-ash bellowed, "Direwolf meat gives dragons the trots, didn't you know?" The crowd hooted. Jeckel grinned, then said, "Nah, it just gasses 'em up awful. You think a dragon's breath stinks, you should smell what comes out the other end after a direwolf dinner." The crowd hooted even louder as Jeckel drained his mug, and when there was a sufficient lull in the racket, he dove back in, his raspy voice cutting through the vestiges of raucous laughter.

"When Black and Green came down from the mountains, the direwolves and their wardens tried to drive them away. They weren't gonna give up their ancient home without a fight. So, they planned one. They hid for weeks while the dragons got comfortable and lazy, secretly gathering themselves into an army. Then, one night, as the dragons lay sleeping in a clearing, it attacked."

Everyone wound down to a hush, anticipating the upcoming carnage. Even Dara still found herself hooked by Jeckel's wordly ways. She didn't understand why he was (let's be honest) slumming it at a tourist trap and not employed by one of the big traveling theater companies. She had asked him that very question many times, but he always played it off and said he wasn't much for traveling.

She glanced over at the hooded man. He hadn't moved. If not for the slight rising and falling of his chest with each breath he took, Dara might have assumed he had died. The guy was giving her a major case of the creeps. Stega too, apparently, as the big man had done his usual trick of moving silently and unobtrusively, planting himself near his person of interest and then basically fading into the background like he was nothing more than part of the decor.

Jeckel leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling like he was recalling a personal memory. "It was moonless the night of the battle; black as Kel's maw. The wardens sent their direwolves out in small packs, assaulting the dragons from all sides. You all know how strong a dragon's hide is. Well, direwolf jaws can bite through plate armor. And they were going for belly and throat. Those jaws did damage, too; both Green and Black were bleeding freely. But dragons don't go down that easily. Do they, Dara?"

It was all part of the show, designed to keep the patrons enticed and imbibing; An expert aside from the famous Dragonslayer, the Blade of Two Thorns, live and in the flesh, to give the story a little dazzle. But every time Jeckel asked that question Dara could feel the scar tissue on her arms and back wake up and remind her of the agonizing months she spent under the care of the mountain monks, wishing she was dead and yet terrified of what was to come if her wish came true.

"No," she said. "They don't. When a dragon is cornered, it expends all its fire in self-defense. It doesn't hold anything back."

Jeckel nodded. "So when these two spit their flames, they meant to incinerate. They weren't going for meat, they were going for destruction. They blasted the direwolves with fire. The heat was so intense that some of the trees caught. If it had been a dry summer like the one before, the whole damn forest might have gone up. As it is, that clearing is dead bare nowadays. Burned beyond use. I could do with a refill, anyone else?"

There were rumbles of agreement from the listeners. Dara started filling new mugs.

"The direwolves were conquered. Either killed or fled. But now the dragons had no fire, and the direwolves had shredded their wings so they couldn't take flight. That's when the wardens charged."

The hooded man finally stirred. He unfolded himself languidly from his chair, reaching for his sword and strange shield. Stega stayed in his shadow, ready to break the man's arm if he tried to draw his blade. The man made his way toward the edges of Jeckel's audience with Stega stalking behind.

Jeckel carried on, unconcerned with the stranger's approach. "They were still wearing their wolf cloaks, but all to a man had helmeted his head and face with a stag skull. They had switched out their bone axes as well. Each one was wielding a punch-dagger of stag horn in both fists, and had wrapped their arms in gauntlets bristling with direwolf fangs. In the light of the flames they looked like a legion of Karni straight from the depths of Stygis. They attacked in one giant wave, counting on their sheer numbers to make it past the dragons' tails. Black and Green were in a frenzy by this point and moving as a team, pulping the wardens' guts and splintering their bones with every whipping hit. But some wardens got through. And when they did, they went to work with those stag horn daggers. They focused on the wounds the direwolves had made, savagely punching over and over to pierce through the dragons' hide and hit something vital. Both dragons were bleeding heavily now, chomping and slashing away at their enemies. The combatants were soaked with blood; their own and their foes'. The ground was saturated with it."

