The Last War of Dragons

“There weren’t always Dragons in the Valley.”

A spectacular, spectral Dragon dove overhead and roared deafeningly, brilliant glittering flames shot from its mouth to rousing delights of the annual Heroes’ Festival far below it. Enari the Mage clasped his hands together with anticipation, a sea of tiny eyes affixed upon luminescent projections he puppeted in a graceful dance across dark gathered clouds of the distant storm.

A modest smattering of villagers made their way towards the storyteller’s domain, a rickety, semi-circle amphitheater at the very edge of the marketplace, intently focused on the tale being unraveled before them. The flames behind him blanketed the storyteller in darkness and cast Enari’s shadow onto the ground. It followed his every move like a faithful servant as he began the show.

“One thousand years ago,” the Master announced, each word dramatized by quick cracks and pulsating light emanating from his ever-moving fingertips, “Andromedus was locked in calamitous conflict— known to us all as The Last War. For those among you too young to remember, The Last War was a vicious war fought between brave villagers protecting their homeland and treacherous Dragons who wished to dominate a world razed by unrelenting fire.”

The Master’s hands twisted, fingers curling grotesquely, as razor sharp claws of thick, black smoke rose from the ground and swirled beneath the clouds, transformed into a larger-than-life panorama of running men carrying rakes, swords, bows, and shovels. They were engulfed by impenetrable walls of flame towering over the arena, the entire field ablaze.

Faceless figures rushed in unison towards a fleet of fearsome beasts, Dragons diving from above. Spewed flames billowed from the depths of their bellies; the Heroes stood resolute and sent a volley of fiery arrows and crude javelins whizzing past passersby’s heads into the hearts of winged creatures, their anguished cries ringing through the air. Villagers standing near the outskirts of the market’s celebration screamed and ducked defensively beneath their arms, shocked by the assault until they realized Enari’s illusions were not real.

Embarrassed, some looked around and smiled, nervously laughing it off. Children squealed gleefully, shielding their eyes and ears from the imaginary massacre with gasping laughter, tugging on the sleeves of their caregivers with wide-eyed enthusiasm. They stepped closer to the storyteller’s arena, eager to hear more.

As Enari let the scene play above, a few festival-goers climbed into cacophonous wooden risers, pulling young ones onto their lap to enjoy the Mage’s famed storytelling skills on an evening of revelry. Many had heard “The Victory of Valley’s Volley” every year at the Heroes’ Festival, yet none could deny Enari’s artistic, swaggering magnetism; his reputation preceded him, and few could resist.

The elder spellcaster continued, “It was during a fateful assault known as The Victory of Valley’s Volley, fought on lands a stone’s throw from this very arena, where our people defeated the Dragons after fifty long, tumultuous years. Their eventual triumph arrived at great cost to the Kingdom of Ruger, sacrificing everything to protect our beloved realm of men from a turbulent inferno.” With a flourish, Enari outstretched his robed arms, his imposing figure growing solemn as the scene before him twisted and toppled like stacked stones.

“Today, we honor the fallen of The Last War.” The figures, Dragon and Hero alike, lay still, wisps of smoke rising from their scorched corpses. “Today, we remember their sacrifice.”

Suddenly, creaking wooden seats fell silent and the audience drew a staggering breath. Enari held his arms wide as more curious souls joined them. He surveyed fresh faces and each of the squirming children, steely blue eyes daring them to make a peep. Enthralled, all were aware that this was no mere tale, but living history.

Sober reality descended like an anchor upon their spirits, the air chill. Many closed their eyes and bowed their heads reverently in a lingering moment of silence. Several seasoned elders shifted uncomfortably in their seats, familiar with horrific first-hand accounts from the ancient memoirs of those on the front lines of The Last War.

Monstrous events were well-worn stories of old, often brought to life by illustrious storytellers such as the legendary Lorekeeper Enari; King Rhyden’s narrow victory atop the Searing Keep— royal roost of the Dragon King —remained the storycrafter’s favorite, a particularly complex weaving he frequently performed at Ruger Palace at the request of Her Majesty the Queen.

Obsidian clouds of smoke plumed above the tragedy and soaked into the arena’s soil like a pitch black void. Every man, woman, and child understood how easily Valley’s Volley could have been lost without their Heroes’ fearless feat. Bleak, troubling thoughts snaked through the stifled stillness.

