Dragonslayers

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. The Bulwark had held for as long as the people had remembered. Reshavit was a distant kingdom, bordering the wildlands where those loathsome beasts had squatted since the Raging, drawn to the scent of gold and tender flesh as such things are wont to be. But this has changed with their breaching of the walls, and we must move with all haste to seal it.

I am Cerin Elphaud, or the Scrivener of the 15th Mechanized Lance of Lost Keshaim, if one is to be formal about it. My duty is to describe the deeds of my comrades within the Book of Records and assure they are honored within the Book of Memorial when they finally fall. Thus my writings have resumed with this new attack by mankind’s most hated foe. There were a pair of them, a sinuous whip of a thing some twenty yards long named Gishna, and a wide-bodied brute called Jhurah of fifteen yards. Apparently the locals named them after demons which were said to have dwelt in the Valley some millenia or so ago, before they were bound by a traveling Saint. I pray we do not need the services of a Saint to deal with their alleged reincarnations. The ironclads should be enough.

Year 313, Ofel 17, Erdain

Captain Ahbal has had me focus more on my writing these days now that we close on our destination. I’ve been slacking the past few weeks, nothing interesting going on. He’s quite the character, I must say. Deeply tanned skin and eyes so dark as to be near black, with salt-and-pepper hair tied into a bun and a long braided beard done in a style I’ve never seen in any of the lands we’ve visited. He’s a good man to lead the Lance, a proper captain. I don’t know much about him though. I’ve tried asking some of the other crew members but they just say he’s been captain for all his adult life, and his father before that, and his father’s mother, and his father’s mother’s father, and so on. I wonder if the other Lances are the same.

Year 313, Ofel 18, Apsdain

I resume my writing with our Lance passed into the borders of Reshavit. The people here are different from my homeland, but I hear languages being spoken from time to time that I recognize and I take heart that I have not passed the boundaries of my known world entirely. I see how they look at us though. I wonder if they have seen an ironclad not belonging to the ornate style captained by the princes and princesses of Reshavit. Our own are far shoddier to look at, I reckon, basic steel plates over a clockwork engine and wooden hull, like a boat turned upside-down and given caterpillar tracks. The Dragonslayers stand out further, of course. Even so I have no doubt the Reshaviti vessels could tear us apart with little trouble, but alas for them, there have not been dragons in the kingdom for quite some time, thus their vessels are ill-suited to deal with them.

To speak frankly, my hand trembles as I contemplate the ordeal ahead of us. I have been with the company for three months now, but as yet we have done little but bring down the odd pack of dragonets which have menaced towns and villages across our route. A true wyrm is something I have never seen, though the older folk tell me to hunt them is quite the ordeal. I half-believed them joking when I heard their stories, but I also remember the day they pulled into my home city’s landport, and the parallel rents in their metal hull which could not have been from any weapon of man.

Year 313, Ofel 19, Othdain

I write this with great urgency, for trouble is already upon us. Our ill luck had our convoy run into highwaymen while crossing a pass, the blaggards rushing down as I write and the men of the Lance preparing to receive them. Captain Ahbal shouts orders above the vessel in which I cower as I check the viewports for signs of the battle’s progression. My comrades fire bolts and arrows at the onrushing foe, slaying several, and are locked in close combat. Jephthis cleaves a man’s skull with his ax, and Maras is directing her vessel to run over a packed bunch of them. Many of my comrades stand atop our ships with pikes, pushing the foe back or impaling them outright. Already I see their morale waver, they had not thought us prepared. Thank the Saints, they are beginning to break, they’re running!

I need some time to collect my wits.

Year 313, Ofel 20, Ghoddain

It has occurred to me, now, that I must give an accounting of myself, for the benefit of future readers, lest I be deemed craven. Though I work with these fearsome individuals my own nature is far less combative, primarily due to my useless legs. I was afflicted with a pox some time into my childhood, and now I am confined to this rolling-chair. But unlike my comrades, I can read, write, and have a head for numbers, a degree of scholarship which the Lance is sorely lacking and was in dire need of, prior to my joining it. That’s a story for another time, though. The long and short of it is that I’d do little in that brawl save end up gutted, and who would manage the inventory then?

