In the Wayward Mountains

There weren't always dragons in the Valley.

Appa Si swayed in the saddle astride an equus as the odd-toed hoofs of their mount unsteadily scaled the stone- and grass-flecked side of a low rise in the southern cascade of the Wayward Mountains. The equus, a hired mare named Nan Tilly and well past her prime, struggled against the broken ground beneath her, diligent in her duty but failing in the strength of her limbs. The sluggish climb to vault the folds of the Mountains wore on their patience, knowing the speed flighty temperament of their prey.

Appa Si rubbed a gloved hand along the strained neck of the animal, whispering encouraging words in the tongue of the beastmasters in the mare’s ear.

The morning sun Priesol shone bright and yellow and blinding in the midday sky while the first of her companions, Midesol, trailed behind in a glorious blood orange. The light twinkled against the thin shirt of adamantine mail they wore, forged in the fire of dragonbreath and thus impervious to its scourge. The grip of Appa Si’s right hand held the reins as their left held the hilt of their trusted sword Aethersong, only once christened in dragonblood.

Never were the conditions of a dragonhunt ideal, and this day proved no different than any App Si experienced before.

The mare Nan Tilly crested the top of the hill and App Si tightened their grip on the reins to arrest the wary and frightened animal. Their teeth ground in restrained fury taking in the sight of the devasted Valley below.

Where wildflowers in every color of the rainbow once blossomed, there lay ugly swaths of scorched earth, long and black against the green of the valley floor. Where alpacas once grazed in great packs of stained-white cotton balls amid the wild grasses, there lay ember-ridden husks of charred flesh and bone. Where once immaculate natural beauty spread, there lay the taint and ruin in the wake of a flight of juvenile dragons.

Hazel eyes darted back and forth as Appa Si surveyed the Valley for the telltale signs of the dragons’ course and speed. The fell beasts had been first seen in the half-light before sunsrise, the low rumble of the furnaces in their bellies and the beating of the gossamer patagium in their wings heard far below in the tranquil hamlets of Edensford and Farmington.

Nan Tilly bucked her head as her feet sought purchase on the side of the rise in a pointless attempt to retreat. Appa Si placed their gloved hand against the side of the animal, a genuine but futile gesture to calm her. They turned her attention to the northern cascade of the Mountains, a wall of formidable peaks to the north where he velvety purple hue of the third sun Endisol hinted in the breaks between the summits.

Then the source of the animal’s fear become apparent.

A mass of silken black gleaming in the sunslight appeared in the pass of Markos Rise, directly across from App Si. Even at distance, their well-trained eyes recognized the sinewy movements as a Stygian dragon, scaled in iridescent black and rimmed with horns, slinked along the sunbaked surface of the mountain. Great claws dug into the earth of the mountain, leaving a discernible trail among several rows of similar marks.

The flight had claimed a resting place in the rising heat of the day.

Their sword sang in a single, sharp note as Appa Si pulled the blade from its scabbard. Another genuine pat to the equus’ neck as she spoke in the beastmasters’ tongue. “I’m sorry, old girl. But I suspect you won’t see your master again.”