Despite the knowledge that this battle had long been won, the Mage’s illusions punctuated man’s precarious position— for each Dragon that was defeated, countless men perished at the feet of the mystical beasts, ashes of their ambition staining the recreated battlefield.

Cracks of lightning revealed a grim shadow beyond the carnage, glimpsed by only a few.

“No! Dragon!” A shrill, small cry erupted in the front row, slicing through the peace. His mother draped herself across the boy protectively and scooped him up, dabbing at tears streaming down his puffy, reddened cheeks. Gentle, consoling eyes of onlookers watched over the pair as she attempted to soothe him with a mother’s touch, drawing slow, purple-hued circles across his back with her glowing palm.

Whispered affirmations sent a shiver through the ranks around her. Fear not, my love. Dragons are extinct. They are never, ever going to come back. We are safe. Do not be afraid now, my dear Lian…

A burly blacksmith named Borlyn, crossing thick arms over his barrel chest, shot a disapproving scowl at the Mage. Enari’s frown stretched across his face for a brief instant. He hadn’t produced an actual Dragon, not even the renowned Enari possessed that level of skill.

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, or the boy’s imagination at work?

Snapping out of his thoughts, a signature mischievous smile blossomed across the performer’s professional façade. Lian wiped his face with his arm, hiccupping and babbling to himself. Curious, tearful eyes met the entertainer’s, bashfully begging him to continue.

Enari obliged. His spindly fingers shifted erratically across the canvas of clouds, a triumphant voice from above declaring the Kingdom was presently balanced upon the precipice of a New Age of Man. It announced the Illusionist had recently deciphered an ancient prophecy, wishing to share it with all who would listen.

A foreboding breath stalled, patiently waiting for more to join the performance. Finally, the last of the laggers milling about the festival were ensnared, remaining empty seats flooded by those who had heard the commotion and suspense. This was new, something they had never heard before. What had Enari come to tell them?

The Mage waved his hands through the air above him in a composed, spiraling motion, and the gruesome scene transformed once again. Enari’s voice echoed in the distance, encompassing every conscious mind in the Valley.

“Father!” Enari called out, “Lay our weary Heroes to rest, be it through flames and fury or bound in shadows and bone. When you return at the dawn of a New Age, only one Champion may conquer the Betrayer alone.” A whirlwind of flaming ropes coiled tightly around Enari’s ceremonial garb like snakes poised to strike. Boiling heat radiated from the illusion, villagers scrambled to avoid singeing their finest festive attire.

He relished his gift and its efficacy. Exceedingly skilled Illusionists blurred the lines of fantasy, they made each beat of every word feel alive, made real. It was easy to forget if caught unawares by the storyteller’s machinations. His clever ruse sewed a wicked smile onto the Mage’s face.

Breathing a sigh of relief, a few high-spirited observers chuckled cheerfully, amused by the immersion. Whispers rippled through the stands, praise and objections intermingled under their breath. Many locals were familiar with the Mage’s dramatic thespian flair, they smirked as they watched the next generation “oooh” and “ahhh” with adoration.

The blacksmith’s boy wailed, gripping his father’s arm while his mother attempted to ease his suffering with her magic once more. Borlyn spat on the ground at Enari’s feet. Don’t dare do that again, he demanded with eyebrows fastened together as he glared fiercely at the Mage.

Enari could not meet his eye.

He looked away and screamed in mock agony, struggling against his binds until, after a brief moment, he snapped them in a bursting display of strength to a round of applause. Ravenous winds surged through layers of elegant, prismatic robes trimmed in glowing golden script— the sign of a Master Illusionist.

Lian squealed at the top of his lungs happily, reaching towards Enari’s flowing sleeves, fleeting nightmares banished by the dazzling fireshow. Another crack of thunder brought with it a growl from the heavens, as if in answer to the display.

The crowd craned their necks toward the sky to take in the finale, anticipatory cheers and applause swelling through an exhilarated audience. What had begun as an imaginative performance for a handful of interested passersby swiftly engrossed all attending the Heroes’ Festival. It was no easy feat for the worn Master these days.

Strong gusts of wind whistled dangerously, whipped through hair and between festival banners and flags, flapping scraps of dark red fabric smacking against storefronts, homes, and decorations donning the kingdom’s insignia; a fearsome bear with brandished claws.

Practiced words reverberated throughout the Valley. “Go forth into the Heroes’ Festival with valiant, vigilant hearts, young ones,” Enari boomed with commanding cadence, goosebumps prickling as an electric current coursed excitedly through the spectators. Even the most hardened among them could not deny Enari’s prophecy planted a seed of doubt in the tarnished pit of their minds.