I should note also that brother Hurim fell in combat against those highwaymen the prior day, succumbing to his wounds this morning. His full name was Hurim Ashet, from southern Maphis. A large man with a full black beard and shaven head. I remember the stories he told, and his skill with an arbalest. Let his memory be commemorated here, so that those who come after me will know that a good man now rests with the Saints.

Year 313, Ofel 21, Peshdain

I’ve tried to get to know some of the more important Lance members better, particularly the captains of the Dragonslayers. There’s First Captain Ahbal Chaitan, of course, and old Jepthis, his second. Maras, who I mentioned prior, is a flax-headed barbarian from Skissur. Kalit ad Barad is from Jusha. I don’t know what he looks like though, as the Jushan love their many robes and veils. We’re an odd bunch, truth be told. The Lance recruits from all the lands it passes through. Most of the crew communicate through finger-tongue, gesture speech. Ahbal insisted we all learn it. Keeps us from having to be polyglots.

You’d think the varied nature of the Lance would lead to conflict but that only rarely happens. I suppose it’s because you don’t take on a job like this if you’re an average person. You leave your old life and its prejudices behind when you join the Lance. Whatever you were before, you’re a dragon hunter now.

Year 313, Ofel 22, Vamdain

We near the western entrance to the Valley. According to captain Ahbal, the local language puts it in a semantic context which is reserved for Emperors and Holy places, hence it must be written as a proper noun lest we be stricken with a curse or some such thing. It is the heart of the Reshaviti culture, and its largest city, Daman, will soon be in sight. Past that some hundred leagues is the Bulwark, and our two dragons. I am beginning to see why the Reshaviti did not bother haggling when writing our contract. If the beasts reach Daman it would be horrendous. Perhaps fortunately, the eastern end is mostly a land of cattle farmers. I imagine the livestock is what is keeping the pair placid for now, but they will soon desire more than mere meat once the wealth of the city becomes apparent.

We shall soon be landing, and now is the last time we may safely wind our mainsprings before embarking on the hunt, so I imagine we may spend some days in Daman until the work is done.

Year 313, Ofel 23, Khuddain

Now is as good as any time to recount the state of our Lance, as the crewmen wind the engines in shifts. Our fleet numbers twenty-seven ships. Of them, thirteen are harpooners, named the Blessed Fortune, the Winnower, the Swiftwind, the Third Try, the Nobleman, the Peacock, the Catspaw, the Drakebane, the Old Man, the Purple Hound, the Beggar’s Revenge, the Goodknight, and the Lucky Shot. Four are turtle ships, named the Everlasting, the Baron’s Keep, the Wyrmshield, and the Hedgehog. Three are Dragonslayers, named the Wyrmsword under Kalit’s command, the Avenging Thunder under Maras, and Ahbal’s personal ship, the Memory of Chaitan. Four are troop carriers, named the Last Prayer, Filian’s Goat, the Wreaking Havoc, and the Unexpected. Lastly, there is one supply barge named the Destrier, and two engineering ships named the Fat Monk and the Merry Matron. Following that, a few dozen horse-drawn wagons and a smattering of camp followers.

In total, the crew of the 15th Mechanized Lance of Lost Keshaim presently numbers 358 men and women, along with 1200 infantry and 150 cavalry offered by Reshavit to act as our support.

I begin to understand their desperation fully now. Everywhere I look in Daman, I see structures made of wood.

Year 313, Ofel 24, Rodain

I’ve been tasked to go over the work of prior Scriveners to better understand how to fulfill my duties. I admit, I tend to focus overmuch on my own viewpoint when writing these entries. The crew seems to struggle to open up to me when I ask for their own. I wonder if it’s due to my legs. I can’t risk my life out there with them, after all. Or maybe it’s just because I can read. In places like Skissur that’s nearly considered witchcraft.

