War of the Wolven Lord

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Lord Fenrir and his wolven pack made sure of that. Three summers had slipped by since they had vanished and Fenrir Hall remained empty, while the village had been left to fester and fend for itself. Weeping like a rotten wound.

The summers brought the dragons where they wreaked their killing, carnage, and chaos before they fled the winter winds. To the villagers, the winter winds were a mercy bestowed by the slumbering gods it seemed. A glimmer of hope that they were not wholly forsaken.

A smattering of unkept bothies, lean-to’s, and huts made up the village nestled next to Fenrir Hall. The tallest and most lopsided building of them all was the Howling Hound tavern, where the orange glow of its roaring open fire and thick candles pooled out of its small leaded windows. Snow was promised soon by the biting wind, although none had fallen yet in the velvet darkness of the night.

Bang! The heavy oak doors of the tavern burst open followed by jeers and shouts from inside.

“Get gone you” sneered a burly guard as he grabbed a slim, dark-haired man by the shoulder and shoved him over the threshold. Whooping and cheers followed as Valin fell to the ground.

“And take that stinking ferret with you!” the barmaid barked over the cries from inside.

The ferret darted to Valin, whimpering, and scratching, trying all the while to hide in his cloak while he was still on the ground. The tavern door slammed shut and muffled the cacophonous noise from inside.

“You ok Gothe?” Valin sighed as he gently took hold of Gothe and petted her brown fur. She nuzzled hard into his palm in answer. ‘Gah,’ a groan escaped him as he stood up slowly. He needed to get away from here quickly in case they wanted to finish what they’d started. Quickly, he pulled his hood over him, as Gothe scampered into the cozy, large pocket inside Valin’s brown cloak.

“That didn’t go quite to plan. What did I expect eh?” He sighed, “I’d get more sense speaking to a crop of turnips than from that lot.” Valin muttered as he wiped what he hoped was mud from his trousers. He trudged over the stone bridge away from the village without looking back. Each year, he saw how grief had hollowed them out and left their hearts empty.

He would have to do it by himself then. It would take him all night, but he would find his herd and bring them back. If he didn’t, his family would starve, and then it wouldn’t matter whether the dragons even came back. All would be lost.

As he walked on, the full moon beamed brightly and silvered the water pocketed throughout the scarred marshland. The beauty of the wilderness caught him by surprise. It was a siren, alluring yet deadly, calling him on. And so, he walked on, deep into the night.

Hours passed. The village was long behind him now, swallowed by the darkness. Not even an ember of light from the houses could be seen. Gothe continued to hunker down in Valin’s cloak, his body snugly fitting into the pocket Valin had sewed in, especially for her.

“I’m glad you can get some rest little one” Valin whispered as reached in to pat Gothe’s smooth head.

Spindly trees emerged from the gloom, markers of where Valin had seen his herd last. Despite the full moon, more light was needed to track. Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out a palm-sized leaded lantern along with the stub of a well-used waxy candle which he proceeded to light and place inside. The dim halo of light would have to be enough, as he kneeled on the damp ground which squelched under him. His fingers grazed the earth, making out the tracks in the soft mud. Valin rose slowly. A long sigh escaped him as he slowly, patiently followed the tracks which he read more avidly than a scroll written by the gods.

The lamp’s light made everything appear sinister with its yellow glow and artificial shadows. It was silent as a tomb. He felt uneasy as if he held in his hands a beacon for the dead. Harboring dread in every limb of his body, he carefully walked on.

“Oh!” A gasp escaped Valin. Emerging out of the darkness to his left, a lone mangled corpse stared back at him. He couldn’t make out much as it was bloated and half-submerged in the marsh waters. But there was no mistake, this was one of his cattle. He swallowed acrid bile as he fought the feeling of nausea.

There was nothing to be done for this poor creature now. He needed to press on and pray to the gods that he would find the rest alive. Valin’s shaking hands reached for his tin flask. As he gulped down the watered-down mead, an ember of hope remained in his chest as an afterglow of the warming liquor. Stowing the flask away, Valin continued his march onwards towards the rocky crag on the bare in front of him, away from the marshes.