The Mage continued, his voice masked by an echoing crack of thunder. “Dragons’ flames have been forever extinguished by the mighty will of man. This threat may have been vanquished, for now, but remember the prophecy… The bravest of our Heroes must not relent. Our Champion must conquer the Betrayer once and for all, for the good of all mankind!”

Enari thrust a fist into the air and conjured an illusionary sword, its mirror-like steel shining like a perfect sliver plucked from the moon itself. “Dragons no longer plague our Valley on this day of celebration, yet we must always be prepared to defend our Kingdom. Tyranny never rests!”

In one swift motion, he swung the shining blade in a heroic arc in front of him, an ultimate blast of thunder rousing the crowd with cries of delightful terror.

Enraged black storm clouds began to slow, cooling to gray. The storyteller’s concentrated magic evaporated in a puff of white smoke.

Exhausted, Enari dipped forward into a low bow as an unexpected, brilliant bolt of lightning bathed the dusky market in bright light.

Lian burst into tears, ushered away by his parents into the milling crowd.

The storyteller panted heavily, labored breath hidden beneath the folds of his illustrious garments. He kept his eyes focused on the ground, the pleasant thrill of a performance tied into a neat little bow sending shivers down his spine.

Enari’s mind raced, sweat-slicked ribbons of gray curls plastered to his face. His greatest love was the stage. He savored each trip to small farming villages, like the Valley, to spread words of courage and hopefully inspire a new crop of Heroes with his production— perhaps even spark the interest of an apprentice Illusionist, or two. The old Mage wished to pass the mantle someday soon to one who would be worthy of his elegant enchantments.

He closed his eyes, impatiently waiting to bask in glorious ovations he so often delighted and indulged in.

Groaning wooden creaks replaced the typical splendor of a story well told. The downpour was closing in, droplets of rain pelting the ground as villagers gasped, mumbling amongst themselves. Enari struggled to remain humbly bowed, peering up through a curtain of matted hair to see what vexed them.

An explosive flash of light tore across the sky above them as if an encore, banishing darkness from all corners of the Valley. Its brilliance revealed a massive hovering, horned shadow with beating wings that stretched across the landscape of the entire arena, a serpent’s tail trailing behind it gracefully. In an instant, it vanished.

Thunderous applause. An elder pointed and laughed heartily with a smile from ear to ear, proclaiming proudly, “Enari, you’ve truly outdone yourself this year! Impressano!”

All around him, the audience stamped their feet and hollered emphatically, echoing the old fool. “Impressano!”

“Impressano!”

“Fantasti!”

“Revalato!”

Breathing shakily, beads of sweat slid down Enari’s forehead and disappeared into the cold, wet ground. Frozen in place, he was too petrified to testify the truth.

The first tenant of illusion magic states an Illusionist’s gift is much like a painter’s brush stroke across a blank canvas, it is impossible to create an illusion without something upon which to conjure it. Had the boy seen a Dragon lurking beyond the storm?

Enari resisted the urge to look for Lian, desperation plaguing his addled mind. It couldn’t be… It was preposterous! He didn’t— couldn’t —produce a shadow like that… No one can. Impossible!

The finale was not of the Master Illusionist’s doing. Shadow puppets are not illusionary. It must have been real. Very, extraordinarily real.

His stomach soured and the Mage swallowed bile. He stood feebly, paling as villagers jovially ducked under the market’s shelter and returned to the festivities with renewed enthusiasm. Children squealed happily, jumping into and out of puddles as they pretended to slash imaginary beasts with sticks and blades of grass like the Heroes of Valley’s Volley, bickering all the while about who would slay the Betrayer. All went back to normal in the blink of an eye.

Soon, Enari stood alone in bleak, soaked robes.

The storm began to dissipate, the sky shifted into a lovely shade of warm, blazing embers mixed with rose-colored swirls, and the sun tucked in behind the hills to sleep.

Enari’s legs were weak. He collapsed onto his knees, frigid mud seeping into his immaculate robes as tiny droplets of mist peppered his wrinkled, weathered face sweetly. Tears streamed freely down sunken cheeks.

He looked to the heavens, thoughts consumed by countless brave souls who bested ferocious foes on this day centuries ago. What hope did the Valley have without them now? Enari gasped raggedly, bowing his head in resignation.

“Dragons have returned at long last.”