The Valley of Shadow and Flame

There weren’t always dragons in The Valley, there weren’t always demons either…

Unfortunately, The Valley was never green or lush, never bountiful nor verdant. It never proffered life or abundance. However, it was never desolate either. This was the perfectly imperfect sanctuary for the damned. It was the harmony in the discord of the vast ocean that was the world. Admittedly it was strenuous, but it was there, there is an honour amongst thieves after all. Across the vast canyon narrow settlements were forged around the constant flow of trade routes connecting greater lands of greater abundance where gold glistened and fabrics flowed. The Valley was home to few, far fewer than the droves of men that they welcomed and the few that were brave enough to call them home were often those who were lost. Some say the lost could find a home here, the home that is the rock, resilient against the churning tide of trade and money, lust and fortune. The rock that most wary merchants tried their utmost to ignore or avoid for fear of running aground and drowning in the debauchery.

They spent little. Little time, little gold, little attention. But flaunted much, floating upon their grand chariots and coaches, each one laden with splendour and riches, as if they were gods parading amongst the dirt of man, none would leave the sanctity of their moving mansions and what little coin they did spend would trade through the hands of unwilling servants. But they spent little, despite the haphazard tavern shacks and half-hearted tellers trying to sell whatever provisions they could gather, understandable really, given the stale wine or stagnant water that would be welcomed from the flip of a coin. Some of the tellers were more successful, offering respite from the scorching sun and unwelcoming bedrock, some even managed to precure the rare and unusual, the unsavoury items that most would not dare seek out or hoard. But even then, they spent little. And even with what little we had, there wasn’t much for us to do with it.

No, they were never verdant and green, but they were never desolate either. The Valley was a motorway for trade, connecting the two largest cities in the land, each one continually growing whilst this artery kept on rotting. And yet it was a home to those who were not allowed into the ranks of society, home to those who settle amongst the wanderers and the weary, amongst the bandits and all who had no home, no roots, no family or ties, all who wished to be free from the past, even if they had no choice. No one asked questions and those of us who worked weren’t paid to sit around and wag our tongues either. As hard as this work is, I still preferred it to the streets. Despite all the wealth that passes through The Valley, none of it stays here. It is however a necessary access point for the endless waves of merchants navigating their armoured carts through the slums. Just like it’s inhabitants, The Valley was a scar on the land, it cut deep and wide, some say it was an ancient river that ran deep and true, others say a vengeful God clawed the land out of boredom nad yet most just don’t care.

As I said, there weren’t always dragons in The Valley.

But there sure as hell weren’t always demons either.

Yes, darkness lurked in the shadows and sometimes even in the light. Yes the days were long and the work was backbreaking and the sweat of a brow showed more of a man’s worth than where he came from or where he was going. Yes, the merchants treated us like slaves and the salt mines beyond welcomed a steady hammering of income that even a flea could not appreciate. The vultures circled high, the iris to the never-ending watch of the beating sun. The scorched rock of this beaten world rarely offered cool solace and when it did they bit you to the bone during those nights that sap all life and warmth from you. But they were home. When I was discarded from the world, The Valley welcomed me, as well as it could. The ragged sheets, battered by wind and sand that offered little shade, the parched wooden frames of huts and hovels, all splintering like the jagged rocks clawing up to the sky that edged this endless riverbed. The merchants who revelled in riches and rode through on their fortunes and blind ignorance to all who were around them, the hounding sun and hunting scavengers, the stale bread and even staler beer or wine that was basically whiskey, this was home and The Valley welcomed me when all else was lost.

The only trouble is, all of this, all of that which made The Valley a breeding ground for debauchery and chaos and yet able to maintain a subtle harmony and decorum; all of those damned souls that had gathered to try and find their place, or simply just not be shunned or shuddered, were all incredibly alluring to the insatiable appetite for the Shadow. And better still, no one would ask questions about the stranger who walked amongst the darkness, for they were all strangers here. Better still, no one would ask if people were to go missing, for they were all lost here. The Valley was very alluring indeed. And upon finding its place to begin, even the shadows started to quiver.

