The Last Dragon of Zalar

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. The Valley was once home to my ancestors. You don’t believe me? I tell ye - it’s true! Not a dragon or goblin seen for miles. My people were not relegated to the Eastlands, we were everywhere! We lived deep in the Valley, as far as Xhengrel. My great-grandfather, he told me himself. Or was it my great-grandmother? It’s true, the Valley was home to those who now call themselves Zalarans, and it held the greatest trade route this land has ever seen. Wait, perhaps - was it my great Uncle? Yes - great Uncle! What was I saying? Oh - pardon me, madam.”

Performing his best impression of a far more sober gentleman, the weather-beaten Brunor Gaelish took a deep bow, spilling beer on his doublet. It soaked through his shirt and the boiled leather beneath. An exasperated barmaid shuffled passed him, shaking her head.

The barmaid was not the only unwilling audience to Brunor’s rambling. A table of drunk cowboys played cards nearby, and a group of merchants were trying to do business over Brunor’s bloviating rant.

Corbin, the bartender, had an expectant smile on his face as he dried a glass, and Brunor continued. His voice grew louder over the thunder outside, “I tell you mates, if one of those bastard dragons tried flapping its filthy wings anywhere near Hembrook…suffice to say, you’re lucky you have me as yer Sheriff - the mighty Paladin of Zalar, Sir Brunor Gaelish!”

The end of his oft-repeated sentence was spoken in unison by half the tavern. The drunk and despondent Brunor slumped down to his chair. With a distant stare he muttered, “...perhaps then I may die with honor, like my brothers before me.”

Staring at him from across the table sat a wide-eyed man-at-arms. He was a dwarf from Cambir, assigned to replace Brunor’s last man-at-arms, who had met an unfortunate fate. To Brunor, they all looked the same. The same fearful face with the same dumb expression, all amounted to a naive, inexperienced, and soon-to-be dead kid who should have known better.

Brunor took a swig to finish off the last of his ale and gestured to his dwarf footman to get him another. The young dwarf made haste to the bar. Brunor belched loudly and looked around the tavern. The Gilded Minstrel had even fewer patrons than the night before. Ever since the rumors of dragons coming west of the Divide, merchants, trade caravans, and adventurers were few and far between. Of course, no one had actually seen a dragon. But the fear alone was enough to steer clear of their town, which was so close to the Valley.

Hembrook was a small town in East Xhengrel, nestled in a lush prairie just west of the Valley that led to the Eastlands. Although tamer than some parts of the Xhengrel Confederacy, this region attracted the typical rabble rousers, thieves, and cutthroats. Less now that caravans had been diverted southward to avoid the Valley.

As Brunor surveyed the tavern, he saw mostly familiar faces, drinking and laughing without a care. That was, until a strange figure caught his notice. They were seated at a small table near the back of the room, with no candle burning on it. They were cloaked, silently smoking a pipe.

“Here you go, Sheriff!” The dwarf interrupted his thoughts. His silver armor was polished, with not a scratch on it, the Hembrook sigil gleaming on his breastplate. Brunor grunted in response and took a careful sip of beer, pondering the mysterious, yet oddly familiar cloaked figure at the back of the bar.

Brunor’s eyes flitted around the tavern to Olhena, the pretty barmaid, bustling from table to table, and Corbin, diligently pouring spirits. He looked up to the second floor, above the fireplace, and saw two closed doors facing him. There were only two rooms available to rent at this tavern. They were filthy and squalid. Brunor ended up passing out in one or the other more times than he liked to admit. His eyes kept flicking back to the figure in the dark. He felt they were watching him.

Or was he just drunk again? Yes, he was.

The dwarf looked around cautiously, “Everything alright, sir?”

“Yes, you big-headed fool, stop spinning around like an idiot,” Brunor scolded.

The dwarf, dejected, looked down at his beer. There was a pause before he continued,

“My father visited the Eastlands when he was a young man. He spoke of Zalar when I was a child. He said it was the most beautiful city he had ever seen. Is it true? Were you really a Paladin of Zalar?“

“What’s your name, son?” Brunor asked.

