Reminiscence

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.” I finally said with reluctance as I lowered my spoon back to my bowl for another mouthful. My son was gazing up at me from beneath the table, his face beaming with anxious glee.

He had been pestering me for days, begging me endlessly to tell him of my time with the Valley Guard. He wanted to know more ever since that sighting of a dragon so close to the Kingdom of the Valley. To me, it was not that long ago he seemed oblivious to the world and its goings on, happy enough to just exist without needing to understand, but I suppose we all grow up some time.

“What are they like, Papa?” he said coming out from under the table, gazing up at me still. I dared not answer him truthfully, I could not, my mind overflowed with thoughts. The dragons, vile winged beasts with breath of flame and skin of the hardest mail. An unstoppable force of pure vengeful rage and malice. Hundreds lost, all good men and women, burned alive by rogue fire, their flesh peeled away by flailing talon. No more were they mere sightless wild things hidden deep within their earthen borrows, now they came as relentless monsters and bringers of death.

I felt a tug along my sleeve but I did nothing, my deep dive yet to run its course, though he entered my thoughts.

I feared when he would discover the true horror of the world, and the futility of my station. A dragon slayer and commander where, in truth, we slay nothing. The dragons of our time, these dragons, have acted not like the stories of old, these dragons are indestructible. Soldiers entered battle, sliced with sword, plunged with spear, charged with shield, and pierced with arrow, but the end was always the same, the beast would vanish unscathed. All we could do afterwards, what we were told to do, was maintain the facade. Claim victory in our repellent raids by order of the Giving King, quell the growing fear in the people of the Valley. A people I swore to protect, a people that includes my family, and my son…

I clenched my spoon, straining the wood until it snapped. I slammed what remained upon the table. Tobwadyr stepped back in fright. I returned to myself, back to the kitchen and back with my son. My mind quietened as I lifted my hand from the table. I turned to my son with a new sense of clarity, “Listen, Tobwadyr, I know you want to understand, to know more about dragons," I began. Tobwadyr's eyes lit up like bonfires. "But please, they are dangerous, that’s all you need to know. I can’t have you get anywhere near them!” I glared at him in earnest, he could sense my desperation I was sure of it, even at such a young age.

“Oh…,” he finally replied, his head lowered, the flames of joy dowsed under the weight of my words. I could tell he was holding back tears. A few moments passed. “But…,” he continued softly, his arms behind his back but his head still low, focused on his now pivoting foot. He paused again briefly then met my gaze, “but y… you can beat them, can’t you?” I looked into his eyes and saw fear, the fear that I had put there, if not carelessly spread. I felt guilt, but knew the value of his feeling. In my heart of hearts I hoped, that one day, that fear would save his life. And still, I could not bring myself to tell the truth.

I mustered up a smile. “Don’t worry,” I said as I ruffled his thick black hair, “I’ll always be around to protect you.” Satisfied, Tobwadyr ran off from the kitchen back to his room with a spring in his step and a smile across his face. Back to his treasured dolls no doubt, that of armoured soldiers and rearing dragons, ones he oft used to act out the stories of old, the great triumph over the dreaded dragons of the valley deep. I wished for nothing more than for simpler times like those.

With my breakfast finished the time had come. I grabbed the Giving King’s summons, slung my sword and the rest of my gear over my shoulder and headed out the door.

My shoulder was still weak from the raid a few days before, but that didn’t matter as no one could refuse the Giving King’s summons. Besides, there was much to discuss. The latest attack was the closest a dragon had ever come to the city, almost within the lower ring. A few had been spotted on the outskirts of the Kingdom before, on the upper ridges, but never below. It was a troubling progression in the series of attacks, and the timing… almost disturbing.

I placed my foot in the loop of my saddle and hoisted myself up with great effort, wincing at the reminder of my aching muscles. All my gear was packed on and provisions in place. Safwodyn would return soon to care for the boy, all I had to think about was my journey to the centre of Valley City. “Hiya!”. I could see Tobwadyr peeking through his bedroom window, watching as I rode off. I didn’t have the strength to look back at him, I placed my thoughts back to my journey.

