Here There Be Dragons

HERE THERE BE DRAGONS

by Daniel M. Brakhage

“There weren’t always dragons in the valley,” the young prince said to his uncle the duke. His sapphire blue robe was trimmed in ermine while his tunic bore the royal arms of the third son of King Palantius III. His silvered mail was a fine mythril shirt of dwarven make; rare even among the nobility it spoke to the history of close relationship between the dwarves of the Granite Throne and the royal house of Aregentia. Duke Ædelwulf, wore a tunic that was similar in color and design to the prince’s, he was related, after all. A rider in a silvery-blue cloak approached upon a dappled grey gelding. He carried a long wooden staff with a large ruby gem. His companion followed closely. She wore a sky-blue cloak but her hood was down and her long, sandy blonde hair trailing behind her and blew gently in the winter breeze. She tossed her head back and drew in a long crisp breath but sat slightly apart.

“Not dragons, Highness, drakes,” the newcomer said, he pulling his hood back revealing the closely cropped salt-and-pepper hair of an older man, his dark and weathered skin bespoke his far southern birth. “Duke Ædelwulf,” he acknowledged the older man on the horse next to the prince. “The only dragon we know of in the Northlands, my prince, is the great white wyrm Välkaista, Queen of the North. But that’s beyond the mountains in the Frozen Wastes. In yon valley, Durin’s Pass, those are drakes.”

“Menothes, everyone calls them dragons,” the prince retorted. The wind shifted and his horse stirred uneasily. He began stroking her dark mane and the buff hair on her neck, calming her with his presence and the warmth of his hand. “Easy, Northwind. She smells the smoke.”

“And the death,” The duke agreed from where his mount stood on the other side of the prince. His hand strayed to the golden hilt of his sword and its re-assuring hardness as he gazed at the destruction down the hill. The farmstead below was in ruins, it was far down, but the wind had shifted and now carried the smoke up the hill transforming the fresh winter air to an acrid and unpleasant sent. Not unlike the smell of a wood fire but there was something more to it; something unpleasant like burnt meat and other less savory scents. Below, the gate of the stone wall was broken, the roof of the house collapsed and burnt. The black-clad soldiers that had accompanied them were gathering the bodies of men, women, and children for burning. They had found no survivors from the raid, three generations of a family extinguished in a single night.

The duke’s horse apparently took the death and smoke somewhat more in stride than the horse ridden by the young prince but its ears did flick alertly as it caste a wary eye in that direction as the acrid smell of smoke filled all their nostrils. For a time they fell silent as their attention was drawn down-slope to the source of the smoke and scent. They watched as the pyre was raised and bodies were placed reverently upon it. The soldiers who were not on funeral detail tended to their horses and equipment readying for the hard ride that was expected to follow, outriders patrolled the perimeter in the distance. The dark folk had done their work thoroughly. It was the smoke from the burning homestead that had drawn the patrol here in the morning hours; too late to save anyone. The dukes jaw muscle tensed briefly and he returned his attention to his nephew. “It doesn’t matter what everyone calls them, Ædelberht,” the duke continued, “You are a prince and held to a higher standard.”

“And you know better,” Menothes smiled. When he smiled he not only smiled with his mouth but his whole face up to and including the eyes. His easy and open manner made him welcome at court even as his direct honesty was sometimes not. This was very different from the duke who rarely smiled at all. “You have always done well in your lessons, don’t forget them now when they can best serve you.”

“But don’t drakes grow into the great wyrms?” Prince Ædelberht countered as he continued to run a calming hand along Northwind’s neck. “Therefore wouldn’t they, technically, be dragons? Also, didn’t Elävor slay Välkaista hundreds of years ago?”

“Some say so, Highness.” Menothes responded. “But the great wyrms came through the Dragon Gates when the Cabal opened them, bringing on the Time of Darkness. No one has proven where the drakes come from; they appeared some time thereafter. As for Välkaista, some say she survived the battle and sleeps in the dead city of Eisnost, one day to return after she renews her strength.”

“Surely, if she was going to recover, she would have by now,” the prince persisted.

“A few centuries is not that long for a great wyrm, time passes differently for them,” Menothes said. “We’ve talked of that before, Highness. They were there before the gods created the world….”