Dara could feel the adrenaline radiating off Jeckel's audience. Her own adrenaline was up too, mostly because of that hooded weirdo who was now standing stock still as Jeckel spoke. His shield was in front of him, his hands resting on top and his feet spread on either side like he was posing for a painting. All he needed was a little gust of wind to flutter his cloak around and complete the tableau.

She grabbed a bouquet of mugs in each hand and moved quickly around the bar, biceps bulging. It had been years since she had to smash a mug of ale on someone's head and normally she let Stega handle this kind of stuff, but Hooded Mystery had really put her off and she figured she could make up for lost time by pulverizing his mug with a dozen of hers if he got violent.

She looked over at Stega, who was was a curly hair away from grabbing the guy by his neck and throwing him out headfirst. The thing was, a guy dressed like this one and carrying legitimate weapons of war and not cheap Drakevale replicas might take that personally. Might, in fact, decide his honor's been besmirched and demand restitution. That was trouble no one needed. Anyway, the bailiff wasn't gonna buy "He was creepy" as a reason for violence. This was a mostly respectable tavern, not some Gungstow dive. Stega shifted his eyes toward hers, and an understanding jumped the gap between them. They would just have to wait.

"It looked like that was it for the dragons," Jeckel said, his voice low and gritty. His listeners leaned in to catch his words. Even Hooded Mystery craned his neck forward. "Black was near death, his body immobile and sunk into the muck of the battleground. Green had lost an eye, and she was weakening from the dozens of wounds inflicted on her. There was only one thing left. They had no ignition, the stones they swallow to give them fire were vaporized when they torched the direwolves. But they could still breathe that reeking gas of theirs. And the forest around them was ablaze. Dragons may be wicked, but they're not stupid. Both Green and Black filled themselves up and spewed that gas out, Black dying as he did so. And when that dragonbreath touched the flames..." Jeckel filled his lungs up slowly, chest and belly expanding. He held it at the top for a melting, stretching second, then exhaled in a loud hiss and slammed his mug down on the table.

The bang reverberated on the wood, rattling the drinkware and startling the listeners. The buxom ash-haired woman leapt back, nearly running into Dara and knocking all those mugs out of her hands. She dodged out of the woman's path like a pugilist and managed to keep most of the ale in its containers. Still got it, she thought.

Jeckel's stunt did what it was meant to, popping the tension like a soap bubble. He waited for the first sound of relieved laughter, then continued. "The explosion blew the wardens away and took out the surrounding trees, leaving a scorched ring at least 10 meters 'round. There was nothing left of those wardens except ash and charred bones. The dragons had won the forest. But at a cost. Black was stone dead, and Green was so injured that she couldn't do anything except slink her way back into the depths of the forest and hope she survived. What about those drinks?"

The crowd turned its attention to Dara. Even the hooded man, who hadn't even flinched when Jeckel brought his mug down, looked at her like, "I sure could use some refreshment. Being menacingly mysterious is thirsty work." Dara began passing out the mugs, dwindling her improvised weapons supply little by little.

Jeckel grabbed his new mug and took a hefty swig. "Ahhh, that hits the spot," he said. Then he looked up at the crowd like he had forgotten they were there. That's when the unthinkable happened. Hooded Mystery spoke.

"So we have one dead dragon and one dragon so wounded that it had to crawl away from the battle, and THIS is the dragon that's terrorizing the Valley?"

"I'm getting to that, friend." Jeckel said. His eyes had gone hard and his voice steely. Stega and Dara had another one of those pseudo-psychic thought volleys between them: What the shit was that?