You could say that I should have noticed, that I should have been more observant and aware of all that was happening. But I had been discarded like the rest of the runts. Battle scarred hands now wielding a salt pick instead of a sword and a chest that once proudly bore the Sacred Sigil now ran with a ragged breath, sweat slicking the poorly healed brand, still reddened and angry. I left that life and world behind me and now I’m here, in the salt mines, carving out one of the resources I used to depend on. I guess moving on from that life once lived had dulled my senses, or perhaps my body and mind had been numbed from the hammering shockwaves of the unforgiving salt for even as the darkness started to swell and bloom, I did not bother to care nor notice. My bones and mind were shaken to the core, the perpetual monotony that hammered body and soul had lulled me into a senseless consciousness. The days blurred, and the nights were welcomed by the few mouthfuls of bread and root that were washed down by that acidic wine, all a reprieve bought with what few coppers were earned from the bone rattling day in the mines.

I do not know how long I have been here, the mines have a way of devouring hours and days and disassociating you from life outside of their glistening walls. I stopped counting the moon cycles shortly after arriving, I shortly lost the will the care, it was the only way to survive, to ignore the aches and sores, the chaffing iron and back breaking haul. I stopped caring about how I never thought about how I was paid, how the salt and gold would just appear every month, glistening and welcoming, pure and bright, without a second thought as to how, as to the true cost.

And now I was here, branded and beaten, consumed by the hollow halls of salt that carried the droning hammering of picks with a haunting echo that chased you in your dreams. I still remember the day I arrived here, the wooden carriage opening to the scorching heat and the rope yoke pulling us out and onto the hard floor. In all my years living and serving Ardalan, I had never been made aware of The Valley, rumours carried through the barracks but no one overly bothered to care either. Our attention had always been drawn elsewhere, the war to the North had consumed most of my life.

Peace was an unusual concept. One sold and bought with salt and gold, one won in wars that we were told had to be fought, won through blood and carnage in the name of your monarch, in the name of the Queen. Peace had been won, or so we were told. The war was over. But politics never sleep and now I’m here, once a valued member of the court and now discarded, degraded to a mere grain of salt cast upon the table in honour of negotiations.

With nowhere to go apart from deeper into the mines, the desire to escape dwindled quickly. A once great officer now chained in line with the criminals of the world, rapists and murders, thieves, and deserters and now me.

To survive I quickly buried any ounce of pride I once had, commander and nobleman felt like a mouth of salt, eager to spit on the floor and be stomped on by the dishevelled workers and drivers around. All that matters now was the brand that shone through the tattered cloth shirt, hanging to my body with as much lustre as I hung onto life - limp and fraying. It was as if with every drive of the pick, the life I once lived was hammered deeper into the recesses of my mind, and before long it all felt like phantom memories of a dream, a childish hope stamped out with chain and whip and restless nights in the yard.

And yet there was a peace in the silence, once you learn the hierarchy and your place, the numbing of the pick in salt and echoes of the tunnels were a welcome reprieve from the cries of man and spluttering of blood across flesh and floor, armour and blade. Or from the slight of hand and tongue that took the hand of the court, welcoming all who dared to the dance of politics and money. Either way I think I would rather be here, especially now they stopped whipping me most days… Keep your head down and keep going, that’s all the drivers want. And I suppose you got used to the wine, after countless months it was almost hard to tell if it should taste any different, let alone better.

That all said, the peace and silence didn’t seem to last long... As I said, these lands were very attractive to the Shadow. It seems I was right, the war wasn’t truly over.

With hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have ignored the signs, but equally, what could I have done? I was a nobody now, owned by another and paid a pittance that I downed every night to find the bottom of the bottle of the latest batch of vinegar wine. It took the edge off, calming the nerves that had fried from the day and stilled the rattling mind. Flavour aside, it did the job and sleep would surely follow, not enough to truly rest the wrecked muscles from the day, but it was enough, just. Much like the rest of The Valley, it was never quite good enough and yet it was. There was a stability here and there was a peace in that. We all found a place where ours had once been stripped.

The days had continued to blur, bleeding into one another as my body healed from the latest lashings gifted by the rotten mouthed driver whose beady eyes and shambling physique suggested he was as malnourished as the rest of us and had most likely been here far longer than I. Apparently, I wasn’t working hard enough, apparently his mother could do a better job. Apparently he didn’t appreciate my muttered comment about his mother abandoning him as a child and apparently his senses were keener than my whispered retort thought possible. It wasn’t unusual though, we weren’t slaves, but we weren’t free either, they say that the chains around our ankles are to protect us from cave ins and pitfalls, which was strenuous at best, not that anyone else here was smart enough to think otherwise. No, we weren’t slaves, but the real trap was this little coin we made was just enough to buy provisions for the night and never enough to actually leave the yard.

