Dragon Girl

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. In fact, not much lived there anymore, not since the Long Ruin changed everything, driving the people out of the area and onto the plain, into the foothills of the mountains. She paused at the edge of the sandy cusp, towering pillars of rock layered with shades of rusty red and brown counting the centuries above her head. Her pale, gray eyes squinted into the sun, the chasing breeze lifting the hem of her hood and pushing it back from her long, dark hair before she could catch it. The tunnel of silent giants loomed over her, funneling the brisk air with a faint moaning sound that raised gooseflesh on her neck.

Her gloved hands righted the fallen covering, orange sun dim through the haze overhead casting odd, soft shadows as her boots thudded across the powdered ground cover, matching the beating of her heart.

She chased a rumor into the valley, but one she couldn’t ignore, even if the others did, lost in their misery and their petty complaints. Her hand reached up, caught at the heavy iron pendant that swung from her neck, tucking it back inside her tunic after a swift kiss for the charm. Her father’s final gift, as it was his father’s to him, generations of her bloodline carrying the hope that the foretold would come again. The metal warmed against her heart, the head of the creature calling her a talisman she cherished.

There weren’t always dragons in the valley, no. But, with the grace of Thalla, there was now.

The sand deepened, small hills sliding beneath her feet, the heat of the sun diminished by the murky sky but not undone, sweat pooling at the small of her back under her thin mail and the soft padding beneath, her brow beading with it, though she ignored the discomfort. Her steady stride turned to slipping, sliding, and cursing when she lost her balance, forcing her to move close to the monstrous formations, hand reaching for support. The rough leather of her gloves sent cascades of loose stone to join the uneven groundcover. So delicate, these giants of ages past, the history of what came before sighing into dust under her touch.

She paused at the third tower of stone, the pathway turning to the right and the left. The spyglass at her hip extended with a snap in her capable hands, one eye squinting shut as she scanned both directions. Neman's hastened tale at the pub last night had caught her attention, drew her here in hope at a time such a feeling was rare for her, for any of them. Of course, he’d run like the coward he was from the encounter. Not that he had the knowledge or skills—or courage, bless him—to deal with what emerged from the wreckage of what was.

Both directions yielded only more emptiness, the moaning of the wind’s passage louder now that she’d left the open plain behind. She noted the deeply etched markings in the next tower of eroding stone, freshly scored, the trade route’s safe passage carefully maintained. There were sinkholes and occasional incursions of rockhawks, thornwolves, and even the odd eldertroll that made wandering this place dangerous if one wasn’t careful, certainly for a single traveler.

“Turn leeward at marker seven,” he’d said last night over a mug of ale she’d bought him when his chattering about his sighting lured her from the shadows she preferred. She’d filled his cup thrice before he gave up the rest. “Sixty lengths, maybe more, down that curve, just past the crumbled wall, there’s a hole.” He’d gulped the ale in giant swallows, as though determined to forget once he'd told her what he knew. “Eyes, Miranda. And a grumble like the world was weary of my bones and my time was up.”

“And smoke,” she’d prodded him, impatient for the most important part. “You said you saw smoke.” Where no smoke should be in the barren wasteland of nothing.

“Aye,” Neman had nodded, gesturing to Allette for a refill. He’d be on his face and snoring in an hour at that rate. “Smoke as black as Murgun’s heart, by Thalla.” He’d blinked at her, terror in his dark eyes. “If a dragon it be, girl, we’re all doomed.”

She paused at the fifth marker, shaking her head at his pessimism while the wind buffeted her with dust. They’d all forgotten by now, myths and legends turned to fear, mistrust, and revulsion. She knew better. Had learned at her father’s knee the truth of dragonkind. Of the betrayal that led to the Long Ruin and their decline, their disappearance, until they were only old stories meant to frighten children to their beds. Her deep sigh carried itself away on the firm rush of air now pushing against her through the tunnels of rock, the main valley ahead.

Something howled, that sound amplified by the hearty gale, carried from somewhere ahead. She recognized the baying call of a hunting thornwolf, hands instantly falling to the long knives at her hips. But the wind played tricks, impossible to tell how far they were—or how close. Even more determined, she carried on, knowing she had to be out by nightfall and not willing to retreat, no matter the cost.

Miranda had waited her entire life for a chance like this, ridiculed and isolated for her ancestry. She refused to believe it was all for nothing, gritting her teeth against the palpitation of her pulse in her chest. One way or another, she’d know the truth of things. And thornwolves be damned.

The call came again as she hugged the nearest tower for what thin protection it might provide, shoulder scraping more sand from the stone, raining debris falling over the fabric of her cloak, her tall boots now silent as she trod more carefully. The hilts of her long blades felt like old friends through her gloves, mail shirt a welcome addition she’d hesitated over donning before she left. Now she was grateful for the weight of it, like a hug from Pappa who’d gifted to her when she was able to bear it. But as she neared the sixth marker, the echoing cry of the hunting predator faded, as though coming from a greater distance. Hopefully, that meant she’d complete her investigation unchallenged, though she knew better than to trust luck in this gods forsaken place.