Approaching the summit of the crag, loud booming and crunching noises awoke Valin from his inertia. Immediately he extinguished his lantern.

“Hold tight” he whispered to Gothe, who despite it all was still sleeping peacefully. Valin crouched low, practically crawling on his approach to the summit. As he peered over the moss-covered ridge his eyes alighted on death. His heart pounded, his bowels turned to liquid and his breath kept catching in his throat.

There in front of him was what remained of his cattle. Their bodies had been scattered and discarded all around the vast grassland below. Looming in the center of it all was a white dragon. Its bone-white scales were iridescent in the moonlight. Valin stared agog, frozen in place. The enormity of the dragon was truly unfathomable. It was taller and wider than even Fenrir Hall. It looked as immoveable as the tallest mountain and about as easy to kill. Oblivious to Valin it continued gorging on bones and flesh. Gore was smeared on its talons and maw as it consumed its prey frenzied.

Despite his panic, he knew of the beast he looked upon. There was only one white dragon in the land. Bards named him White Fire, the father of all dragons. Somber tales had been sung about warriors and bands of men laid waste trying to defeat this very dragon. Why it had come to the valley in midwinter was beyond him. He thought it impossible for dragons to survive the cold even as he lay there watching White Fire with his very own eyes.

Valin pleaded to the gods to keep him and Gothe safe, but he had less than a crumb of hope. Flakes of snow began to gently fall and Valin could see his breath cloud as it left his body. He needed to move. Slowly, stealthy he shuffled back down the ridge still keeping his eyes fixed on the dragon.

Crack.

As Valin lost his footing a loose rock tumbled down and smashed against a boulder down below. It was thunderous in the cold, hard silence. White Fire shot his head towards Valin. Both locked eyes with the other. White Fire’s eyes were the deepest pools of onyx, speckled with gold and silver. The night sky was alive in his eyes and it peered back at you. Valin stared into eternity, where death was written in the stars.

He blinked and the spell was broken. White Fire reared up and roared. The world trembled as the smell of sulfur permeated the air, thick and cloying. White Fire flared his cavernous nostrils and was about to release his fire of fury.

Faster than a hare chased by a starved hound, Valin got up and ran. To the left of him, he could feel the blazing heat of the fire White Fire had spewed out, missing him by only a horse stride. Valin ran zig zagged but he knew it was of no use. Each time White Fire released his fire he got closer to his mark.

A copse of bare trees loomed ahead of him in the dark. Valin’s lungs burned and his legs felt like lead. He would not make it. He was tiring so quickly. Abruptly, phosphorescent blue light now appeared from the direction of the trees. In his madness he felt like it was calling him, drawing him nearer.

The beating of his wings taking flight deafened him. Yet Valin continued to run. He looked toward the phosphorescent light once more, glowing much brighter now, guiding him. White Fire’s flapping wings were directly above him now, just as Valin’s legs gave way from under him. Crashing into the soft ground, Gothe whimpered as she fell out of Valin’s pocket. Gothe darted back under Valin’s cloak, where he felt her tiny body tremble.

He dared a glance above. A well of terror boiled over as he gaped at the giant above him, readying to take his life. It was clear White Fire was simply toying with him now, taking his time to kill. Safe in the knowledge he would always have caught his prey. Valin coughed, and the smell of sulfur and roiling heat was suffocating. His heart hammered in his chest.

Gothe’s head emerged and Valin tried in vain to shoo her away to safety. Gothe however would not leave his side. It was unbearable knowing that death was before him and he could not escape it.

He thought of all he had loved and who had been taken from him. And the few that remained. Suddenly, anger was threading through his terror and surged. His anger overwhelmed everything, blinding him. When his body could not bear the pressure any longer blue lightning shot from the palm of his hands, blasting White Fire in his shoulder.