A positively troll like guard made sure of that, the toll was steep for sure, you’d probably have to work a year without food or drink to actually pass his steep tax to just open a damned gate. We were allowed out on occasion to browse the haphazard market, they say market... Well, you get the picture, everything here was a dump, and what would we buy anyway? There’s a reason my clothes cling to life by a single thread of hope and determination. I too thought it was odd how we can’t leave the yard and yet were permitted semi regular visits to the streets. The answer is simple, control and hope. The other answer is, where else do we have to go? Everyone here has nowhere to go. And at least working in the mines means they don’t want you to die, expressed solely in the wardens orders to bring out the pathetic excuse for blankets when the nights stretch and the ice cracks upon the rock. Not even the cold of night could free us from this servitude, we were kept alive, just. But I was grateful, I was not yet ready to die, nor was I quite ready to start a new chapter either. I was happy just being, for once, no expectations or demands, no games or politics.

I accepted my fate long ago and gave up on the not-so-humble hope of being rescued or thought of. A lamb to slaughter for sure, the easiest scapegoat the monarchy and courts could throw to the axe in the honour peace. So here I am, glistening salt gleaming in the dank tunnels shattering to the floor in a powdering cascade, you soon got used to the sting of the eye, smart of the skin and tang on the tongue, it was rhythmic and familiar and for once I didn’t have to think or command, I just had to do the work, sleep and repeat. It was humbling actually, to be mining the resources that gave so much life to the lands, these ice like veins that bled through the harsh rock, simple and yet oh so important.

The layered cuts upon my back had started to heal as the nights started to creep in, clawing back their domination from the day, the air started to chill in response, shuddering at the deepening darkness and slumbering mornings. The ice would come soon, and the warmth of a hard day’s work would be the only comfort for your bones, the pathetic fire in the middle of the yard barely offered light, guttering at the weakest of breezes, but bright enough for the slither of hope the warden kept on dangling. The blankets would come out soon as well, that was for sure, another slither that would soon worm it’s way into gratitude in the hearts of the weak and forgotten. Restless sleep became easy to find as the wine coated the senses and the body lost itself to the clutches of exhaustion.

You start to count the days as the ice beckons, heralded by the deepening night, and for those days the work in the mine was silent and continual, none of us dared breathe out of place, another reason for the lashings, it kept everyone in check. An example to be made. There was nothing interesting to note over these days but a new driver had started, you could tell for his eyes were considerably less hollow, unaccustomed to the hours of darkness that would consume his days going forward. He also had meat on his bones, actual muscles carving the outline of his relatively fresh linens and he held an air of eagerness, the taste of power, a hunger that clung to his aura. A freshness he wore like a perfume. For the most part I tried to ignore it, or him. The new ones are eager to impress or perform, to stamp their mark in the already downtrodden souls of the damned.

Others would linger their gaze, devouring the freshness with pallid eyes, it was as if they craved the returned attention, the ones who had been here longer sometimes longed for their scars to be opened as if they no longer felt anything else it was at the end of the whip, that or they were simply bored and it was a difference from the year long day. Sycophants for sure. In all fairness, there was something about this new driver that was alluring, he was grand for one, a hulking man who seemed to draw you in, even as his stood there, his fingers strumming the whip at his belt like an instrument. Like a beautiful predator, coiled and ready to strike. Even through his grim smirk you could see polished teeth and his eyes seemed to take to the dark with incredible ease, he stood amongst the shadow as if he belonged. All drivers had a taste for blood but most would arrive and at least be slightly unnerved by the swallowing depths of the mines. He instantly belonged and it was as alluring as it was unnerving.

Thankfully my back still stung from my last lashing so I was in no desire to draw attention, wanted or otherwise. Head down, hammer and toss the salt, just do your job Grael and get through another day. It became a mantra in the face of intrigue. The strumming of the whip an intoxicating beat that threatened to draw the attention away from the work. A game he seemed to thoroughly enjoy and yet in the days he’d been there, blood had yet to coat his whip. In the rare glances I’d gift myself, rolling the dice of intrigue and curiosity, it was clear he was vast, far bigger, taller and broader than any other driver before. I couldn’t profess to know what qualifications you’d need to get this specific roll but most seemed to be thugs with anger issues.