She relaxed somewhat regardless, the knot between her shoulders loosening, her breaths no longer long and measured to control her fear, though she proceeded with elevated caution, nonetheless. Her father taught her better than to trust her ears when the tall towers of the valley could deceive even the best tracker. Still, she hurried, faster than he would have approved of, choosing speed over stealth, the sight of the seventh marker up ahead driving her steps.

It had already begun to wear away from the constant wind, though she knew the next caravan through would refresh it on their way by. Miranda refocused as she spun on her heel to the right, toward the East as Neman said, entering the side passage and immediately relishing the lessening of the steady airflow coming down the main route. She paused, listened now that the steady moaning had dulled, but heard nothing, waiting perhaps not for long enough. With good reason, though, and surely Pappa would forgive her because there, merely sixty lengths ahead as the villager had said, stood a crumbled pile of stone, one of the narrow columns fallen and spread like a shattered corpse across the ground.

She approached swiftly, heart now pounding so hard she could hear her pulse in her ears, excitement, trepidation, and anxious worry all winding around a giant ball of ache inside her as she reached the fallen giant and looked up. Something had brought the column down, something that wasn’t nature or time or erosion. There were marks on the flanking pillars, deep gashes into the delicate stone, parallel slashes that had her breathless. Could it be? Had she finally found what she sought?

Her loss of attention was her downfall. She heard the growl behind her far too late, spinning to face the source. It had crept up on her, and it wasn’t alone, crusted hide bristling with poisoned spikes, the thornwolf’s yellow eyes almost glowing in the light. Giant feet padded in near-silence as it paced one step closer, its hulking shoulders at height with hers, the two companions who oozed along behind it slinking in silence, jaws hanging wide, yellow teeth dripping ichor as they grinned their deadly attention at her.

One she might have handled on her own. Two would be an epic challenge she’d likely not survive. Three? She exhaled, knives sliding from their sheaths in two whispers as she squared herself. They’d not take her lightly, though death waited on the other side of this fight.

Her only regret was failing her father. And her legacy.

The lead hunter licked its chops, forked tongue lolling out as it barked a soft command to its companions. They flanked their alpha, though hung back and awaited what was to come. Far too smart for their own good, the nasty creatures. Her only chance was escape but there was nowhere to run.

Or was there? Neman said there was a hole. She risked a look back over her shoulder, knowing it exposed her to a sudden attack but trusting the risk was worth it. And spotted what he’d claimed right where he'd said it would be, the dark opening large enough for the thornwolves to follow but would at least give her a place to make a stand.

And maybe, if he was right, more than that.

She spun and dashed for the opening without allowing thought, hearing the quick howl of the lead thornwolf as she did, knowing they surged after her, faster and stronger than her, the distance just too great for her to reach in time. Death chased her down, but to her surprise, didn’t catch her until she crossed the lip of the darkness.

She felt the weight of contact against her back, the lead hunter’s head lifting to slam into her as it rose, carrying her off her feet and propelling her further into the darkness. Her short flight through the air ended with a hard landing, hitting the ground with concussive impact that tore air from her heaving chest. Instinct took over, rolling her over with a grunt, the ache from the blow lost in the heady rush of terrified recovery as she regained her feet, spinning to face down her attacker. It was already snapping its teeth at her, two companions crowding the entrance while she slashed at the lead thornwolf, both knives catching the creature across the snout in lightning-quick slices that had it howling. But she’d only enraged it, crouching and waiting for it to lunge. Maybe she could stab before she died, take it with her.

Because she was dying, of that she was certain. The punctures in her back despite her mail awoke with prickling jabs to tell her the thornwolf had done more damage than she'd hoped, the spreading poison of the hunter’s spines flooding her, taking her strength, her air. The toxin worked quickly, so she had very little time. And had to make it count if she could.

Blood sprayed from the muzzle of the beast, the two slashes leaking its poison in a fan of droplets as it leaped for her, the world around her slowing to a prolonged pace. The very air around her stretched out in time, pulling against her body and her reactions, the imminence of death coming for her in slow motion she couldn’t avoid.

Time broke in two when a roar shook her to her bones, her body limp from the sound and venom. She collapsed to the ground as a giant, black shape emerged from the darkness in rush of hot air and the scent of metal so powerful it choked her. A pale eye flickered over and then past her, and strange, silver flames burst forth, bathing the opening in glowing fire, devouring the thornwolves in howling agony.

A dragon. Did she whisper that despite her dry mouth, her strength draining away, heart slowing to heavy, painful thuds? It didn't matter. There was a dragon. In the valley. At last.

She was smiling when she fell to her knees, then her side, her last thought of her father, of how proud he would be, as that giant eye turned toward her.

And a deep voice said, “Dragon girl.”

And then, darkness.