“We’ve all heard it all a thousand times,” Duke Ædelwulf interrupted. “‘And the gods cast the Primordial Worms into the Outer Darkness, and created the world of men, elves, and dwarves...’ until the Cabal opened the Dragon Gates and they returned with their minions and the great darkness descended in shadow and fire. We don’t need a history lesson now Menothes….people are dead.”

“Why do you always feel the need to argue, Ædelberht?” the duke looked at his nephew. “We have a task at hand and we must craft a response to this latest tragedy. It’s not a classroom.”

“Menothes taught me to question everything,” prince Ædelberht answered.

“You are lucky your Grace,” Menothes prodded the duke. “If Father Shaun were in this discussion, you would have gotten the combined liturgies of the Night of Remembrance and the Festival of Light and Darkness all rolled together in with the explanation of the dragons. This was the short version. Still, the lesson bears repeating lest we forget the lessons of the past and do it all again.”

“What? Form a new Cabal and reopen the Dragon Gates? Does anyone even know how to do that?” The duke raised an eyebrow and gazed at Menothes.

“Have you considered, my lord Ædelwulf, that you can be as argumentative as your nephew? Perhaps, it is a family trait? No matter,” Menothes, raised his hand to ward off any response, “the tale is a caution against the lust of greed and power. Surely, a lesson for every generation.” The wizard looked at the others for a moment and then pulled the heavy fur-lined hood back up over his head. “I hate this cold, and it is only the beginning of winter. Why did I ever come this far North?”

“To keep me from making mistakes,” the prince said. “Besides, aren’t you a great wizard? Can’t you do something to keep warm?”

“I did, Highness,” Menothes chuckled. “I put my hood up.”

The duke almost smiled at that but recovered quickly as five riders cantered up the hill from the ruined farmstead. In front was the unit commander, whose armor bore the golden seals of campaigns past decorating his finely crafted chain-mail. He a wore black cape trimmed in red and a black helm with bright red horse-hair crest. On his right rode the commander’s lieutenant, similarly clad. On his left rode a woman, her head uncovered and her hair, in a ponytail trailing behind her, wearing a brown and green tartan cloak and armed with a mounted longbow and longsword at her side. Behind them rode two more riders faithfully following their commander up the path clad in the uniform of the riders. Unlike their commanders, they wore black lacquered cuirbouilli armor glistening in the morning sun although their red-crested black steel helms and black and red capes were the same. One held the unit banner, a black horse on a white field embattled in red with two long forked red tails flying behind; the bugler rode at his side.

As the riders approached, the prince and his companions turned to receive them.

“Commander Thorvald, son of Thordrick, welcome,” the duke greeted him as he halted.

“Your Highness, your Grace.” The commander brought his mailed fist to his heart and then extended his arm, hand palm down, as did the others. The nobles returned the old imperial salute. The commander nodded silent recognition to the wizard, after all, it was not wise to be rude to wizards. His lieutenant, the First Spear Centurion sat silently at his side, as did the bugler and banner-bearer behind him. Thorvald turned to the woman, as the scout reined in her restive horse. Their horses where sturdy, shaggy, smaller yet stouter than the larger thoroughbreds ridden by the prince’s party.

“The scout has returned.” Commander Thorvald nodded to the scout indicating that she should proceed with her report.

“Yes,” she began. “I tracked the frost goblins to the ruins of Vakkar Nadros. They seem to have arrived there just before dawn and taken cover there. I estimate four to five score goblins and about half a dozen ice trolls; they herded some of the sheep they stole, carrying carcasses of dead cattle on travois drawn by trolls and stolen draft horses. It appeared that there may be three or four prisoners with them.”

“Prisoners? There are still people alive?” The prince asked.

“It appears so, your Highness,” she answered and the prince nodded acknowledgment.

“Vakkar Nadros, that’s the abandoned dwarven fort.” He took his glove from where it sat on his saddle and put it back on as he spoke. “It has been abandoned for hundreds of years; it can’t be in great condition.” The commander glanced at the duke and Menothes but before he could correct the prince, Menothes responded.

