Glimpsing the Future

In the highest mountains, there are few conversations. But that was the point. Whether for self-exile from society or simply a retreat from the pointless noise it produced; people and creatures who made the rocky elevation their home did not care. Snowcapped peaks, blistering winds, and the whistle of dancing flora were more than enough for the sole resident of the crag. Though villagers did occasionally venture to her home with requests of farm equipment or passage to lands beyond, their words were often caught in their throat over what they saw behind the anvil. None of that mattered, though. Between the song of the mountains and the stories of the Sparks, there was never a true silence.

Inside a mountain cave, uninviting darkness cast a veil of uncertainty that hastened the imagination. Sounds of a clanging percussion reverberated dozens of times from the depths; after reaching the first fork in the cavern passage, amplified and dulled resonances came from all sides. Intermingled with the natural chill of a space so far from the sun, the faint smell of decay hung in the stagnant air. But all was not devoid of life. In a pocket cavern deeply nestled from the entrance, the glow of white-hot metal smoldered. Gripping the unheated length in her red-scaled hand, Artéa the Forge, eyed the metal. Tall and thickly muscled from years of work behind her anvil, the leathers covering her form were sleeveless and at her backside, her tail swayed gently from side to side. She clasped the weighted hammer in her free hand and raised it over her horned brow and white hair for a powerful strike that clanged off the walls a hundred times. From the impact, the Sparks flew in all directions. Tonight’s story would be grand, but it was not set to start. Not yet. The metal wasn’t ready. Again, and again, the enormous half-dragon hybrid worked the steel and rotated it as needed. Her reptilian, red-orange eyes belied a kindness that few grew to comprehend; some would have viewed such conclusionary thought as a curse, but to Artéa, it was no bother. The natural world was hers to enjoy and although she did enjoy the books of the humans in their valleys, she knew full well that to live among them as anything more than a carnival sight, was a fool’s dream.

Sparks cascaded with her next impact and a flash of an image momentarily flickered before her eyes. Too quick… she mused. Another slam of her hammer rained impurities at and around her clawed feet. The image came before her once more; it’s something…warm. A bond. A bond forged deeper than friendship. Each continued strike turned the image from blurry to clear and before long, the image of a young man came before her. He was tall, thickly built, and peppered with skin that looked to be more rock than flesh. His hair was long and braided to keep it from his eyes and in his hands, he held a colossal battle-ax as he stared down a monstrous three-headed canine that Artéa felt would dwarf even herself. Around him, a wall separated combatant from spectators who cheered at the severity of the danger. It’s an arena… the dragoness realized.

Beside the nameless Stone Man, another shadow suddenly came into view. Equally as tall, perhaps even a bit larger, the fighter held a gargantuan shield wrapped in hide and bordered in dragon teeth. She knew the teeth to be of dragon-kind.

A foolish dragon hunter, no doubt. How many of my brethren fell to his blade in mere sport?

The sight troubled her and detracted some of her anticipation, but still, she hammered on. Despite her question and waning interest, the story of the Sparks continued. Before the fighters, the three-headed creature snarled; its deep growl was made all the louder by each head performing the same action.

Man’s stories always have these beasts, these tricanines, with a magical breath. One from each throat. Artéa studied the monolithic, rottweiler-ish brute. The middle head drooled an acidic goop from its saggy, black lips, the leftward head bore a black substance reeking of demonic power and slobbered in anticipation of the coming meal; from the final head, crystalized saliva at and around its near foot-long teeth spoke all too loudly of the icy attack it had at the ready.

The Stone Man looked to his compatriot and grinned. Thus far the battle had left him without serious visible wounds and beside him, the shield wielder equally smiled as he lowered his guard some—

Scales? A dragon…an actual dragon-kind beyond myself?

Artéa pounded the steel and rotated it once more in her frenzied notice of something so familiar and yet seemingly impossible.

The Shield Wielder dropped his defense ever so slightly and looked to his friend. The communication between them was as silent as it was instant; they knew each other’s thoughts in this moment. In his opposite hand, the Shield Wielder gripped a colossal sword almost as large as he. He hunched down and set his magnificent blade at an angle on the ground and then reached his shield-hand over to take the handle.

Such an odd stance. Defensible, but odd.

This was a planned tactic though and the Stone Man, with his axe at the ready, gingerly stepped behind his ally and braced himself as he set his feet upon the middle and tip of the earthward weapon.

“Time to risk it for the fuckin’ biscuit, brahsa!”

Still mostly hidden behind armor and shield, the Shield Wielder released a grunt of agreement. He slid his scaley hand along the mid-length of the sword and coiled the strength in his powerful digitigrade legs before flexing his crocodilian tail for an extra push.

Before them, the middle head of the monstrous tricanine flexed its jaws, and whether by its desire or the impulse of all three, the left paw scratched at the earth but stopped when its prey suddenly made its move.