Valley City, thoughtfully built at the bottom of the great basin in the Kingdom of the Valley, a tiered city built in rings with the royal family at its centre, the place I’ve spent my entire life. I grew up on the river that flows through the deep valley and through the city itself. The founders of old must have seen great value in the valley from their vantige atop the basin ridge those many years ago. Enough for them to want to fend off the dragons that dwelled deep and claim the valley for themselves. The River Spout flows as testamony to their struggle, having fashioned the abandoned dragon warrens to the south allowing the water to flow and to build the city.

The fight over the basin is hardly mentioned in the old stories, not in great detail anyway or beyond children stories. Our history, it’s seems, has treated dragons as trivial, a fact that has created a problem in the modern struggle. They treat the fight with dragons as if they were nothing, like it was completely unremarkable. Bewildering. It makes me think of my old home, the fortress of Dragon’s Warren. It’s an archetectural marvel, built to protect the dam at the entrance to the old borrows. It’s design dates back to the time of the founders and has remained largely unchanged since then. There are no defence systems for the likes of dragons on the fortress anywhere, none whatsoever. It was built to protect the water mechanism, and that’s it, that’s all there is. It makes me think that they never feared the dragons at all.

As a young boy I dreamed, much like Tobwadyr, of the great stories of old and so joined the Guard. It was everything I’d hoped for and more, until, that is, the day the first dragon attacked below the ridge. Before then, there were only rumours, playful gossip, ‘dragons had returned, high up in the wilderness of the ridge’. From what we knew of them, there wasn’t much to fear and few people ventured up to brave the mystery of wilderness of the ridge anyway, not much need.

Every fairy story of the Valley always begins with ‘High up in the wilderness of the ridge’, likely the foundation of every fable. A comfort for those who feared the dark of the night, myself included. ‘No danger here,’ I would tell myself, ‘not here, it’s far away, high up in the wilderness of the ridge’. And talk of the return of dragons was no different, it was just another fable, or it was meant to be just another fable.

I continued my journey. The trek to the city centre was a long one for those on foot or for those who lived in the outer rings, but guards were provided homes within the inner ring, the one before the centre itself. There are a few scattered troops stationed at control points across the valley floor, around the city and within the farmlands, and, of course, at Dragon’s Warren. Ever since my first encounter with the new dragons, I’ve acted as a consultant for the Royal Council, only on the issue of the dragons. My position made me valuable, thus, my family and I were relocated to the inner ring by order of the Giving King. Nicer, perhaps, than the quaint finishing’s of Dragon's Warren, but never truly home. Still, the ride to the council chamber was brief.

“Sir Sodyr the Dragonbutcher approaches the gate,” announced the gateman. Dragonbutcher, another brick to the facade, “Lower the drawbridge!”. I slowed my horse to a walk as I waited. The precariously built capital, Castle Watering, protruding tall from the river, was a mostly icy stone structure. The ring of flowing water curving around beneath it brought with it a stiff wind, a stark contrast to the almost tropical weather of the outer rings. Even still, separation was important to the royals. The two drawbridges, one each for the east and west, was evidence of that. Everything was outer from Watering.

With the gate lowered, I passed through into the courtyard entrance. The stones of the castle walls were plucked from the river itself. Their smooth form unfit for walls in need of robust gapless constitution. I looked around the courtyard, it was a cold and brittle wasteland, or at least that’s how it seemed to me. I shuddered beneath my long sleeve shirt and inadequate leather vest and lowered myself toward the neck of my horse for warmth and continued on my way. The tall oak tree and its twin stump, the courtyard focal point, were surrounded in weeds. Their loose browned leaves twirling in the recurrent frosty gusts enough to suggest a lack of upkeep. I suppose the Giving King had enough on his plate.

I rode up to the twice occupied hitch point near the entrance to the council chamber. What was once a lofty oak now stands as gatekeeper for the chamber itself. I pushed through the hefty wooden doors and was met with a welcoming embrace of a smouldering fireplace from the back of the hall. My pale cheeks bloomed red from the warmth. Sweet relief.