"Green's wings were too damaged to fly her, but like dragons do, she quickly adapted to her new situation. Her scales became mottled with shades of black, brown, and grey, making her invisible to her prey. Her fire was gone, so she learned to eat raw meat. Just like the direwolves. Now she stalks the forest like a ghost, appearing from nowhere and killing whatever she can. No roads can go through. No travelers. Even the wardens left supply trains alone, mostly. But not Green. She's an assassin now. A silent killer. But sometimes she still speaks. When dusk falls on the forest and the mists cover the treetops, you can hear her call; a deep roar like an underground river."

The tavern grew still and silent, everyone fearfully hopeful that the dragon would call out. The lowering sun shone redly through the small windows as night encroached on the Valley. Evening mist rose and hung like a phantom shroud over the forest; that dragon-haunted forest with its eaves so uncomfortably close to the Fire and Wing.

Then Jeckel belched; a long, rich, baritone belch that stretched and stretched; a belch that held its note as if played by a professional troubador. A foamy, earthy stench followed it. Some of the listeners clamped their hands to their noses. The buxom ashen haired woman looked at him with an odd mix of disgust, admiration, and an obvious dollop of lechery. The black-cloaked man, meanwhile, gave Jeckel a lowering stare. Jeckel grinned.

"Figured I'd try to call her first," he said.

The room erupted with a bristly mix of jeers and laughter. The tavern's volume rose as the listeners broke off from Jeckel's table in little clumps to talk, drink, and smoke amongst themselves. Hooded Mystery marched toward Jeckel, looming over him.

"Jeckel. Still making an ass of yourself, I see," he said, sitting down directly across from Jeckel. He thumped his shield onto the tabletop between them.

"And you're still all the way up your own," Jeckel retorted. "There aren't any nobles around here to impress with your mystery man act. What are you doing so far away from your feather beds and dalliances with Baroness What's-Her-Name?"

Dara stepped to the table with another bouquet of mugs, sitting one in front of Hooded Mystery and sliding another to the empty space on his right. Stega appeared in the space as if by magic, like he had conjured himself out of thin air. "Did I just hear right?" she asked. "You know a Baroness? Not the sort of traveler we normally get around here."

"He's not the sort you want around here," Jeckel said.

The black-cloaked man pushed his hood back, revealing a thin, sardonic face under a tangle of brown hair going to silver. His heavy-lidded eyes glinted greenly, shifting here and there as if taking note of everything at once.

"I at least remember my manners. Allow me to introduce myself, since Jeckel seems incapable. I am Garrett Avalin, in service to Lord Tullis. And you," he said, turning his eyes to Dara, "must be the Dragonslayer herself. An honor."

Dara extended her scarred right hand. Garrett stood and kissed it, eyes still focused on her. In her experience fighting men almost never flinched away from the marks of battle. Fakers usually did. His weapon definitely wasn't for show, then.

"Welcome to my house, Sir Garrett Avalin. I extend warmth and ask only that you return your own."

"I accept and so do," Garrett responded formally. He took a sip of his ale. "This is delicious. Do you brew it yourself?"

"Thank you, I do. I learned the art years ago, when I retired from adventuring."

Garrett turned his gaze to the broadly built man on his right. "Garrett Avalin. I would clasp your arm, but I feel like we've grown so close lately that perhaps I should embrace you instead."

Stega cracked a cool smile at the remark. "Stega. Forgive me that I offer you neither clasp nor embrace. Too many disagreeable people have tried to knife me with those gestures."

"Sounds like you need to hang around less disagreeable people," Garrett said, cutting his eyes to Jeckel.

There was an awkward silence. Dara knew Jeckel was waiting on her to break it, but she let it hang just for a second or two longer, to see if Garrett would get antsy. He stayed composed, sipping his ale and letting his eyes meander around the tavern.

"Let's just lay them down," she finally said. "You and Jeckel obviously know each other, but don't seem friendly."

"No," said Garrett. "We're not friends. More like colleagues, right, Jeckel?"

"We were colleagues, but I believe I made myself clear when I said I was done."

"You don't get to decide that."