I dared look too long but he did not seem like a thug, snapping my focus back to the work at hand. Others who were of weaker mind, or weaker desire to not be flayed, were not so quick to focus back on the salt. Oddly enough, it was not his whip that would crack those nights, no, the bellows thundering down the tunnels came from the veteran drivers and it was their tools that tasted blood as the moon rose. All the while he just stood their, smirking and strumming.

I did not bother to ponder on it long, surely it was the wardens remit to control his driver’s. Perhaps I should have thought more of it, I guess we will never know what should or could have happened.

Shortly after he arrived another wagon came to dump out a fresh batch of miners, iron, flesh and bone shuddering onto the near frozen rock below, the wooden box they were carried in soon shambling away, the rider all too quickly to leave with a pouch of coin in his hand. Just as they hadn’t with me, no one got up to help, the mass of man clambering to their feet, staggering to the fire in the hope for solace. Nothing unusual of note, and as expected a driver started to walk over, the rut of a man who’s mother had abandoned him, his beady eyes hungry for the fresh meat who were none the wiser. After a second step his whip had already been unclipped, lumbering strides remove of any grace or stature. I thought I saw the new one move, or perhaps it was just the lick of flame dancing against the biting cold. He always stood as a statue at night, an eternal watcher.

“Up, now! Y’think yer deserve tuh rest? Y'think yor ere foruh social?” Rotten teeth spewed the words forth like a grotesque fog horn and the crack of whip broke through the night, a splash of fresh blood raining to the floor, crimson against the black rock. “Get!” Barking like a rabid dog, pinhole eyes glinting in the night, he shot a grubby finger to the ever darkening entrance of the mines. Some of the men clambered, some as they tripped over each other, their near naked bodies stinging against the cold. Another crack of the whip laced with a feral laughter, “Don’t make me ask twice”, a promise as sweet as death as he stroked this thick leather whip like a pet, a foul mouth offering an even fouler grin.

Rolling over wasn’t easy but it was easier than watching the new arrivals shudder and scramble across the yard, flailing their way to the pick bin and down into the gaping maw of the mines, swallowing them one by one. I tried to sleep, although it I couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes bearing down on me.

As the morning sun fought a losing battle against the night, the yard arose in a dreary drawl, an arrival night is particularly jarring to sleep through, the mutated groans and hammering, contorted through the tunnels would echo up and out, spreading across the rock like an ocean of agony. Soon enough, their bones would ease into the jarring work but the first nights were the worst. Alas, sleep or otherwise we had work to do, even if the sun hadn’t yet fully risen despite the hour and a thin veil of ice still slicked the land. Wearily, i forced myself to the water trough, breaking the ice to splash the not so stagnant water over my face And down my scabbing back, instantly snapping me out of any dreariness that clothed my senses.

Most, on a morning like this, would forgo the refreshment, making the trough a slight haven amongst the some thirty men that roamed the yard. Obviously, ice cold water that would threaten to freeze body and limb wouldn’t be my choice either, but, without it sharpening my senses in a cold hard reality, I wouldn’t want to be in the mines at all. Work had to be done, and I was thankful for it, for despite the hardships this place burdens us with, this was far easier than anything the courts subjected me to.

Shortly after, with a day old chunk of bread and windfall apple to fill the stomach we lined up to be chained, cold iron biting into our ankles. The cry of clanking iron greeted us at the entrance, married to the barking of the rotten mouthed driver who ushered them out. One by one they left the tunnels, bloodied and bruised, their eyes watering, lips chapped and hair on end, all from that fine coat of white that clung to them like a second skin, crystallising atop that fine layer of sweat. Now, I didn’t take note of how many people went into the tunnels last night but what I can say is that following the parade of man, skittering along the floor were two sets iron shackles. Two losses wasn’t unheard of, but it definitely got the other drivers at the edge of the yard intrigued, each one taking a step forward. Grotesque statues moving forwards like a vile game of chess, figures propelled by intrigue. The new one, however, did not move, nor did he even offer a glance. He seemed fixated on the entrance of the mines but from the side of my eye, it was apparent he was wholly disinterested in the movements of the miners and the whereabouts of their missing comrades.