I have noticed something very curious, though. The Lance is far older than I had thought. I cannot read the earliest writings, I do not know the language, but judging by the numeric dates this company must have been active for five centuries! That would put them right at the start of the Raging. Older than most kingdoms that exist today. Older than the Bulwark. I’d originally dismissed the claims they made about the origins of the Lances, thought it was just a shared legend they stole for themselves to add a bit of legitimacy to their name. But if they really did come all the way from Keshaim it would explain how all thirty-one of the surviving Lances can field Dragonslayers.

Before the Raging, the city of Keshaim was the heart of the world, I knew that much. Nothing has matched its ingenuity since. Only Keshaim could have produced such formidable weapons.

Year 313, Amanfel 1, Erdain

We are off again, taking it slowly as we advance upon the monsters. The lookouts scan the Valley for any sign of them, but as yet we have made no sightings. I thank the Saints neither one is winged, for then the challenge would be far greater. As it stands we are as likely to come upon them as they are on us. It is a game of finding which spots the other first.

Perhaps here I should give a lesson on dragonslaying.

A true dragon is unable to be killed by a normal human in a straight fight. In legends, the Saints could do it through faith alone, but there are no Saints around these days. Maybe one could get lucky with a manufactured rockslide or cave-in, but for most it is the ironclads which represent the sole means of defense against the things. The first step of doing it is through our harpoon ships, five-yard light vessels with heavy ballistae, which can deal superficial damage but with their barbed hooks and attached ropes will prevent the dragon from escaping. Ideally, multiple harpoons from different directions cause it to fall and struggle. Turtle ships are nine-yard armored behemoths, they utilize a barrage of arbalest bolts and incense irritating to the beasts to madden and prick at them, pushing them in the direction we want while heavy plates and layers of soaked hides keep the fire and claws from harming them overmuch. And lastly there are the Dragonslayers. Each is a seven-yard work of art, if you want my opinion. They use mechanisms and materials made prior to the Raging which grant them speed near as much as a galloping horse, and with a hull of brass-like metal termed ‘orichalc’ which is of far higher quality than the steel of a common ironclad.

But it’s the cannon that everyone’s eyes are drawn to. An intricate machine which stands proudly on the deck of each one, the cannon tube concealing a coiled mainspring of tensile strength far beyond even the mightiest engines we can produce, capable of launching orichalc spears which can pierce the scales and muscle of a dragon with a single shot, tearing organ and artery into a shredded, fatal wreck. There’s a catch, of course. Such a powerful spring takes multiple days of winding up before it can be effective, meaning that each dragonslayer is only granted one shot during the fight. Thus the need for the harpoons, the turtle ships, even footmen and cavalry running about to do anything to keep the dragon distracted and immobilized. As we have three Dragonslayers in our Lance, we cannot afford to miss more than once.

I hear a shout up on top of the deck. We’re stopping for the night.

Year 313, Amanfel 2, Apsdain

We’d not known they were a breeding pair. Saints above. They came at us from under the soil, crawling up like worms with arms shrieking and hissing. Vile things. We scrambled to our feet and drew our weapons but they’d swarmed past the sentries biting and clawing. Saints preserve me, I saw it happen. Flashes of teeth and pallid flesh in the night as the cooking fires burned. I got one with a carving knife as it knocked me off my chair, crawled over me, I felt its cold scaleless hide pinning me to the ground as I stabbed over and over until I got one through its eye and one of the men pulled it off me, dragged me to the ship. I saw from the porthole how we drove them back. Bodies everywhere, larvae and men. Damn it damn it damn it our patron must have known this, here I was saying that they’d not haggled but they kept quiet about this so we’d walk into the jaws of death for half the pay. Do they think we won’t dispute it? Ahbal is swearing a storm out there. The Reshaviti soldiers look angry too. I wonder if they were as ignorant as we were. Looks like nobles are like this everywhere you go.