Dara cleared her throat. "So you're here officially?"

"Yes. And I need information. Officially. That story about the dragons, how much of it was true?"

Jeckel swirled his ale around in his mug. "Most of it," he said. "That bit about the direwolves and wardens attacking all at once probably isn't. There never was enough of 'em to form an army like that. But there was a battle of some kind, and Black was killed. That's certain. A band of huntsmen and town guards went into the woods a few days after the explosion, and found most of Black's rotting carcass alongside a handful of crisped direwolves and wardens. Green wasn't there, but a trail was gouged out toward the deep woods. Like something big had dragged itself away."

"Then how do you know Green isn't dead as well?" asked Garrett. "A dragon with no fire, that hunts like one of those big cats from Azul? Sounds unlikely."

Jeckel started to speak, but Dara held up her hand. "Unlikely as it sounds, it's true. When I first got here years back and opened my place up, the roads through the forest were still accessible. Occasionally someone would disappear, but forests being forests...then more people started disappearing. Like full caravans. Sometimes survivors would be brought into town, although most didn't keep surviving for long. The ones who could talk said they were attacked by a dragon that could disappear into the trees like a spirit. And every one had wounds that were too big for anything other than a dragon. I must've been approached a dozen times to mount up and hunt the damn thing."

"And you never did," Garrett said. "I don't blame you. Slaying only one seems to have given you a comfortable enough life."

Stega's jaw muscle jumped. He folded his hands in his lap to keep them from finding the back of Garrett's head and slamming his face into the table. Dara quirked her mouth, thinking on how to take the comment. She decided to riposte.

"I forget, Sir Garrett, have you ever fought a dragon? I don't recall your name in any of the songs or story scrolls. Surely you haven't waited until now to try your hand, have you? Most of the vicious ones are dead, and warriors much younger than you, at the peak of their strength, have tried against Green and failed."

Garrett smiled thinly. "Older doesn't always mean weaker, my good miss. You agree, yes?"

"Sure, of course. But age brings perspective. For instance, the perspective of never sharing a featherbed with a Baroness ever again. Or even having intact-" she gestured at his groin. "-parts."

Garrett's face reddened. "That's unca-"

"Garrett's no warrior," Jeckel interrupted. "Not in that way, at least." He looked at Garrett. "If you're asking if the Valley still has a dragon, yes. If you're asking if it's too dangerous to open up the roads to Waymeet, also yes. Dara's word should be enough for you to take back to Tullis, if you two no longer trust mine."

"As you say," Garrett answered. "The Dragonslayer's conclusion on Green is taken as accurate. But Lord Tullis didn't send me to investigate roads. Are you certain that Black was killed? Are there proofs? The heart? A horn?

"There's a piece of hide hanging behind a steelpane frame on the square," Dara said. "It was cut from Black's carcass."

Garrett rubbed his forehead, perplexed. "I'm sure Black's skeleton is still in that clearing," Jeckel said. "If you're so keen on proofs beyond what we've given you, I suggest you take your horse and your funny shield and head in there to see for yourself. It's hard to miss."

"Why are you so interested in a dead dragon?" Dara asked.

Garrett steepled his fingers and looked at Dara and Jeckel, considering if he should speak further.

"Sir Garrett," said Dara, "I have no intention of getting myself mixed up in your doings. I'm 20 years past all that and, as you pointed out, comfortable. I can't speak for the others here, but my only concern is the safety of me and mine. What I'm saying is, I don't spread rumors or talk idly about matters of State. But if we're all in danger, I ask that you please tell us."

Jeckel nodded in agreement. "I'm a storyteller, Garrett. Not a fink. That hasn't changed. Whatever you say at this table remains in confidence."

Garrett shifted his eyes to Stega. "People, not beasts, are my purview," he said. "The two I care about most are sitting here with me, so I'm with them. What you say stays between us."