In a powerful thrust with strength unimaginable by most, the Shield Wielder hurled the Stone Man into the air by flinging his sword skyward. Above, the cavernous ceiling was littered with stalactites that threatened to pierce his form should he fly too close. Below, the left and right heads of the three-headed beast followed the abruptly airborne prey. The Shield Wielder had only the poison before him. He ran in with his shield before him and collided with the creature’s mandible as it snapped forth trying to bite at his skull. Teeth grazed the shield and left a goopy residue that quickly began to sizzle and smoke as it ate away at the shield itself. The dragon-kind pushed off to clear some room and swung in to drive his blade between the gums, but the teeth closed together preventing the slice.

Above, the Stone Man swung his ax to use its momentum for some forward propulsion; he watched as the two heads glared at him and as their jaws opened; his centrifugal force drove him in circles while gravity retook its hold on him.

“That ‘comin’ down’ feeling I had last night’ll feel like a tickle next to this!”

The Shield Wielder glanced for a split second at his brother-in-arms. He noticed the left head’s half-frozen salivations cease and its mouth close as it readied a breath attack.

“Brahsa!”

The pieces were already in motion and the Stone Man hurled forward with the weight of his mass accelerated by the razor-thin edge of his weapon’s rotation. He couldn’t dodge.

Artéa’s hammer strokes were automatic, impulsive… she watched the Stone Man descend toward the left mouth. Between its teeth, the blue-ish, white light of winter magic readied.

The Shield Wielder knew desperate action was needed. He studied the middle head for the next opportunity and noticed that between bites, which continually raked teeth against shield, there was a vapor that wafted from its throat. Milliseconds slipped by as a memory came to gargantuan dragon-kind; recalling a night where fire had met a gas within his cavern home, he abandoned all defense and took hold of the enormous teeth in the top and bottom jaw. Astounding force contested his strength as the tricanine realized the danger of the moment. Saliva burned at the Shield Wielder’s scaled hands and still, he gripped the slippery surface and forcibly opened the cavernous mouth before him. In the depths of his chest, a heat rose. It gathered force and warmed the flesh of his esophagus before igniting at exposure to the open air, flames erupted from the dragon-kind’s mouth and scalded the fleshy tongue of the middle head before finding vapors and explosively reacting in a detonation that sent the dragon-kind soaring backward off his clawed feet. Both other heads reacted to the onslaught of anguish as their shared body burned internally.

Above, the Stone Man noticed the reaction and equally took note of the exposed throat of his target’s head as it reeled back. He steadied his axe and in a dizzying array of slices that sent blood leftward with his rotation, he cleaved the trachea and grazed the unprotected jugular veins, which sent a ripple of further agony that forced the tricanine to the ground on the left side. A half-second later, he cratered into the arena floor and blindly leaped backward as the left head plummeted downward and rolled atop its massive paw; it let out a whimper of defeat whilst the right struggled to keep standing but failed moments later.

Both combatants looked at each other from their backs and then back to the tricanine, then once more to each other. A chuckle of disbelief escaped them that was immediately drowned out by the sea of dwarven spectators in the stands surrounding them. In the distance to the north, the dwarven king stood and congratulated them both with a hefty gold mug raised in their honor. The two fighters rose to their feet. While the Stone Man took in the admiration, the Shield Wielder moved toward the fallen beast. All three heads were still and breathless. He stopped before the middle head and set his hand apologetically upon its moist nose in a prayer of regretful mourning.

The metal had been hammered of impurities. The story of the Sparks was fading. Artéa intentionally looked for anything that would produce further sparks from the steel.

Who is he? I have to know!

She studied the form-fitting armor around his horned cranium and the soulful yellow eyes and then saw the whisp of white hair running the length of his back from under the helm. In an instant, she knew. Her hammer quieted and she released the steel from her hand. To her right beside the hearth, a familiar sight rocked silently in the glow of the fire. His red scales were soft, his horns were mere buds not yet protruding the skin, and from his scalp, the slightest bits of white hair were beginning to come in. Artéa moved forth and dropped the hammer in mid-step. The Sparks had shown her something grand indeed. Only three dragon-kind remained across the globe; herself, her son, and his genocidal father who had singlehandedly slaughtered all others. For so long during his time unhatched, she had feared the worst of fates for her son. An existence of loneliness. But the Sparks had revealed his destiny to be more. So much more. She had no understanding of who the Stone Man beside her son was, but in time, their story would come to be. Until then, she looked to the large brown and grey barn owl perched on a stand and then to the paper and quill that she so often recorded the stories of the Sparks within. Years ago, she’d made a deal with an author whom she’d saved from the mountain. Supply her with man’s stories, and his debt would be paid. Tonight, her owl would bring him a story.