“It’s Hemel, sir,” replied the dwarf.

“Hemel, shut your mouth and loosen your scabbard,” Brunor commanded in a serious tone.

“Sir?” Hemel was perplexed.

“Don’t look up or react to what I am about to say. There’s someone watching me, at the small table over my right shoulder. Do not look. They are armed. A short bow, I think perhaps a blade to match, not quite sure. Something familiar about them, though I can’t quite make it out.”

The deputy’s breath quickened and sweat broke out on his forehead. Suddenly, a blast of thunder shook the small building and Hemel nearly jumped out of his chair. A rush of rain slammed the tavern’s roof.

“Steady, Hemel. Take a breath and follow my lead,” Brunor said. “I want you to walk like you are going to the privy outside. Wait for my signal outside the door.” Hemel rose to his feet, but as he did, the doors to the Gilded Minstrel burst open.

Three cloaked figures and an enormous orc entered, with a burst of rain and a flash of lightning. Thunder cracked before the door swung shut, and one by one they walked to the bar. The tallest of the cloaked figures leaned in and spoke with Corbin. Brunor was too far away to hear. Upon seeing the orc, the bar patrons went quiet for a moment, taking in the imposing presence of the creature. Thunder shattered the silence, and they returned to their drinking.

“Sit down,” Brunor directed Hemel, as he eyed the newcomers.

The orc turned to survey the tavern. He was nearly 8 feet tall and as wide as an ox. He was a bald, green-skinned mammoth with a braided black beard. Silver earrings glinted in his pointed ears and he carried a vicious double-sided axe across his back. He wore a traditional Orcish loincloth but no markings indicating his clan. Brunor was a large man and very strong. This creature, however, was a goliath.

The cloaked figure whispering to Corbin removed his wet hood. Brunor got a good look at him. He was a tall lanky young man, with tousled auburn hair. Clean shaven and carried himself with the quiet confidence of an experienced fighter, a swagger all too familiar to Brunor. He had no doubt a sword or hand crossbow was hidden on this person.

The other two cloaked figures kept their hoods up to conceal their faces but one was half the size of the other. They moved silently to a table next to the fire. Two drunks saw them approach and hurried to the back next to Brunor’s mystery man in black, who was now gone as mysteriously as he had arrived. Damn, Brunor thought. He’d lost him.

The two who arrived near the large fire removed their cloaks to dry them. The taller of the two was a ebony-skinned woman with a poorly concealed scimitar poking out of her waistband. She had an athletic stance and legs thick with muscle. She was beautiful save for a deep scar across her face, running down to her neck. The scar depressed her face and was speckled with white. Bone and healed cartilage, Brunor thought. He’d seen similar wounds in his time. The Gods had spared this one, he thought.

The deep scar caused most patrons to avert their eyes. All except Olhena who, like Brunor, never flinched. She set several tankards of ale down on the group’s table and smiled as the tall man handed her a gold coin and pressed it teasingly into her palm. She put on a shy giggle, turned, and the smile disappeared immediately. She bit the gold, grinned, and hurried to her other tables. Brunor smiled.

A halfling in brown leather doffed his brown cloak last and tried to reach the hook on the wall but could not. No weapon was in sight on the halfling but Brunor noticed a peculiar bend in the halfling’s left arm. A concealed dagger. In jarring contrast to the halfling, the massive orc lumbered over and plucked the small cloak like a wet tissue, hooking it above the fireplace.

Sheriffs of Xhengrel do not require evidence to act as judge, jury and executioner, but Brunor was an Eastlander. A Paladin of Zalar. And despite his drunkenness he still had honor enough to assume the innocence of anyone he came across no matter how suspicious they appeared. These were not holy clerics for the Lord of Light, nor were they merchants. Well, merchants of death, perhaps, he thought darkly.

“Find out where they are from and their purpose in Hembrook,” Brunor commanded.

“Aye, sir,” Hemel said. He clomped to the table in his heavy armor. The tall man spoke for the group again, still sitting as Hemel warmed his hands near the fire.

