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Sacrifice in Serpent Valley

A story about dragons.

By Martin EstridgePublished 2 years ago Updated about a year ago 14 min read
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“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley”, said the King as he gazed out from the High Tower. “When my great-grandfather was lord of this castle, there was nothing but verdant life from here in the Grey Mountains to the horizon and beyond. In the springtime, the grass grew lush and green, right up to the twisting banks of the Serpent River. Children would play there, running heedless through stalks that went up past their heads; more than one youngster got a drenching in the cold waters that flowed on by. And above all this stood the mighty oak trees, trees that grew so tall you couldn’t tell where theirs crowns ended and the Heavens began.”

Next to the King, a kneeling man spat blood on to the bricks. He reached up to wipe his mouth, the motion rattling the chains of his manacles. “Is this going to go on much longer?” he asked the hulking guardsman looming over him. "It's nearly supper time, and they're serving my favourite: gruel."

The King stroked his golden beard and continued on, seemingly oblivious to the interruption. “My grandfather told me about one of his earliest memories. He was standing at this very spot. It was mid-Autumn of his fourth year. The leaves had turned, and begun to fall. The valley floor was transformed into an ocean of red and gold, with pockets of silver here and there. The skies had been heavy and grey for weeks, the rain unending, and many feared this gloom would last until spring. Then out of nowhere, the clouds parted and a single finger of sunlight broke through. The wet leaves caught the light and glistened so brightly, my grandfather was blinded for a time. When he finally was able to see again, more clouds had rolled back and the full majesty of the sun had bathed the scene in a sort of flaming brilliance. He said it looked as though the whole Valley had been engulfed by fire. A fire so bright and hot it would consume the whole earth.” The King turned to his prisoner, an earnest look on his face. His voice went quiet, almost a whisper. “He knew, even then, it was an omen. On that day, he learned he had the gift of foresight.”

The prisoner stared back at the king for long moment. Then he laughed, mockingly. “Old Kulgrim could spin yarns with the best of them. That's for sure!”

The King looked shocked. “Are you calling my grandfather a liar?”

“Well you had to learn it somewhere,” replied the prisoner reasonably. “You’re too bloody thick to have gotten so good at it without help.”

In response, the guardsman leaned down and punched the prisoner in the side of the head. The blow drove him to the ground, his face smacking against the floor with a sickening crunch. Hot blood began to pour from his nose. Breathing in brought a wave of almost unbearable pain. Definitely broken, the prisoner thought as he tried to push himself up to kneeling. A crushing blow from the guardsman’s boot took the prisoner in the ribs and drove him back to the ground. A second kick followed, and a third. The prisoner fancied he could hear his ribs cracking under the attack.

The guardsman prepared for another kick when finally the King intervened. “Enough,” he shouted, fixing the guardsman with a withering glare. After a second, his features softened and he let out a small, good-natured laugh. “Come now, Thrak,” said the King in a fatherly tone. “Duke Rainalf is an honoured guest. Is this how we treat guests?” Thrak the Guardsman’s only reply was a low growl, but the beating stopped. What the Hell, thought the Duke. His lackey is actually growling at me.

“My apologies Rainalf” said the King, smiling broadly. “Thrak is devoted to me you see, and sometimes he gets a little carried away. I hope he didn’t hurt you too badly”

Rainalf winced as he pushed himself back up to kneeling position. “Nothing a beer and a lie down wouldn't fix,” he joked as he forced a smile on to his face. I’m not afraid of you, you bastard.

The King’s smile faltered for a second. “Stand him up,” he ordered, turning back to the wall.

Thrak wrapped one of his large, meaty hands around Rainalf’s neck and hauled him to his feet. The duke sucked in a breath as pain flared in his side. But the pain was quickly forgotten as Rainalf got his first good look at Serpent Valley.