A brief pause and I’m back to writing. Normally I leave it one entry a day but this is worth saying. The captain says he wants to continue. Half the Lance argued we should leave Daman to burn but the damn rub is we’ll only be burning with them. Maybe the pair really were descended from the original Gishna and Jhurah, because this was a crafty move, premeditated even. They’re cunning ones, this pair. They already know we’re here, threw their offspring at us to wound us, but they’re planning something, the captain says. He brought me up for the meeting, had me read aloud earlier records, written by previous Scriveners. They’d talked about situations like this, wyrms that can make plans. We’re marked, he says, we either kill them now or let them decide how they want us. All we can do is press forward now, force a fight. Was our client that clever, or did he just get lucky? Either way he’ll not be smiling once Ahbal comes back, I’ll tell you that.

Year 313, Amanfel 3, Othdain

Continuing to advance, even slower now. Larvae are an issue. Dragons give birth in litters. Big ones, too. No wonder they’d not gone faster, likely wanted a decent swarm of little dragonets up and ready before they pushed to Daman. The ones we fought hadn’t molted into adult bodies, so it shows we’re a lucky bunch. Had it been like that, it would have been much worse.

It’s gotten me thinking more about dragons though. Really, what do we know about them? There’s always been monsters lurking in the dark, to hear the priests tell it. Nothing like dragons though. They just appeared one day. Some records say they came from the stars, others from the sea, or the depths of the earth. One grisly bit of scripture even says they’d burst out fully formed from the bodies of the worst sinners of the era. That time, the Raging, was when thousands of them burnt near everything we built to cinders and ate the rest. We slowly fled over decades, leaving two-thirds of the known world to them as we turned the rest into a fortress, the Bulwark, until the tide of monsters turned into a trickle. Three hundred years later and that fortress is barely more than a crumbling wreck. No surprise a pair like this got through. I wonder if it’ll get worse. If we’re due for another Raging. I hope not. I joined the Lance because I wanted to escape my life in the city. Just my luck I’d join at the end of the world.

Year 313, Amanfel 4, Ghoddain

Got chewed out proper by the captain for that last entry. Too much musing and not enough recording. Furthermore I forgot to write the names of the dead in the Book of Memorial from the battle with the larvae. I guess it slipped my mind, but I have only myself to blame. I do feel ashamed, they were braver folk than I.

Hamit ad Gaim, from Jusha. Ashel Surrei Lenx, from Roux. Bera Munsel Lenx, from Roux. Mkai Ameti, from Neph. Jurrenhod, from Skissur. Ojodai ad Kulud, from Jusha. Mset Ram, from Neph. Vaka ad Astei, from Jusha.

Rest with the Saints, my comrades.

I did not know them, unfortunately, so there’s little I can say of them in these pages. I’ll have to ask other crew members for stories. I’ve noticed they’ve been more open since the attack. Maybe it’s because I managed to kill that larva. Maybe my boundless good humor is wearing them down. So long as it helps me with my duties.

Year 313, Amanfel 5, Peshdain

We’ve had some more brushes with the larvae. We were ready this time, better prepared. I’d love to have seen them shredded by grapeshot, but a store of gunpowder aboard a ship is a death sentence when fighting dragons, what with their flaming breath. Otherwise we’d have mounted proper cannons on our ships. It’s been rough, nasty business. The first attack could have overwhelmed us if we hadn’t had those soldiers from Reshavit by our side. I think we’ve bonded over being the mutual victims of aristocratic bastardry.

I’ve also begun to learn the local tongue. Saints know I’ll need it if we’re to stay here for much longer.