As Hemel spoke with the man, Brunor walked to the bar.

“Whiskey,” Brunor said without looking up.

“Excuse me your lordship, and pardon me saying this, but are you going to pay your fucking tab anytime soon? Or am I better off pouring this whiskey down the privy?” Corbin demanded.

“Talk to the Townspeaker, he pays me,” Brunor muttered as if he had rehearsed this

“No, he pays me directly now,” Corbin said, pouring the whiskey. “There goes your rent, Sheriff,”

“No, there goes Hemel’s rent,” Brunor laughed, inspecting the scene.

The dwarf looked uncomfortable speaking with the lanky, curly-haired man near the fire. He was nodding and shifting his weight back and forth like a nervous child.

“Who are they?” Brunor asked.

“They are paying customers, unlike some Holy Paladins I know.” Corbin said sarcastically. “Last I checked, it’s no crime to drink whiskey,” Corbin added.

Brunor passed a silver piece to the bartender.

“Oh! What an honor. Brunor Gaelish paying for something! Sound the Trumpets of Lathander, Lord of Light! You got the twenty more you owe me?” Corbin could see Brunor was not paying much attention, his eyes scanning the newcomers. Corbin leaned over.

“The lad said they’re Cranock folk. Marshalls or some such, looking for a couple who kidnapped a girl from Cerilia, down south. Said they came up Grel River, and should have landed yesterday. Asked me if I’d seen ‘em. Middle-aged man and woman, black hair, beard and a young girl, blonde with blue eyes. Strange, coming all the way from Cranock. I’d be a donkey’s uncle if they are law. Bounty hunters, more like.”

“Cranock? That far north, eh?” Brunor wondered, half to himself.

“No accent, so I think it’s smoke, but I’d let it go, Brunor. I don’t want any trouble, I mean it. You already owe me for the upstairs window, ‘ya bastard!”

Brunor shook his head, half-listening, “Who was the shadow in the back with the pipe? The one looked like a ranger?”

“Didn’t see him come in.”

“Who’s upstairs?”

“Our own gilded minstrel sleeping off a hangover.” Corbin said with an eye roll.

“Aye, I heard he was up to no good last night. And the second room?” Corbin shook his head again and poured another shot.

“Empty,” Corbin said. Brunor reached for the glass as Corbin drank it himself.

“Could our shadow be up there?” Brunor looked at Corbin frowning,

“Locked up,” replied Corbin

“Same type of lock as the back door?” Brunor grinned.

“What are you talking about?” Corbin asked, confused.

“The mystery man is upstairs in two, I guarantee it, you got a squatter who’s armed and dangerous, you fat bastard, but I’ll be right back to handle it. I need to introduce myself to my new friends.”

“Brunor, dammit! I don’t want trouble!” hissed Corbin.

Brunor walked up to the table of bounty hunters, next to a nervous looking Hemel. Rain continued to batter the outside of the tavern.

“Greetings, adventurers! Welcome to Hembrook. I am Brunor Gaelish, the Sheriff in these parts. I see you have met my deputy, Hemel. So, what brings you to Hembrook?”

The tall, curly-haired man sat with an ale in his hand and made no reply. He was wearing a dark red doublet under his black cloak. His dark hazel eyes peered through Brunor. Now that he was closer, Brunor saw the man was even younger than he thought, and quite handsome. The scarred woman sat so close to the man, she was almost touching him. The halfling and orc sat opposite around the large table, focused on drinking.

Several large tankards were already downed, and Olhena arrived with more for the table. Her smile reappeared and she made a show of bending over so the men could stare down her blouse as she set out fresh drinks. The squinty halfling leered greedily at Olhena’s chest and when she left with a handful of silver, he turned and whispered something into the orc’s ear. He boomed with laughter.

Hemel interrupted the awkward silence.

“These travelers are from Cranock, Sheriff, North Xhengrel. Deputized marshalls come to investigate some outlaws on the run. Two sorcerers from Cerilia kidnapped a poor girl after murdering her family and the Abjurers who were there to stop them. Took the Grel River north to Xhengrel, losing the Cerilian Knights on the river heading north. Must have used some black magic to escape. They think they are heading toward the Valley.”