“Highness,” Menothes said, his quiet but powerful voice immediately drawing all eyes. “The dwarves build of stone and are noted engineers. Vakkar Nadros is still formidable. It may be lacking a gate but the walls and battlements will be sound.” The others nodded in ascent.

“I don’t think we have the strength here to siege a dwarven fortress.” the duke stated the obvious.

“Raiders have used that as a staging area for years to raid our lands,” the commander nodded.

There was a silence and the prince looked off into the valley where the tracks of the raiding party disappeared into the distance.

“Will your Highness be traveling back home to Argentûm then?” the commander was the first to break the silence.

After a brief pause and a deep breath the youngest Prince of Aregentia responded.

“I will not,” the prince said and all eyes turned toward him. “I have subjects who have been captured by goblins and others who have been killed. We will pursue.”

“Highness,” the duke said, “I don’t think your father intended for you to be in the middle of a goblin raid. You show great promise, nephew, but you are still young.”

“This is my sixteenth winter, uncle,” he glanced at the commander and, for a second, his eyes connected with those of the scout. He noticed the deep blue of her eyes as she brushed a stray hair back out of the way. He continued, “My father fought the horse clans at my age. A few goblins are nothing compared to the forces of the Great Khan! My father sent me here to learn about the kingdom and our forces that defend it. My brothers have taken their place serving the kingdom. It is my turn. Surely I am safe among the famed Black Horse, the Red-Tailed Riders who fearlessly patrol our borders. I can think of no better lesson for me to learn. We will stay.”

“Tell me, Commander,” the prince locked him in his gaze. “Why have we allowed them to continue to use this place against us all these years?”

The ranger commander noticeably stiffened and the muscles of his jaw locked briefly before responding. Menothes reached over and placed his hand upon the prince’s forearm and Ædelberht glanced at his hand then at the wizard before looking back at the commander.

“Your Highness,” he began. “The fortress is abandoned, to be sure. But technically, that is still Durin’s Vale (or Durin’s Pass as some call it.) The dwarven king considers it their land, even though they don’t seem to actively patrol it any longer. The decision to enter the Dwarven Kingdom is a decision I am not at liberty to make. I have overcome raiding parties in the dwarven foothills before but by the time they reach Vakkar Nadros I can no longer argue that I didn’t realize I was in their land. Rather irritable about everything. And I don’t have all of my riders here, M’lord, we are but a patrol.”

“Perhaps it would be prudent for us to return to the capital and urge your father to initiate negotiations with the dwarves as to how we can solve this.” The duke stroked his beard and continued. “It would be a good way to re-invigorate our relations with the Granite Throne if the ruggedness of the Frost Fangs alone are not enough to secure our northern border. Our relations have grown somewhat stale as of late. Still, I hate the thought of goblins getting away with this. We cannot be everywhere at once but I have never seen them begin their raids so early in the winter.”

“Nor I, your Grace,” Thorvald responded.

“No, Uncle,” the prince said. “Precisely because they have never been so bold, we cannot let this stand. The Dark Folk understand nothing that is not backed by force. Isn’t that what you have taught me, Menothes?” The wizard nodded and grunted assent and the prince continued. “The commander said he didn’t have the authority to pursue. Commander Thorvald, son of Thordrick, I give you that authority.” Immediately, the commander grinned and for the first time the prince saw the true power in the man’s personality. It was a power that his father had spoken of often but Thorvald had been aloof since the prince had joined his command.

“By your command, Highness,” saluting again he turned his horse to face the scout. Wulfwynn, take a decury of bowmen and fan out in the van. We will follow immediately. Steinarr,” he turned to face his lieutenant as Wulfwynn spun her steed about and hastened to obey, “Take command of the funerary party and follow as soon as you are able. Use bowmen; I’ll be taking the lancers with me. Send a courier to headquarters, notify them what has transpired and our intended course of action. Summon the relief riders to our aid with all haste.”

“M’lord.” The weathered centurion saluted, his mailed fist smacking smartly upon armored breast before whirling his horse and spurring back down the hill calling to his sergeants.

“Bugler, Boots and Saddles.” Thorvald commanded the bugler and standard bearer.

