The Valley Stirs

"There weren't always dragons in the Valley," the Cobalin High Priest's voice was strained as he eased himself into a pile of overstuffed pillows atop intricately hand-carved, low furniture. His violent cough brought a young Cobalin assistant to his aid with a stein. The priest declined the ale with a wave of the hand and continued addressing his guests. "It's a relatively recent occurrence."

An elf and a human, both male, had followed the High Priest, Restringo, into his cottage along the outskirts of Whiskey Dale, a Cobalin village in the southwest region of Old Wolt. A yellow glow from the sunrise streamed through the home's lone window, casting long shadows across the pillow cushioned interior and the craggy face of it's owner.

"You used the word 'dragon'," the elf, Clofaulm, started. He was a lean Arkadelphian Elf with the same pale sage colored skin and dark hunter green hair as his heritage. "Are you referring to the same creatures we saw last evening at Paranobell Gate?"

Restringo nodded with a half laugh, half gag, "True, those nasty deformed things bear little resemblance to their fantastic and revered forefathers. Still, they possess at least a portion of their ancient ancestors' DNA." The Cobalin High Priest was no less grotesque in appearance than the dragons he demonized. At just over four feet tall, his rotund body was as wide as tall with spindly legs that appeared incapable of holding him upright. A round bald head with long grayish yellow hair hanging from below his ears down to his shoulders framed a face with eyes four times the size of a human and a protruding grizzled nose of the same proportion. "Their creator called them Wolvern-dragons. The Argo-Cobalins found the name extraneous, so thus, dragons."

Clofaulm's human companion, Gadsden Stillwater, stroked his chin thoughtfully. He was strapping, with cinnamon-colored skin, dark eyes, and silky black hair pulled back in a bun. "You say they just recently arrived?"

"No," Restringo shook his head, "I said it was a relatively recent occurrence. All things are relative, my dear, Meridian of Integrity."

Gadsden gave the old priest a wry smile. "Agreed. So how long have they been occupying the Valley?"

"They slowly began to arrive seventy-three years ago. It was the same year I came to the Argo-Cobalins."

"You are not of the Argo lineage?" Clofaulm interjected.

"No. I came to their aid when I was forty. I designed and oversaw the construction of the Paranobell Gate."

"A remarkable accomplishment. It is an impressive structure," Gadsden offered. "The engineering of the materials for Old Wolt is truly amazing."

The grizzled priest bowed his head. "It has served its purpose."

"There is no need to be coy, Restringo," Clofaulm took over. "What Gadsden has said is fact. Paranobell Gate is one of, if not the most impressive structure built in Old Wolt. Which is why we are wondering why you've summoned the Meridian Eight to come here and assist in a matter of keeping these 'dragons' at bay? We saw no breach or problem when we inspected it yesterday. And your Captain of the Guard was unaware of any crossings."

Restringo did not immediately respond. He sat with his eyes closed and his head slowly nodded. Clofaulm and Gadsden gave each other equally questioning looks. Even the High Priest's assistant became nervous as he crossed to his master's side and gave the old Cobalin a nudge.

"Yes. Yes." Restringo opened his eyes, realizing where he was. "Have you heard of Golden Branch, ye Meridian of Wisdom?"

Clofaulm nodded. "Please, sir, call me Clofaulm. And yes, Golden Branch was a large town at the northwest end of the Valley. It was once a prosperous mining town, known for its iron ore. I recall it was home to many dwarves and humans until the Iron supply was exhausted."

"Very good, Clofaulm." Restringo accepted a pipe from his assistant and took a long draw. "Golden Branch has been deserted for over two centuries, yet evening campfires began to appear there two months ago. And the number has increased daily over that same period."

Gadsden was intrigued. A few camp fires in an abandoned town were not unusual. Hunting parties, guard garrisons, or any number of small contingents would certainly use the cover of an old town. But that was usually only for a night, a week at the absolute longest. But two months? "Have you sent anyone to investigate?"

"Certainly," the High Priest coughed out a mouthful of smoke. "Goborcs. Goborcs are repopulating Golden Branch just at the other end of the Valley."

Gadsden and Clofaulm shared a quick glance.

"Our scouts estimate there are over five hundred. And that number increases weekly." Restringo sighed. "Couple that development with the dragons massing closer to Paranobell Gate and you have some anxious Cobalins."

"I can imagine," Clofaulm's tone was calm. "But Goborcs cannot control the dragons. They do not have the mental capacity or the patience."

"It is not just the Goborcs arrival that has caused uneasiness here in Whiskey Dale, Meridian of Wisdom." Restringo countered, but a displeased look from the elf made him correct himself, "Clofaulm…. We have heard very disturbing rumors from New Wolt regarding the Council of Nine."

Clofaulm's façade' remained stoic even though he knew what the High Priest was referring to.

"Come now, Clofaulm. Your silence betrays you. You know exactly of what I speak."

The elf slowly nodded. "The rumors are correct. The Council was dissolved three weeks ago."

Restringo shook his head ruefully. "The same Council of Nine that has kept us from the despair of anarchy for over six thousand years."