The following shifts, each one blurring into the next, little was said as usual but an denseness seemed to fill the mines. No one mentioned to shambling shackles that were no longer tethered to their captives, not even the drivers who would usually use our misfortune as fuel for their bloated anecdotes around the fire which burned with a shamefully brighter vigour than our own. Grunting and laughter would usually lace through the winds, like pugs at a feast, beer would recklessly slosh from their cups and on occasion they were gifted roasted meat from the warden, often I would drool over the roasting vapour that would kiss the breeze, often I thought that’s exactly why the warden did it.

But the vanishings did not come up in topic, frivolous or otherwise. At night, the campfires were silent, unnervingly so. I tried to ignore it, to push my senses back into that numbed state they had preserved themselves in for however long I had actually been here, but there was a palpable silence in the air, and it was as if even our little flame had even quietened its guttering. The warden seemed to disappear as well, if he did cross our path, he was always rushing off back to the office, a stone and wood hut that perched above the fence line over the entrance to the mine, an office that seemed to always have the glow of a candle warming the windows, no matter the hour or depth of night. All was normal and yet displaced, uneasy, and taught. The only thing that seemed to remain constant was that smirking driver, strumming away at his pet whip coiled at his waist.

Our visit to the market was also not greeted with an open gate and loose yet strict commands, no, as the days and weeks bled and the darkness reclaimed its reign of the day, as winter grappled itself back into life, the warden was seen less and less, the light glimmering from his pokey windows growing with each passing night. No one dared grumble at the lack of an outing, the drivers, although taking a stance of silence all seemed too twitchy, their hands never leaving the hard leather at their sides, some even started to don small blades, rusty and crude, but sharp nonetheless. The shifts came true and fast, as always, and the work was a welcome break from the shattering cold and deathly silence of the yard, the hammering picks an honest familiarity that jarred the bones back into life, shaking away the ice of the night that seeped into joint and muscle.

The depth of winter consumed all, so much so that any hope of warmth seemed so distant it could have just been a memory. We hadn’t left the yard for some time now, but it even seemed like the parade of caravans in the main valley beyond had also died down. I didn’t waste any energy delving into the reasons why, nor did I look into whether this winter was characteristically cold or not. I have only spent one other here and I was in no rush to delve into the memories that it brought back. This was my home now, and I was as happy as one could be in such situations, actually potentially happier than when I was continually dancing with courts and politics, but that did not mean I was overly willing to reminisce over the hardships that The Valley and mines offered. A mother’s bosom they were not, but a forge to relinquish yourself from the toils from the past? That is what made this a home.

Eventually, whispers started to snake through the mines, but I ignored them. Perhaps I shouldn’t have. They were roused after more empty shackles came skittering along the icy floor. Fortunately I never seemed to be tethered to the end of the queue, nor was I ever foolish enough to befall the fate that seems to be taking these souls just as the winter months took the days from the sun. The darkness swathed the land in a cloak of shadow and misfortune and all seemed on edge, everyone bar the driver who smirked. I tried, damn hard, to lodge the instincts to the back of my mind, to shake the feeling of eyes piercing my back, the shiver of the spine and hair on end at the howling wind that seemed to be summoned from deep within the mine.

I tried so hard to ignore it all, to focus on the pick in my hand and the work that lay before me. And that was my mistake. The whispers snaked through the tunnels, coiling like an intoxicating odour. Rumours sparked fear, and often the whip. Perhaps if I had cared enough to listen, I could have done something. Perhaps if my years of training hadn’t been buried in salt and bruises, aching joints and wine, perhaps I would have noticed the creeping shadow and voiceless vanishings.

But here we are. And there it was, staring at me, sobering and solid. The salt crumbled away as it always did, and there In the bedrock glowed the Sigil of the Dragon, a crimson serpentine coil like a vein of iron had come to life. It pulsed faintly in the dark and all the whispers raced through my mind. Time slowed as my pick rattled to the floor and the roar of the dragon flooded my senses, devouring all aspects of self.

Rumours of the dragons that once dwelled here were as old as the land itself. Some even believed it was no God that carved these lands, but the claw and flame of ancient Dragons waging a forgotten war. And as the Sigil bore itself to me, it’s heartbeat matching mine, a war drum that was as familiar as it was resolute.

And then it faded back into the dead bedrock. A whisper once more. But as I came to and my senses cleared, reality materialising around me, the breath of that grinning driver hot on my neck.

Everything came into a stark reality, a commanders senses reinstated. And everything made sense.

There weren’t always demons in The Valley.

But we would need the Dragons if we were to survive.

And I would need to escape.