The bugler immediately raised her horn to her lips and began blowing the call for assembly and the standard bearer moved to a relatively flat area where the force could assemble in formation. The commander rode to a position beside the man with the banner and awaited the assembly of his troops as soldiers all over the hill frantically began a flurry of activity and warriors mounted and galloped to formation. They no longer had the quiet but purposeful readiness but the quick response of regulars called to action. The drill was well known to them and comfortable, for it heralded action rather than the incessant waiting that so often marked a soldier’s life.

“Well, your Highness,” the duke said. “I think you just made Captain Thorvald’s week.”

“Perhaps his year; he has complained about not being able to pursue the goblins for years.” Menothes said. “My Prince, I think that now would be a good time to begin thinking about the best way to explain this to your father and what you are going to say to the dwarves if we come upon them.”

“That should be interesting,” the duke muttered.

“Any advice?” The Prince asked.

“Now you ask for advice?” Menothes laughed. “We’ll all talk about it on the way. I want to go tell your fancy courtiers that they are going to war.” He glanced toward the Frost Fang Mountains rising, blue-grey before them and to the gap where the Vale of Durin was. “That is if we don’t freeze first. You’re taking us into the mountains in winter.”

“Not too far,” the prince said. “And my friends wanted to come along. They’ll be ready.”

“A general once said,” Menothes offered, “‘No plan survives contact with the enemy.’ We shall see how this one fares. Not that we have much of a plan.”

“So there’s not much that can go wrong,” the prince said hopefully.

“Not in my experience,” the duke huffed.

Menothes smiled his broad smile and called to his apprentice.

“Come Elara, lets go ruin a young nobles day,” he guided his horse around and back down the hill, followed by his apprentice as a man in a flaxen robe came up the hill on his horse from the farmstead. A golden sword hung upon his belt and a holy triquetra hung from a chain around his neck. He greeted the prince and duke.

“Your Highness, your Grace,” he spoke in the lilting brogue of his people. His reddish-brown beard and shoulder length hair were impeccably curled and well groomed. “By your leave I would like to stay and provide Last Rites to the dead. I’ll rejoin you with the burial party when we are finished.”

“Of course, Father Shaun,” the prince responded. “Grant them all the honor which is their due. They were our faithful subjects and did not deserve to die this way.” The priest nodded and started to turn away. “Tell them they will be avenged.”

The priest reigned in and looked from the pyre to the Prince.

“Gods willing,” he said and made the sign of the triad in the air before him and rode off.

“The Black Horse, Red-Tails have five forts along our northern border, Highness,” the duke began.

“I know that,” the prince said, “Fifteen hundred riders. Some of our best.”

“True,” the duke nodded. “But each fort only has 300, divided into 3 patrols of ninety riders each and a courier with a turma of troops that always stays in the fort. Have you considered that we have only one patrol here? Ninety riders, less the burial detail and the riders summoning the rest of the garrison.”

“So, sixty,” the prince interjected, “Sixty of our finest warriors, and a wizard.”

“Aye,” the duke said. “But we will be pursuing a force of at least eighty frost goblins and a half dozen ice trolls in a valley that may also have indigenous ice drakes as well. Ice trolls are considerably stronger then we are and more than twice our size, and surely your tutor has explained how dangerous the drakes are.”

“But we have a wizard, his apprentice, and a priest, yourself, and my friends,” the prince smiled, “and of course, we have the strength of ten because our hearts are pure.”

“This is no joke, Ædelberht,” the duke shook his head. “Fandros, Yngvärr, and Bellona all have potential. We may have to babysit Tarion and Tyko. Besides, if I let you die my brother will be so angry he will pursue me into the afterlife, let alone the unhappy families of your friends and the camp-wives of these soldiers.”

“I’ve been told Thorvald is a fine commander, uncle,” the prince responded. “Some of his battles were used by Menothes, and you, to teach me tactics. I will not force the issue until the rest of the garrison is here. I have granted Thorvald royal authority to pursue, but it is he who is commander.”

“Wise course, Ædelberht,” the duke nodded. “But ware, nephew, any miscalculation and we will be hard pressed. Keep your pampered friends on a short leash; if you get any of them killed their family’s loyalty could be shaken.”