“Sir Sodyr, finally!” exclaimed a gaunt figure sitting in a towering decorative throne, also oak. He was dressed in a thick crimson robe with golden trims, the Giving King Ramandulus. With his silver hair made amber by the burning glow behind him he raised his palms skyward. “The Council of the Dragons may proceed.”

A guard in full steel-plate armour appeared from inside the doorway and escorted me to a chair against the side wall of the council hall. Next to me sat a farmer, a profession often signified my purple stained clothing, a mark of mandatory vineyard work. He was wringing his hat with calloused hands and didn’t seem to notice me, he kept his eyes downward toward the stone floor, his breath shallow. His face and presence were familiar to me, but I couldn’t place him. I looked across the room at the long, rounded table in the hall’s centre. On it was the map of Valley City, a complete map of the Kingdom in the Valley, with Dragon’s Warren at its base. It was covered in figures that marked all known dragon attacks and confirmed sightings, which had a few more markers than last I remembered.

All four members of the council were in attendance and in their respective seats at the table. Sitting across from the Giving King Ramandulus was the captain of the guard Madam Froydilin the Glaive, an imposing figure for her military prowess. Next to her on the left was the druid master Estomlere, a scholar and casting practitioner, and finally, beside her husband, the Giving Queen Ramandulus herself. She was wearing a matching crimson gown except for her favoured frilled cuffs and raised white coloured collar.

“Shall we begin?” proposed the Giving Queen. That prompted Estomlere to produce a large tome and quill from the folds of his dusty mustard shawl. Estomlere was young for a druid master, his appointment to the council was laughable to those of the outer rings until he shared the gift of irrigation. This led to the highest crop yield on record for that year, thus earning his status as a reliable member. But since the return of dragons, his role was primarily as the scribe.

“May I go first?” spoke Madam Froydilin firmly. She straightened up in her chair, the twin oak and stump emblem of the courtyard on her armour shimmered in the mid morning light cast from the tall windows across the hall. The other three members turned their attention to the captain, the Giving King gesturing her to proceed. She nodded back. “Our patrols since the last attack have yielded nothing.” She began.

“Good news...” Murmured the Giving King, awaiting further information.

“Indeed.” she replied, then she went to continue but paused.

Silence.

“And… what of the farmer’s land?” said the Giving Queen with a steel-like calm. Chills ran down my spine as she said it, even the farmer himself, eyes averted, seemed to feel it too. That’s when I remembered, the farmer was there when the dragon attacked last week, it was his farmland. Madam Froydilin glanced at the Giving Queen and was met with a painful stare, her piercing gaze like icicles. The druid continued to write as the events unfolded then paused in wait for the captain to continue her report. Madam Froydilin glanced over her shoulder at the farmer and with a sigh she turned back to the council.

“There appears to be no clear sign of entry or exit,” she said, “and our investigation has concluded that…” she paused again.

“Yes! And?!” blurted the Giving Queen, losing her patience. The Giving King was intent on knowing too it seemed as his eyebrow twitched with every pause in the report but did well to mostly disguise his emotion behind his weary, weathered face. The druid, still with quill to parchment.

“We concluded,” Madam Froydilin continued, “that there is no evidence to suggest the dragon originated from the wilderness of the ridge, your majesty.” As if on cue the farmer fell to the floor, bent over on his knees, beginning to pray, and sob.

“That settles it then.” The Giving Queen announced, smug with her confirmed suspicions. “It’s as clear as the Spout. The farmer was likely hiding the creature and when your patrol arrived, Froydilin, he released its wrath upon you. He’s the culprit, I would wager he knows quite a bit about the other attacks and appearances as well. Just ask him. Speak farmer!” The farmer slowly got to his feet, his legs trembling under his own weight, yet strength enough to say his piece.

“My Giving Queen and Giving King,” he managed to utter, “provider of the water and the grain, I cannot say that I know about the attacks because I do not know.” It was obvious the Giving Queen took offence.