As Hemel prattled on, Brunor’s eyes never left the young man. The man spit into the fire and looked back at Brunor coolly. Brunor could feel the whiskey inside him burning.

“Why North? Harder to go upstream, no?” pondered Brunor, “They could have easily double-backed south, past Cerilia. Or they could have gone west to Veritus where they could practice their black magic in peace, no?”

The man did not reply.

“Well, maybe they couldn’t,” Started Hemel, but Brunor cut in.

“Shut up Hemel.” Brunor said never taking his eyes off the curly-haired rogue.

“I asked you,” he said.

The man turned to look at his scarred mistress next to him. She gave him the briefest of looks, in a language only they understood. One that was shared between lovers. A language Brunor had not shared with someone for many, many years.

The man looked tiredly back at Brunor. His voice was flat. “They have a girl with them. 16 or 17 years of age, blonde, blue eyes. Have you seen her?”

A chorus of curses and shouts arose from the cowboys next to them. Someone had just lost a hefty purse. The halfling muttered something to the orc and they chuckled.

“I have not seen anyone in Hembrook that matches this description,” Brunor did his best to sound authoritative but slurred and stumbled over his words. The air was humid and heavy. The fire burned hot and Brunor was sweating profusely.

“Then fuck off, old man,” the man said with a polite smile and turned back to his lover.

Brunor leaned forward on the table, “Excuse me, boy? I’m trying to help you on your quest. I’m also Sheriff of this town, so have some respect and answer my questions. You’re Cranock, eh? You traveled 500 miles south to find a couple of magi? Sorry, but that sounds like a load of horse shit. You look closer to a group of brigands than law, so if you are marshals, I'm a donkey’s uncle.”

“Well, our story checks out then doesn’t it?” the halfling cracked. Half the tavern erupted in raucous laughter.

The brown-haired man turned back to Brunor with a smile, “Sorry, sir donkey, did we break some local law I’m not aware of?”

“No,” Brunor said through gritted teeth, his face flushed red.

“Just trying to help some fellow lawmen.” Brunor turned and walked back to his table with Hemel in tow as laughter followed them. He sat down facing the halfling’s back.

“You did a piss-poor job there, Hemel. Big-headed fool, get me another drink.” Hemel, red in the face and without a response, got up and walked to the bar.

As he did, Brunor saw the halfling’s arm reaching back behind him. At first it looked as if the little man was stretching. He reached his arm behind a cowboy sitting a little too close to their table. In a flash, he saw a pouch in the halfling’s hand, which quickly disappeared from Brunor’s view. He got up, loosened his scabbard and marched over to the table.

“Excuse me, “ Brunor said as he came up behind the halfling. The dark woman with the scar to his right, and the man across the table looked up at the Sheriff.

“You again.” The curly-haired man said with an eye roll.

“Put it back,” Brunor said, giving the halfling a threatening look. The man looked around confused. His arms up.

“I surrender donkey, but I have no clue what you mean,” The others laughed.

“The purse, put it back,” The cowboys stopped playing cards and watched. Others in the bar took notice as well.

“Do we have a problem?” The messy haired man asked, rising from the table.

“We do have a problem,” replied Brunor. “Your tiny friend here just copped a pouch from this man here,” He gestured to the cowboy nearest to the halfling.

The cowboy reached for his pouch, found it, confused, opened it and felt around inside. He shrugged showing Brunor it was all there.

The halfling said with dramatic flair, “I confess Sheriff! I confess that you look like a donkey’s uncle and smell like one too, ha ha!” The group was laughing again except for the tall man in black and red who just smiled looking at Brunor’s red face. The orc howled with laughter.

Brunor looked back at Hemel at the bar, gave a curt nod and reached over to the cowboys pouch, grabbed a piece of copper and broke it in two with his thumb and forefinger. The brittle fool’s gold crumbled to dust and floated to the ground.

There was a pause as everyone stopped laughing in an instant. A blast of thunder shook the tavern and all hell broke loose.