“Surely not, uncle,” the prince responded. “They have a duty to the kingdom and our subjects.”

“Not all families see it the same as we do.”

Meanwhile, Menothes and his apprentice had ridden up to where the princes noble friends had gathered with their servants and pack horses. A young man, in silver mail and wearing a red cloak and tabard, (both with gold trim and a rampant stag figure emblazoned upon them,) was sitting on a rock with his finely booted foot cocked up on another. He held his horse’s reins loosely and looked up from a conversation with another the other young noble whose yellow tabard and white cloak bore the emblem of a sheaf of wheat as Menothes and Elara rode up.

“Menothes,” he called. “What is the news? Does breakfast follow the burial or is it before?”

“Breakfast, Tarion?” Menothes laughed. “Weren’t you given jerky and bread before we left?”

“Aye,” the young lord responded. “I fed mine to the dogs. I’m talking real food. We brought wine and victuals of our own. Should I have my servant start the fire? I’ll be happy to share with you and your apprentice! Especially her, eh Tyko?” Tarion lowered his voice, a little, and winked at his friend.

“Especially her, or that scout.”

Menothes made a small, almost imperceptible gesture to his apprentice, and Elara slid the wand that she had begun to draw back into her sleeve.

“No time for that now Tarion...Tyko,” he raised his voice to carry to the other three young nobles and their servants. “Mount up young lords, lady Bellona! Frost goblins and ice trolls have raided the kingdom and Prince Ædelberht is taking us to war!” He smiled as Tarion almost fell off his rock and their smiles faded.

“What?”

“Aye, young masters,” Menothes said. “Did you not hear the bugle? See the soldiers assembling? Ah, the excitement! We ride to war against a hundred or more of the dark folk who slaughtered these poor people.” He looked down from his horse at Tarion pointedly not noticing his discomfiture. “And there are rumored to be dragons afoot in the vale as well.” He whirled his horse and smiled secretly but broadly at his apprentice when the others could not see. “Hasten, young masters!” he called over his shoulders. “Tighten your girth, and loosen your swords in your scabbards. We attack the ancient fortress of Vakkar Nadros!”

“Outstanding!” young Yngvärr shouted as he mounted his roan stallion, straightened his burgundy tunic, a silver lion head upon it, his grey cape was from a wolf-pelt. He had hunted the creature down when he was thirteen because it was preying upon his father’s holdings. “Come Fandros, Bellona, let’s find the prince! Tarion, Tyko, since your lagging you tend to the servants and baggage before you follow.” Fandros wore green and gold with his families sigil upon a golden broach that pinned his cloak in place. He did not have the arms on his tunic, only on his clasp and saddlebags. He mounted his white mare, as Bellona mounted her grey gelding with black mane and tail.

“Steady, Darkmane,” she spoke to her horse, steadying him as she settled into the saddle. She had a bow in holder hanging from her saddle, she tested the long thin sword she wore at her side and loosened it in its scabbard. She wore a purple cloak and snug purple tunic over leather armor, with tight black trousers and worn brown riding boots, a white stallion reared rampant upon her cloak and tabard.

“Not my job to tend servants,” Tyko called after them. “The servants know their business and I know mine.” He kicked a rock and sent it flying as he mounted his horse with a frown.

“What exactly is your job?” Bellona glared at Tarion and Tyko. “Maybe if you knew how to be useful you would make a better impression, and actually be of service to the kingdom and your companions.” She turned her mount and rode off without a second glance.

“Service? What am I some knave who tends the fields?” Tarion made a rude gesture. “If you want to be of service than marry some noble, manage his household, and have children. Stop pretending you can keep up with us! Just because your father didn’t have any sons!” He shouted this last after Bellona.

“I wouldn’t antagonize her if I were you, have you seen her spar?” Tycho mounted his horse and and chided his friend. “Well, Tarion, you said this journey would gain us the prince’s favor. Damnation, its cold! Why didn’t you tell me that armor gets so cold out here. No fire this morning and I already can’t feel my toes. Now we have ice trolls,” he shook his head as he guided his horse to follow after the others. “Some Lark now, eh? By the gods!” (end chapter one)