“Liar!” Snapped the Giving Queen. The farmer’s desperation bubbled to the surface.

“Please!” he pleaded, his hat still in his hand, wrung almost to nothingness, “The dragon destroyed my village, I have nothing left, my family is…!” he fell to his knees for a second time, his face buried in his hands, but through sobs he continued, “I am but a farmer.” I couldn’t rush to his aid, even though I wanted to, my head would hit the floor faster than he did himself. With the armoured guard looming, I could only watch.

“It’s true I suppose.” the Giving Queen begrudgingly admitted, breaking the silence once again, the Giving King remained only vigil albiet with twitching brow. “You are just a farmer,” she said, the filth she felt him worth clear in the way she spoke, “which would suggest that you are operating under someone else’s direction.”

“No, please! I…” the farmer blubbered. The druid writing furiously in his tome while the captain sat quietly.

“SILENCE!” boomed the Giving King, rising from his throne and slamming the table with two open palms. The farmer clambered back into his chair. The Giving Queen leaned back in her throne herself, though unamused by the Giving King's sudden outburst. “This achieves nothing.” The Giving King continued, “We are no closer to solving this problem than we are to goading this farmer into admitting guilt. We continue to know nothing about the attacks, there is no rhyme or reason, and, at this rate, it may mean the end of our Kingdom.” He paused to look each council member in the eye, as if to emphasize his following point.

The Giving Queen gave nothing away, while the druid stopped to give his full attention, Madam Froydilin too was attentive. He glanced over at me briefly, and to the farmer as well. “I call to evacuate the city. Sodyr, you…” Before he could finish his sentence an orb of flame burst into existence above the centre of the council table, blowing the map and its pieces clear of the chairs and their occupants. Embers lowered from the orb setting the map alight. The orb then began writhing like something lay in wait within. I knew what it must be but feared to think on it, feared to believe it possible at all, and then it happened.

Headfirst emerged a dragon.

Its razor-sharp claws dug into the oak wood table below as it fell from its flaming cocoon which disappeared soon after. The druid leapt from his seat, his cloak catching on the arm rest and throwing him to the hard stone floor. The dragon jolted its head toward him, its milky eyes motionless while its whisker-like tendrils that protruded from his brow and cheeks squirmed at the sound of shuffling foot across stone. It was a big one, about the size of a stocky bull. I quickly lifted a hand to prompt the druid to stop. Luckily enough he saw me and stopped in place, trying with success to soothe his heavy breathing.

The dragon then revolved its pale head around the hall in search of any sound, a sight of which I am sickeningly familiar. Its maw was agape and displayed half a dozen rows of needle-like teeth top and bottom, a keen reminder of the senselessness of our raids. Wide-eyed, the Giving Queen stifled a gasp, giving her all not to scream and run. The dragon turned to her. It stepped one leg forward across the table toward her, its whip-like tail flinging as if with anticipation. The very tip of its tail struck me across the face, slicing my lower lip and chin. Luckily, it didn’t seem to notice. Blood started dripping from my face so I cupped my hand underneath as I bit my tongue to fight through the pain. The table creaked under the weight of the beast as it moved, but against all odds it remained upright. Madam Froydilin, behind the beast, instinctively stood from her chair but managed it slowly enough to remain unnoticed. She gripped the hilt of her sword and started to draw it. She winced as the sharp blade scraped along the steal-trimmed sheath, sounding as an alarm to everyone in the hall. The Giving King raised a hand as well and she stopped. After that, the Giving King was motionless, except his legs. His withered muscles were clearly twitching, much like his brow before, a suggestion of his frailty that would soon overwhelm his burst of energy. I watched as he darted his eyes at his Queen one last time before his legs finally gave out. He fell to the stone floor. The reverberating echos led none but to one location, trapping each of us in place. The Giving King lifted his head and stared down the gapping gullet of the monster that now towered over him. The dragon, now sure on its target, lunged forward in a swift motion and ripped the head of its prey clean off. The Giving King Ramandulus was no more.