Born of The Crone

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Most didn't remember a time before the scorched earth, but a few town historians recalled the legend of when the first of the vicious beasts arrived. They loved to tell the story of the old crone and the devil she brought to rescue herself...

***

She could feel the heat from the fireplace, the golden glow kissing her face as she stared into the crackling embers. The howling of the wind blew through her tiny house, rattling the shutters and knocking the dried herbs from their perch.

A low rumbling in the distance vibrated the ground beneath her feet and she knew the time had come. Twisting the handle of the pot bubbling over the fire, she pulled the ladle up and scooped part of the potion out. She pulled a small glass vial pendant from around her neck and gently filled the bottle, watching the swirling black liquid sparkle and steam as it instantly cooled in the wind. She jammed a makeshift cork into the top before slipping it back over her head and under her scarf.

Boom! The door was kicked open with such force that the hinges broke and the splintered wood fell like fodder to the dirt floor. The old crone steadied her aching bones and stood up, bracing herself for the onslaught of the dozen men sent to bring her to justice. But none breached the doorway. They stood outside, their torches held high but too fearful to come in. This brought a smile to her face; she knew they wouldn’t touch her. They knew what she could do to them if they did.

She walked towards the doorway, her pronounced limp straining her bent back, and she stopped just inside the threshold. The voices of the men cracked as they hollered to her to come out; to face the charges and the punishment they believed she’d earned. The horses they sat upon shimmied and whined, sensing the danger and feeding off the men’s fear.

The old crone grinned, reached her gnarled hand into her pocket and pulled out a fistful of dirty white powder. She caressed it gently, watched it change from white to a deep emerald green, then muttered a few words across her swollen knuckles before bringing it to her lips and blowing it towards the men. The powder rushed with such force towards the horses, billowing and audibly crackling, never changing course as it enveloped the terrified stallions.

Instantly the horses reared back, their nostrils flared and their ears flicked back and forth rapidly. They bucked viciously and the men crashed to the unforgiving ground. Half of the posse fled, running after their horses, shrieks from both man and beast could be heard for miles, carried on the wind and down into the valley below.

The leader stepped forward, only one small step, and demanded that the crone leave her hovel and come with them. His arm shook with fear, the burning pike wobbled precariously in his hand as she turned her full gaze to meet him. The breath stilled in his chest as she opened her mouth and screeched.

He threw his torch to the ground and pressed his fists to his ears. The loud, shrill yell reverberated off every blade of grass and sent an earthquake over the fields.

When her breath had finally left her, the crone reached into her scarf and retrieved the vial she’d made so carefully earlier. She ripped off the waxed cork, raised the bottle high, and downed it in a single gulp. The wind stopped. The silence was deafening.

*thump*

A single pulse.

*thump*

The leader of the posse brought his hands down from his ears.

*thump*

The old crone was beating one deformed hand against her chest.

*thump*

She pitched forward, fell to her knees, and her head snapped back. Her arm extended as she landed one final, fatal blow to her heart.

*THUMP*

The woman’s hands dropped lifeless to her sides. From deep within the dark cabin, a whirling black mass took shape, snaked around her body and lifted her from the ground. The men stared in horror as her body began to twist and snap, the bones breaking themselves in unnatural positions.

Then her body began rotating feverishly, thrashing her dead frame like a rag doll. Flashes of bone and skin began spinning so quickly that a flickering red blaze radiated like a shockwave from the cabin and shook the men off their feet.

The crone's hovel exploded in a barrage of fire and ash, pelting the terrified men with pieces of wood and pottery. As they shielded their faces, a roar pierced their ears and rocked their bodies from the inside out.

The bravest of the men got to his feet to look at the decimated remains of the house. Among the rubble, an enormous, gruesome creature stood, dark wings unfolded and spanning the length of a field of spring barley.

Before they had a moment to scream, the beast rose to its full height, swelled its chest and belched a red hot shower of flame towards them. Each man was shrouded in fire, skin melting from their bones, some with arms outstretched as if to ward off the brutal death.

The crone was no more. She was now a creature born of evil and hatred, the first of the Highland dragons. She flew off to the moors to sleep…and wait.