“Hemel, to arms!” Brunor shouted and had his long sword out in a flash. The halfling disappeared under the table faster than lightning and the tall curly haired man launched himself over the table at Brunor.

The cocky rogue had a dagger in his right hand and came at the old man fast, as Brunor expected.

Brunor turned, dodging the thrusting dagger and cracked the man in the jaw with his huge fist. He stumbled and Brunor hooked the daggered arm under his, and twisted it backwards with a loud crack. The man let out a scream of pain as Brunor brought the hilt of his sword down on the boy's face with a crunch. He crumpled him like a sack of potatoes.

The orc was on Brunor in a flash, a cruel-looking dagger swiping at him left and then right. He slashed Brunor’s chest, opening his double and cutting the leather beneath. Brunor quickly stepped back as lightning flashed outside and thunder erupted again.

The cowboys gathered up their coins and scrambled toward the entrance as quickly as possible with the other tavern patrons close behind. Hemel tried pushing past the mob but was knocked over in the rush.

Brunor stumbled back as the massive orc continued his attack. The black woman ran to her lover on the ground, checking his injuries. As she did, she unsheathed an ugly black blade from a holster at her back.

The orc’s attacks were so heavy, Brunor had to two-hand his long sword to parry the blows. The orc was powerful, but predictable. Brunor learned his dance quickly, finding opportunities to counter attack. The orc went for another swipe with his dagger at Brunor’s right flank. As Brunor parried, the orc’s left hand threw a chair at Brunor’s head.

The chair hit Brunor hard, and he fell onto his back, the sword clattering to the ground. The orc charged with the dagger but Brunor brought the chair up just in time. The blade went straight through but was twisted out of the orc’s hand in one motion.

The orc reached behind him and brought his massive axe down on Brunor in one fell swoop. He rolled out of the way picking up his sword. The orc’s axe embedded into the wood floor. As the orc struggled to pry it out, Brunor roared and charged the massive creature. He sent the giant orc careening into the back wall, his head smacking the hardwood with a thud, splintering tables and chairs beneath it.

Before Brunor could think, instinct took over again and he put up his sword in time to meet the jagged scimitar wielded by the scarred woman. Her speed was astonishing. She brought the blade down again and again, changing positions, poise, and dancing speed with effortless fluidity. It took everything he had to keep meeting her blade with his.

She was water, and he was quickly drowning.

Suddenly, Brunor was young again, battling the deadly Knights of RavenWood deep in the heart of Eastlands, all in the name of the Holy City of Zalar. Their speed, like hers, was unfathomably fast.

But here, he was no hero. He had no holy hammer imbued with deep magic from the Gods. He had a cheap long sword given to him by a half-blind townspeaker.

The woman brought the scimitar down again, catching Brunor’s left shoulder. His blood shone bright on her black blade and his daydreaming was done. He brought his long sword up against her swift blade. He scrambled backward, his feet working tireslessing to parry, displace, and parry again. He heard the sound of Hemel, breathless and cursing, but could not see what was happening.

He heard a blood curdling scream coming from Hemel and his eyes moved to the sound. He saw Hemel grappling with the halfling on the floor. That’s all she needed. He drifted too far right and she went left. She brought the scimitar down and then up in a deadly whirlwind, cutting deep through his shredded doublet and leather beneath.

Without the armor his insides would have decorated the floor of the tavern. Even so, she missed a killing blow. Was she toying with him for sport or had she more to learn about the art of death?

He was back in RavenWood. Wounded and bleeding, smashing his way through the overwhelming enemy force. He was as good as dead until he was saved by his fellow Paladins. He had protection granted by the Gods then. There were no Gods, he thought. No heroes to the rescue.

Blood swelled through his leather armor and pain rushed to his chest. Another slash like lightning sent him to the floor in agony. Blood fell onto the floor. As she approached him he looked to his left to see Hemel on the ground, the halfling on his back with a dagger in it.

The halfling pulled out the dagger from Hemels back, and set to throw it at Brunor’s head when a long dark arrow pinned the small man’s hand to the wooden bar. The halfling cried out in pain.

