Breathe Fire from the Stars

There weren't always dragons in the valley. Not until eight months ago when the soldiers of house Dr’ghan, the advance forces of the Syroth, brought fire and blood to the peaceful village of Heirke. Their black banners stained red with the visage of the off-world beast they called dragons hung over the council building, the watchtower, the tavern, and any other building where villagers congregated. The people of Heirke were simple craftsmen, hunters, shopkeepers, and most of all scholars. They were not fighters. Bards and learned men and women came from all over Sylastia to visit the fortress-like library that held the greatest repository of knowledge on the planet.

Brais rapped his knuckles on the bar for Susana’s attention. The plump taverness had turned gray at the temples in these last months and her once easy smile had grown strained.

“That’s the last one, Brais, my dear.” A grimy cloth appeared from behind the bar and set to work mopping the ale that she’d sloshed across the once gleaming planks.

She offered no apology. Brais had not expected one, he just fished out the coppers he owed and laid them on the bar, smiled graciously, and said his thanks. They might take his life, but they would not take his manners. He pushed away from the bar and wobbled a bit, tipping his eyes up toward the black banner of house Dr’ghan with its awful red lizard head that covered the words to the old tavern song painted over the bar. Brais steadied himself with a hand on the bar and turned away in thinly veiled disgust. He scanned the faces of his friends and neighbors sitting around the room that was once filled with so much gladness. No one met his gaze. No one had seen him nearly fall on his backside. No heated philosophical debates about the origin of the creu or whether the ostari ever truly existed. The patrons kept their eyes on their mugs and their voices hushed if they spoke at all. Eight months of occupation waiting for the real enemy to appear at any moment had stolen their will.

Brais seethed for a moment before gathering himself and setting off for his own table. He wended his way through the crowded room on wobbly legs and found his seat in the back corner of the room. Partitions blocked his table from prying eyes but left him a clear view of the front door. The books stacked drunkenly on his table were not the sort that Lord Dr’ghan’s men would accept as casual reading. He might be drunk, but Brais’s true elixir was the written word, and somewhere in the Great Library were the answers he sought. These were just the latest batch Varka had lent him. On their own, they may not amount to much but the contents of Brais’s notes would certainly tell a different story.

Brais plopped down his spindle-legged chair which let out an ominous groan. He set down his cup and reached for one of the leather-bound volumes. These books all featured one topic. The Font of Creation. Many of the scholars in Heirke debated its existence, but Brais was certain that discovering its location was the object of Dr'ghan's mission in Heirke. If he could find it before the Syroth, he could free his planet of Dr'ghan and the yoke of slavery that followed him. Thumbing through the tomb for the page he'd dog-eared, Brais reached into his coat pocket for his journal when the cup was upended and its precious golden contents splashed over the pockmarked table and his books.

“Oy! Watch it,” Brais exclaimed, looking up to see who had so carelessly bumped into the table. His face fell as he saw that it was one of Dr’ghan’s men in house livery fully with side sword and club at his belt.

“Ugh, sorry there, fella. That's a lot of books," the offender slurred. "My apologies, master scholar.” Brais looked up to see a pot-bellied guardsman with glassy eyes and a red face.

“No, no… no need to apologize, guardsmen,” Brais said, hastily mopping the books while ale spilled into his lap. Pants could be laundered.

“Look here, sir. Don’t let it be said the men of house Dr’ghan are not men of manners,” the guard rained more ale down on the table as he rose his own cup in salute.

What canard was this? Even in Brais’s ale-addled state, this seemed staggeringly ironic.

"It's quite alright, officer," Brais did his best to keep the contempt from his tone.

"Good scholar, let me buy you another ale to make up for my blunderous mistake." The guard waved to Susana and shouted for another round for him and his friend.

Brais did his best to disappear into the shadowed corner. The shame of being called a friend of a dragon was more than even his outrage. He would have said if it weren't for the club hanging at the ready on the portly guardsman's belt. He'd seen friends beaten senseless in the streets for less. In the early days of the occupation, it was the daily sport for the dragons to make an example of someone who offended them in some way. Brais thought the true sport was the imagination required to continue finding ways to justify offense from a cowed people.

Before Brais could object to the ale, the portly guard sat and pushed it across the table at him.

"Let's see, what sort of reading you have here," the guard said. Perhaps not so inebriated as he appeared.

Brais felt the color drain from his face. He raised his cup to make a toast to the health of Lord Dr'ghan and took a big draw to hide his pallor and distract the guard. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw dark looks from nearby patrons. Others raised their own cups to hide their own fear or disgust.

"Just a bit of light research into old fairytales," Brais said finally. "Nothing to interest a mighty dragon guard such as yourself."

"Don't be so sure about that, good scholar," the guard said, mopping ale from his bristly mustache and thumbing at one of the books with greasy fingers. "My lord, Dr'ghan, is very keen to learn the histories of your world. None have been too keen to help him in his pursuits. As you might imagine," he tried what might have been a conspiratorial wink but belched loudly instead.

After apologizing profusely for his behavior, the portly guard looked Brais in the eye with sudden sobriety and said, "I'm sure the man who helped direct my lord to what he's after would receive a handsome reward."

Brais suppressed a shudder. He started to humbly turn down the offer but rethought.

"Would such a scholar be afforded unfettered access to the Great Library?" Brais asked, trying to look innocent or, at least, friendly.

The guard tapped his nose and thought for a moment as he eyed Brais.

"From what I've seen, my friend, I'd dare say that lord Dr'ghan would give such a man a fair amount more than that."

Brais looked only at the guard across the table from him. The thought of the looks on the faces of anyone in earshot nauseated him. Could this be possible? Was this man offering him not only a means to further his research but also offering him access to the head of the dragon? Perhaps the ale was clouding his mind, but Brais was struck by the sudden formation of an idea. It was true that Heirke had no fighters, but that did not mean that if given the opportunity, one couldn't strike a blow against an enemy. And, maybe, with a big enough spark, he'd see all the dragons burn.