"It was an unfortunate turn of events," Clofaulm agreed.

Wolt's Council of Nine had been the most powerful governing body in the known universe. A representative from each of the nine dominant Wolt species: Humans, Cobalins, Elves, Ameirians, Muroidans, Dwarves, Voulvayres, Goborcs, and Pancrucea, was appointed by their own particular race's process. The Council settled disputes and kept large-scale issues at bay. They maintained the order.

"The Muroidans felt they were being singled out for an alliance they were forming on their home world. They denounced the decision and seceded from the Council."

Restringo held a skinny arm up. "Only Muroid?"

Clofaulm pursed his lips, knowing the High Priest knew the answer. "No. The Voulvayres and," he gave Gadsden a worried glance, "the Goborcs."

"The Goborcs…" Restringo grandstanded, but a commotion outside, followed by the cottage door flying open, interrupted him. "WHAT IS THIS?" he yelled at the intruder.

A young Cobalin dressed in a gray Army jumpsuit gave the priest a chest salute. "Forgive me, High Priest, but our scouts have just relayed a message."

"Go ahead, Corporal."

"Two of the Valley's creatures have escaped and are on the road, heading directly toward Whiskey Glen."

Gadsden shook his head in disbelief. "Wolverns cannot survive in the daylight."

"My dear, Meridian of Integrity," Restringo growled. "As I have said, these things are not Wolverns…. They are dragons."

* * *

Three horsemen stampeded along the Old Valley Road into the outskirts of what was once Golden Branch. Dilapidated structures with clinging vines and harsh vegetation that tried to reclaim the lost buildings back to earth were all that met them. After several hundred feet of the deserted town, they arrived in an area where the structures had recently been torn down and used as burn piles in several sizeable areas around the perimeter. Twenty or so shanties had been constructed in the interior.

“My god, what a smell,” moaned a pale skinned human male with jet-black hair and goatee as the threesome reined their mounts to a halt inside the shanty village.

A large red-haired human female dressed in leather armor laughed as she dismounted. “You are such the whiner, Darvin. You smell little better than these unfortunate creatures.”

The third rider said nothing. Shorter and slighter than the other two, it sat wrapped in a tan poncho. A gold and red hand-woven cape hung behind. A hood drawn about most of its face hid all but a pointy, hairy snout with a smallish, black nose on the very end. A couple of misshapen teeth were visible, biting down on its lower jaw. “Carla!” it screamed with a high-pitched and coarse voice.

The red-head came over and helped the smaller rider from its mount and stood awaiting her next order. The smaller rider took a few steps then pulled back its hood, displaying a rat looking head the size of a human, his nose pointing to the sky, sniffing. “It most certainly does have a rank smell.”

As if on cue, a few Goborcs came from their shanty and moved to surround the horsemen. Goborcs were the surviving ancestors of Goblins and Orcs, which neither had walked the world of Wolt in ten millennia. It also explained why only a handful had come out to welcome them since, like their ancestors, they did not like coming out into sunlight.

“Master Larfling?” One of them said as it came up to the rat man. “We were told the Wolt Master would be a Muroidan.”

The rat man inspected the goborc. “Yes, I am your Master.”

The goborc bowed, “I am Trun. I am at your service.” His dialog was disjointed and forced. “Would you please enter the tent? The day light hours is bad for us, goborcs.”

Larfling waved toward the tent that Trun had exited. “Lead on.”

Entering the main control shanty which was nearly three times the size of the others, Trun moved them down to a viewing area showing a roughly constructed diorama of the Valley and farther south along the Oscatory River basin away from Golden Branch.

“Crude, but remarkably accurate,” the rat man murmured.

“Thank you, Master.” Trun moved to the representation of the Paranobell Gate and leaned across it. He drooled a bit of spittle onto the fake valley below. “Master Zol found a weak spot in a cave in the hillside here.” The goborc pointed at an opening about halfway up the iron hill from the valley floor. “The dragons excavated for nearly two weeks. They finally broke through yesterday.”

Darvin, dressed in loose fitting black silks, moved next to the goborc. He studied the hole and then turned back to Larfling, who was still standing at the head of the diorama. “I thought there was a spell on this valley that kept the dragons contained?”

The rat man gave Darvin a wicked smile. “There is. Except the spell assumed that the iron hills could not be breeched, so thus, the spell did not cover the hill sides.”

“Seems like a foolhardy spell,” Darvin smirked.

“Not necessarily,” the rat man countered. “It would take a powerful spell just to close in the open portion of this valley. And the iron in these hills is not your run of mill iron, but Iron-Danx. It is virtually indestructible. Even the Wolvern-dragons tenacity couldn’t dig through it. Evident by the fact it has held for seventy-three years.”

“But they did finally dig through it,” Carla said, pointing at the hole in the diorama’s hillside.

“Did they? Or did Zol find a place in the cave that wasn’t Iron-Danx?”