"Very well," Garrett said. He ran his hands through his hair to tame it, but instead only succeeded in further tangling it. "Three days ago, a town northeast of here was attacked. It was burned to the ground. All of it. Reports are that a large black dragon flew down during a storm and set the town alight."

The table was silent. Since Black of the Valley had been killed, no one had heard of any black dragons still roaming the world. Dragons of any color were rare enough, but Black of the Valley was, as far as everyone knew, the last of his kind.

Jeckel scratched the side of his nose. "Is it possible," he said, "that it was something like a Storm Wraith, and lightning just happened to strike right as it appeared?"

"If it were one house, maybe," Garrett said. "But this was the whole town. And it wasn't a bunch citizens scared out of their wits by a Wraith's illusion making these reports, Jeckel. It was a group of guards. Professional men. There's a dragon in the skies again. A black one, apparently."

Garrett finished his ale. "I thank you for your hospitality, my good miss. And your ale as well. But now I have to take my funny shield to the clearing and see this skeleton for myself." He cracked a lopsided grin at Jeckel. "You know Tullis. He won't be satisfied with anything less."

"Your obeisance to Tullis will be the death of you," said Jeckel. "But still, fortune on your course." He raised his mug and swallowed the last of his ale in one gulp, then stood. "If you'll excuse me, nature calls."

He strode away, stopping briefly at the bar to goose the Buxom ashen haired woman who had been leaning there making eyes at him. Garrett watched him as he went. "I don't know what you know about him, but he's not who he seems."

"None of us are," said Dara.

Garrett looked at her for a long moment. Her hair was grey, duller than Garrett's silvery bird's nest. She had it tied back smoothly and tightly over her scalp like a coif of unpolished steel. The tired slump of middle age either hadn't found her yet or was too scared to show. She couldn't hide her brawny arms and shoulders, even under her simple ale wife clothes. He had noticed those weapons of hers hanging above the bar, still sharp despite the years. He knew without asking that she herself kept their edges keen. His eyes met hers, and he could see embers of the old battle light still hiding behind them, burning low but burning nonetheless.

"You speak true." He touched his brow with his fingertips in a conciliatory gesture. "Thank you for your hospitality and your excellent ale." He stood, securing his shield and sword. "Good fortune."

"And you, Sir Garrett. Open roads."

Garrett turned and walked to the door of the tavern. As he opened it, a blue flash silhouetted him and a rumble of thunder followed close behind. He got one boot over the threshold before a roiling fireball came through the open door, blasting both it and him to pieces. The force of the blast launched his shield from his disintegrating body like a ballista. It caught the buxom ashen haired woman in the throat as she was turning to see what had happened, beheading her and driving itself in the wall behind the bar. The woman didn't realize she was dead, and her body took two twitching steps toward the destroyed doorway before collapsing.

Another fireball blasted a hole through the roof. This one caught a panicked knot of patrons who were scrambling to find a way out, fusing them into a screeching tangle as the fire melted their skin.

Dara and Stega both leapt over the oak bar. Dara was screaming at the survivors to follow. The bar offered some protection, but that wouldn't last long. The cellar door was just a few steps away, but that old fear she was no longer accustomed to had blossomed in her belly and its weight rooted her feet to the floor. She didn't know where Jeckel was, but she hoped he had been quick enough to cover or hide.

Another blast of fire, this one annihilating most of the roof and splashing over the back edge of the bar. The survivors ducked, but one man wasn't quite quick enough. His head went up like a wick. He tried to scream, but the fire stole his oxygen. Stega pulled his club and swung at the man's head with all of his strength. The sound was like hitting a burned log with a fireplace poker. The man dropped, his suffering over.

Dara peeked over the bar through the gaping hole that had once been her ceiling, the fear coalescing and becoming sharp. In the night sky above, dark, thick clouds eclipsed the stars in a thundering rush. And weaving in and out of those clouds, wreathed in lightning, eyes and distended jaw glowing with killing fire, the colossal winged shape of a dragon raced blackly through the storm.