Year 313, Amanfel 6, Vamdain

We’re stuck in it now. Between larvae attacks and pushing forward we managed to catch sight of one of the things slithering through the hills. Gishna by the look of it. Like a snake as tall as your torso, taller even, scales black as night. Wicked beaked head and slit eyes like a cat, at least four pairs of legs like a hawk’s talons. Too far for it to use its breath, too deep in rough terrain for us to chance a fight. Head poking just over the hill, looking right at us. I swear to the Saints I know now what it’s like to be a mouse in the gaze of a cat. I froze. Just that giant, horrid face staring at us, even so far away. The troops got it bad too, so did a lot of the fresher Lance members. Only the veterans stared right back. Jepthis spit on the ground, muttering a curse. He’s the oldest, save for Ahbal. Likely seen worse. I know that face will haunt me though. Even after it thundered off I kept glancing back out the porthole, expecting to find those eyes staring back at me.

Year 313, Amanfel 7, Khuddain

First dragonets have been slain. Ahbal had their corpses dragged over so we could study them. The ones we found take after Gishna, but have teeth instead of beaks. Birds must not be to their taste. Dragon larvae take after both their parents and the prey they’ve consumed, eventually taking in both qualities when they molt into a proper dragon, though they’ll be starting just under the size of a man. It’s why they’re so formidable. Constantly changing, growing, seemingly without even thinking about it. And when you try killing them off, the types that survive are obviously the ones most suited to beating out whatever methods you prefer using. Those ones grow up, and now the breeding adults and their own pups are the ones most suited to countering your strategies.

Then they burn every city, eat everything bigger than a mouse, defile every temple, and move on. Reshavit will have to be careful around here for the next few decades.

Year 313, Amanfel 8, Rodain

I’m sitting in on a meeting with the captains. Ahbal and the others. They’re discussing how to engage the enemy. Kalit, the captain of the Wyrmsword, swears the pair can’t be more than a dozen leagues from our position. We could use the turtle ships to create a gas screen, flush them out, but that would be costly. The incense we use to corral the things is expensive, and we’d use a great deal of it with such a tactic. Maras suggests otherwise. She recommends we push onwards, hunt them by their tracks and spoor, save the gas for when we fight them proper. But they’re tricky. We could be led into an ambush that way. We know already that they’re the clever type, Kalit says. If we charge in they’ll likely have a plan. Better to leave it to the gas. Unless he’s wrong, and they’re nowhere near us. Then we’re doubly screwed once the fight starts in earnest.

The commander of our Reshavit escort just spoke up. Taurya Kam, her name. Says that there’s a split further down the Valley, along the river. On the south side, the ground raises up into a gentle hill that reaches a flat plain called the Throne of Heaven, two dozen feet above the surrounding lands and near a league across. Gives a perfect view of the surrounding area. If we lure the dragons there with some harpooners we’ll have the high ground, defended by a wall of turtle ships. And we’ll be deep enough into their territory that they won’t be able to ignore us for much longer. They may be clever, but they’re still wyrms at heart. Every inch we move further into what they consider theirs is like a spike being hammered in their mind. They’ll be frothing to rip us apart by then. An attack will come, but at the time and location of our choosing.

I thank the Saints for our Reshaviti allies, information like that is practically too good to be true. The captains are already talking. I think it’ll be settled within the hour. Make a push for the Throne and provoke them into a confrontation.

Year 313, Amanfel 9, Erdain

We advance for the Throne. Everyone’s tense. The footmen are marching alongside our ships, watching for dragonets and larvae, and our cavalry are scouting ahead. This is probably the best, but it's not ideal. We haven’t seen Jhurah yet, so we can’t tell what kind of monster it is. Ferdan, captain of the Third Try, started a betting pool on which one is male or female. Currently the money is on Gishna as the male and Jhurah as the female, the reverse being “too obvious,” apparently. Far be it from me to argue with the veterans itshere.