The hooded figure who Brunor had seen lurking in the shadows of the tavern smoking a pipe was now standing above them on the small second floor landing. In an instant he sent an arrow at the scarred woman, who leapt backwards. The brown haired man with the broken arm stood up shakily and shouted “Tzara! Let’s go, come on!”. He retreated out the backdoor into the storm.

The ranger flew over the railing, sending an arrow flying at Tzara, catching her in the shoulder. He landed on a table. She dashed toward him swinging at his legs, despite the fresh arrow sticking out from her shoulder. He jumped over her, twisting in the air and unsheathing a slender blade. As he came down on her they met with blades singing, and their dance of death began.

Brunor wobbled and slowly picked up his long sword. He hobbled to assist this mysterious fighter. Something in the corner of his eye to the right... Too late. The orc was barreling toward him. He put up his sword at the last second but it did little good. He was sent flying, hitting the back of the bar so violently shelves of whiskey, ale and mead exploded and rained down upon his bloody body. Dazed, he looked up to see the terrified faces of Corbin and Olhena huddled behind the bar. Corbin’s callous hand gripped a heavy crossbow, tight.

“All under control,” Brunor gasped, while glass, blood and whiskey rained down on him. He slowly got up, bleeding profusely, peering over the bar. The ranger and Tzara parried back and forth, dancing and blocking and attacking and counter attacking with a speed that made him dizzy. The orc stood looking down at Brunor’s long sword, impaled in his side.

The ranger finally got in a good hit and blood sprayed out of Tzara’s right shoulder. She screamed a retreat in a thieves’ cant Brunor recognized from a previous life and fled out the backdoor.

The bleeding orc stumbled after her, retching Brunor’s long sword out of his side and throwing it to the ground. The ranger drew an arrow and fired, striking the orc in the back. As he drew another the halfling freed his hand from the arrow that pinned him. He reached for his throwing dagger, eyeing the ranger’s back eagerly, but Corbin’s heavy crossbow came down onto his small head with a thunk and he was out cold.

Brunor, with raised eyebrows, gave an approving smile to the frightened Corbin who looked at his crossbow in amazement.

Suddenly, all was quiet. The patter of the rain was softer now. The fire crackled as it died.

The ranger removed his hood, slung the bow back over his shoulder and took out his pipe. He was a half-orc who wore no shoes. As he turned his face to Brunor, he smiled. “Just like old times, my friend,” he said with a nod.

“Odanak Crowfoot,” Brunor whispered, before falling back to the floor, unconscious.

—

A terrible burning in his chest woke Brunor not long after the melee. It was still dark. Odanak and Olhena sat on either side of him. He was on a bed in one of the moldy upstairs bedrooms. It smelled like piss and stale beer. Alcohol was poured a second time on his chest and Brunor gritted his teeth. Odanak handed Olhena a salve and told her to place it deep in the wounds.

Odanak reached into his bag and produced a crimson potion. He smiled and said, “A gift from our small friend.” He handed Brunor the healing bottle. As he downed the potion, his mind cleared, and the pain and bleeding subsided. Gods bless the power of science, thought Brunor. He moved to sit up and Olhena cursed and told him to stay still. Brunor obeyed.

“What are you doing here, Odie?” Brunor asked, fatigued.

“Saving your life to start,“ The half-orc shot back in undercommon.

“Hemel?”

“We don’t know, “ Olhena said hesitantly, “Corbin gave him something and took off to Lady Graelle’s with his body. Hopefully she can help...”

“Why are you in Hembrook?” Brunor asked again, turning to the ranger.

“Job offer. A big one. One that pays so well you may no longer need to be a lawman. And seeing as you owe me a favor now, I think you should accept.”

“What’s the job?”

“Traversing the Valley of the Dragon.” Odanak said and stood up, pointing across the room.

Behind Odanak, in the corner of the small room, sat a man with dark eyes and a black beard, next to two women. One was older, red-haired and quite beautiful. The other was young, perhaps a teenager. Her golden hair gleamed as she fixed her sapphire eyes expectantly upon Brunor.