White Fire shrieked in shock and pain. As he tumbled from the sky, the scales on his shoulder turned an ash grey color from where the lightning found its mark. Valin was still on the ground, astounded while looking at his hands. White Fire managed to regain his footing and came shooting towards Valin once more like a flaming arrow. Valin was drained and his entire body ached.

Without thinking he put his hands in front of him and the blue lightning shot forth and hit White Fire in the center of his chest. Valin put his hands over his ears as White Fire sent forth another deafening screech before hitting the ground with the force of an earthquake. Valin dared not take a single breath.

To the west, the dawn sun arose, and the darkness was giving way to the dark blue and grey tones of the watery early morning light. With the dawning of the sun, White Fire gazed at Valin with a look that held the promise of a painful death. Even if it could not be meted out today, White Fire would keep his promise. Valin screwed his eyes tight shut and when he opened them again, the thrum of White Fire’s beating wings almost knocked the remaining air out of his lungs as he saw White Fire flying away into the distance. The sulfur and overpowering heat ebbed away. Finally, he could breathe again.

He winced as he moved to sit upright. He shook his head and sighed. All around him was perfect silence. Innumerable questions swirled around his mind.

He was woken from his revere by Gothe jumping on his lap and nudging his hands.

“Gothe! You’re ok!” Valin wailed. Gothe chirped and kept nuzzling Valin’s hand. Valin let out a sigh. “I have no idea what that thing I did was either. It will be our secret. My mam will think I’ve been touched by the Rowan tree leaf if I tell her about this. Dragons now in the winter eh, that’ll be the end of us, no doubt about it.”

Valin looked to the copse of trees once more and the phosphorescent light had vanished. In its place now was a stout middle-aged man with a staff. Wearing a black cloak lined with fur, Valin blinked to make certain he was seeing him.

Graceful as a cat, the man walked over and sat down next to Valin. He pulled out a flask of mead and thrust it towards Valin.

“Drink up lad, I’ve never seen anyone who needed a drink more. By the gods, I know I do.” His deep commanding voice made it difficult for Valin to refuse. “I almost didn’t reach you in time. I’ve been a fool.” He shook his head and rubbed his hand over his face. “After all my searching, you’ve been here all along.” A minute went by in total silence, Valin didn’t know whether he was too exhausted or too confused to speak or indeed if he even needed to. The stranger continued, “nothings as futile as wanting to change the past. No matter. I’ve found you now.”

Valin winced as he tried to get comfortable, he was terrified that the dragon would return at any moment.

“We must make a move.” he declared urgently as if he had been privy to Valin’s thoughts. Valin handed back the flask and he slowly rose to stand, taking the hand outstretched hand of the stranger. He felt as weak as a sickly kitten.

Once he was standing, the dizziness threatened to overwhelm him.

“Thank you, truly I’m in your debt. I’m Valin son of Vail, what name shall I call you by?” Valin croaked as he willed himself to speak.

“Melorwyn, but I already knew your name lad. We met once, many summers ago.” He chuckled.

Valin started at Melorwyn with wide eyes and mouth fully agape, like a freshly caught trout from the river. The only Melorwyn Valin knew was Melorwyn Fenrir. Lord of Fenrir Hall and the wolven pack.

Valin stammered, “Is it you, Lord Fenrir? Truly?”

“A man who has just fought off the father of dragon and lived to tell the tale doesn’t need to worry about addressing men by their titles! Call me Melorwyn. I should like us to be friends, dragon warrior.” He rubbed his beard as if deep in thought.

“Er, as you like. But I’m no dragon warrior make no mistake.” Valin’s head throbbed as words were slippery as eels in his dazed state and were about as easy to catch. He didn’t know how to explain what had happened, so he didn’t even try.

“Tusk. The answers you need I can give and more. So much time has been wasted and we must grasp the nettle so to speak. I must explain everything to you in its proper order you see. Can’t just go charging in. Before I give you your answers, you must meet the pack first. You see, the Wolven have waited long enough to meet their new master.”