Jhurah attacks the convoy I write this now as the scorching smell of human flesh reaches my nostrils it let a jet of flame loose from the river the river it was waiting in the river the whole time Saints preserve us the turtle ships are letting loose their incense keeping it at bay but many have fallen it’s a running battle now. We’re moving as fast as we are able not daring to fight, it’s low in the water safe from the Dragonslayer guns. Screams everywhere I dare not look. What a monster red-scaled long-tailed bodied like a tiger head like a serpent I see its bulk thrashing below the river and a shriek not human too loud Gishna no doubt attacking from the other side did they know did they know we would do this too clever too clever by far Ahbal is swinging the Memory of Chaitan around to take the fight to Gishna it attacked from the trees the bitch but with it we’ve a fighting chance a wyrm on the ground is within the line of our guns Ahbal would face it now Maras with him Kalit trained on Jhurah the harpooners racing alongside us. A jet of flame again, the Baron’s Keep pulling ahead as Gishna rears back blocking some of it but the Purple Hound is scorched and pulls back, the Nobleman and Winnower leading the Nobleman fires spearing it in the side yanking it two more two more now the Beggar’s Revenge misses and is sent a length back by a tail swipe but more harpoons come flame gouting but wild without a focus as the Baron’s Keep empties its gas pipes sending Gishna into a rage. The Memory takes aim I hear the whirr of its gun fixing on position the clicking of the mainspring as it prepares to release the great thrum of it as it FIRES and clips the beast Gishna is screeching but alive it wasn’t a fatal blow not at all Maras backs off she’s not firing at it why oh Jhurah is coming out of the wate

Year 313, Amanfel 10, Apsdain

Personal note of Ahbal Chaitain, captain of the Memory of Chaitan and First Captain of the 15th Mechanized Lance of Lost Keshaim. The Scrivener rests in the Destrier, recovering from his wounds, and as such I’ll be filling this entry myself. I feel sorry for the lad, taking a hit like that when Gishna’s thrashing struck our ship. Jhurah had been driven into a fury by the screams of its mate, and came charging out of the river like I’d hoped. Maras held off so Jhurah would draw nearer, partially crushing the Wyrmshield as it pulled in front of Kalit’s gun. The Wyrmsword’s cannon took its head off. Maras finished Gishna a few moments after.

I will fill the Book of Memorial myself. We’ve taken heavy losses. But it’s done. And I have to have a chat with our employer.

Year 313, Amanfel 15, Khuddain

I return, after nearly an eight-days in bed. The chirurgeons wanted to be sure I hadn’t damaged myself permanently. I see the captain’s given an accounting of the way the battle ended. I was sure I’d died, the last thing I saw before blacking out being Jhurah’s bellowing maw as it crawled over the Wyrmshield. As Ahbal said, it was rough. Fifty eight dead in that ambush, the worst loss in recent memory. Furthermore, the Winnower, Old Man, and Drakebane were lost in the fighting, and the Wyrmshield will need extensive repairs. Reshavit is offering to pay for repairing and replacing our losses as compensation for not knowing about the larvae, though I do wonder about that ignorance of theirs. As it stands, we’ll have enough volunteers from the Reshaviti to replace our fallen brothers and sisters, and we can take some leave at Daman for the foreseeable future. I look forward to it.

Year 313, Amanfel 18, Apsdain

Three days. We enjoyed a scant three days before we’re told we’re all going to die. Ahbal is raving like a madman. We’re to go beyond the Bulwark, into dragon territory. I pleaded with him to explain himself but all he can say is the other Lances will beat us to it, that we don’t have any time. I heard one word that sent my blood running cold.

“Keshaim”.

That word meant nothing to me before. Now I wish it still didn’t. The only thing that makes sense is that Keshaim’s ruin has been found. But how? And where? Ahbal says nothing. I can already imagine why. There are thirty-one Lances tied to that city, and I would reckon they seek to reclaim their birthright, whatever that is. I’ve been searching the Records trying to find it. Riches? A fleet of Dragonslayers? Some secret knowledge? I can hardly guess, but we must make haste and let nothing slip, lest we give an advantage to a rival.

Now every Lance is plunging past the Bulwark into near-uncharted territory infested with dragons that have grown uninterrupted for five hundred years, on a journey of thousands of leagues to find a treasure that may or may not actually still exist, all while racing thirty other fleets of the roughest men and women within the Bulwark. And I'm tasked to document it.

Saints preserve me.