Trun clapped his hands. “That is exactly what happened. Yes. Exactly. A wall of clay in the back of the cave. It had some deposits of iron, but not solid. We made a pathway!” The goborc’s reaction was that of a small child.

Larfling’s rat-like nose twitched with anticipation as his smile grew even wider. “It truly is the dawn of a new age. Muroidans will no longer live in the shadows of humans and elves. The Council of Nine can no longer be their shield OR crutch. And now…. Now we can release the dragons from their valley prison to take back Wolt. Yes! Wolt can finally be OURS!”

* * *

“I told you they would come,” the Cobalin High Priest Restringo said as he pulled himself up from the cushions. “When I heard that the Council of Nine had been dissolved, I sensed trouble. I meditated hard and long. You see, no other species of the nine have used the cover of the Council better than the Cobalins. We have always sided with the humans, elves and dwarves, but we always remained more neutral and kept loose alliances with the Muroidans and Voulvayres. Sometimes, even the goborcs.” He crossed to the door and signaled Clofaulm and Gadsden to follow into the morning sun.

They stood alone on the outskirts of Whiskey Glen in the middle of the southern section of the Old Valley Road at a crest looking down into the valley.

Gadsden looked behind them and saw the Cobalins scrambling from cottage to cottage, gathering children and belongings, the gray clad army Cobalins assisting them in their escape. He turned back to the old priest. “You aren’t sending your battalion against these creatures?”

“No. Even with just two dragons, they would be useless. Dead in a matter of minutes.”

Gadsden looked at Clofaulm, who was watching the road intently, then back at the priest. “Then what are we doing?”

Restringo gave Gadsden a weak smile. “You asked me, when you first arrived, why had I summoned you? As a High Priest, I have certain powers, which can include visions. And I meditated hard on our predicament. In my visions, I kept coming back to my studies at the University of Littleton concerning the great pilgrim cleric and visionary Daytwan.”

“The author of the great books. Only the Brown one remains,” Clofaulm interjected.

“Yes. Very good,” Restringo continued. “The last entry of the Brown Book, the last that Daytwan ever wrote was, and I quote:”

‘And so will conclude the 14th Age of Wolt, the 5th Age of Earth, the 6th Age of Muroid, and the 4th Age of Amier. For the first time in our Universe's history, the dawn of a new age will occur for Wolt and her offspring at the precise same moment in time.

And it shall be known as the Alpha Age. For all the worlds, it will mark the beginning of awareness between the Triplet Losi and their Mother World and with one another. And while these realizations should be met with optimism and joy, a darkness from outside will build across the lands with sweeping tentacles, unlike anything the worlds have seen. The darkness searches for the Crimson Lord and urges Arsgrath to regain consciousness and join with it.

Unfortunately, this is as far as my vision's reach. While the new Age shall be called Alpha, it receives this moniker due to the dawn of another dominant species upon the landscape. There are glimmers of hope visible in the prophecy, but are they enough to save our worlds from this impending darkness? I cannot see that far into the future. So, only time will tell our ultimate fate.

My time is done on Wolt. This final vision is more than my frail condition can endure. I leave with a heavy heart on where my beloved world of Wolt will go one day. I pray the glimmers of hope I have seen produce a greater promise of light than what my final vision has foretold.’

“I know this passage,” Gadsden’s voice held an edge. “But what does that have to do with the Meridian Eight?”

“I believe those glimmers of hope that Daytwan saw were the Meridian Eight. My mind and heart tell me you are our only chance of survival.”

Clofaulm turned from the road to the priest. “The Meridian Eight were broken up a dozen years ago. They do not exist in that form anymore.”

“But you are still a Meridian.”

Clofaulm shook his head. “We do not have the same powers as we did when we were whole. We are just two of the eight. And we are not the Meridian of Power. I doubt our powers are any better than yours.”

“I believe in you Meridian of Wisdom and you,” he turned to Gadsden, “Meridian of Integrity. You are our glimmers of hope.”

An inhuman, guttural growl interrupted them from a distant point on the road below. Two creatures from the lowest depths of hell had stopped a hundred yards short of their position. Each was hunched over with their forehand knuckles dragging the ground as if it stood on four legs. They were larger than their Wolvern kindred, reaching six feet hunched over. Their faces appeared part bear, hyena, and dragon, or a horrible blend of all of them. The devil himself would have shivered when these ‘dragons’ passed.

“They are a lot scarier close up,” Gadsden said. “What now?”

Restringo reached out and grabbed the others' arms. “I have some power left. I can hold them at bay for a time, but not long. Please, get as many of my people to safety as you can.”

“You can't survive two of them alone,” Gadsden began, but the old priest ignored him and headed down the Valley Road to his destiny.

“He is either very resolved or very foolhardy.” Clofaulm said as he moved closer to Gadsden. “What do you think? We can't let this village die."

Gadsden cocked his head at his old friend and gave him a wink. “Maybe it is time for us to start acting like what we once were. Let’s see if that old fool knew something about us that we’ve long forgotten.”

Clofaulm smiled, “Yes, lets. And we may even find that we can turn that glimmer into a beacon!”