Every tale Rainalf had ever heard generally agreed with the King’s account of the Valley. It had once been lush, green, and full of life. At first he could see nothing through the dust that filled the air. A light breeze gradually pushed the haze aside, revealing the blasted hellscape the Valley had become. The grass, the trees, and the flowers were all gone. In their place were enormous mounds of grey ash, surrounded by bare earth that had been scorched black. The ash had rolled down hill over the years, choking the flow of the once mighty river to little more than a muddy trickle. Nothing stirred in the ruins except little eddies of smoke caught by the wind. The whole area seemed entirely devoid of life.

Rainalf couldn’t help but gasp at the sight.

“Yes. That is how most people react”, said the King, gently.

“I’ve never seen such a bleak desert,” admitted Rainalf.

“Now you see the burden I carry,” said the King, solemnly. “I must do everything I can to stop the Dragons from destroying the lands I rule.”

Rainalf blinked. “You what?”

“The Dragons are planning an attack. Within the week, they will swarm over our borders and ravage the entire country. They will burn everything and everyone to the ground.”

Rainalf stared at the King in disbelief. “The Dragons cannot pass over the Grey Mountains, not while Fulgurn’s Shield holds. Everyone knows that. Hell, no one has even seen a Dragon east of the Valley since your Grandfather’s time. For all we know, the monsters are completely extinct.”

Down in the Valley, a spout of flame erupted from one of the larger mounds of ash. Then the hill exploded as a huge monstrous figure shot skyward, disappearing into the clouds of smoke and dust. A deep, bone-rattling roar sounded from the miasma. Then an enormous black Dragon burst from the haze, hurtling towards the High Tower at an alarming speed. As it drew even with foothills of the Grey Mountains, a wall of shimmering blue light appeared. The beast crashed into the wall and rebounded with a wail. Righting itself in mid-air, the behemoth's wails turned to snarls and roars. It launched a vicious attack on the shining barrier; waves of white hot flame and furious slashes with its iron-hard talons. The shield wall glowed brighter, but was unharmed by the savage assault. Eventually, the dragon tired of its futile attack. With a final snarl, the monstrosity wheeled around on leathery black wings, and flew back into the veiling clouds.

The duke watched this awesome display of violence in terrified silence. His heart was beating out of his chest. Every instinct told him to flee, but so great was his fear he dared not move. "Well," he said, eventually finding his voice. "The Dragons have a remarkable sense of dramatic timing."

“The world is changing,” whispered the king. “I have spoken to the Dragon Lord. He wants our world and he will have it. Unless we buy him off.”

The King fell silent, staring off into the distance. After waiting a full minute, Rainalf’s fear gave way to impatience. “Look. I like drama as much as the next punter, but you really are milking it.”

The King’s head snapped up, and there was a feverish look in his eyes. “This is all your fault, traitor. You and your rebellion. You made us look weak, just when there was power struggle among the Dragons. The only way for the Dragon Lord and I to prove our strength is with a sacrifice. Your sacrifice. In three days’ time, you will be taken down to the Serpent Valley and your life shall be offered as tribute to the Dragons.”

Rainalf could do nothing but gape. The King was talking utter nonsense. Dragon Lord... Dragons planning... Dragon power struggles. Everyone knew that Dragons were dumb brutes. They couldn’t plan. They didn’t organize. What’s next, he thought. Cows composing love ballads to butchers. It was a ridiculous notion.

But the King spoke as if the Dragons had a complex civilization. He believed he had actually spoken with Dragons. As Rainalf stared at the strange light in the monarch’s eyes, he began to realise the truth. The King was insane. I’m at the mercy of a madman and a pack of fire-breathing monsters. I die in three days. No one is coming to save me.

.........................................................................................................................

“There weren’t always Dragons in the Valley,” said the old man. He took a clumsy swallow from his pint of beer, and followed it up with a truly impressive belch. Mopping his beard with a dirty napkin, the old man continued his tale. “To be sure, Dragons have harassed our borders from time immemorial, but it was only in the days of Kulgrim the First that they overran the Valley. I was only a boy at the time, but I remember the call that went out through all the lands, begging warriors to come and fight the fell beasts. And warriors answered the call. Mighty Dragon Slayers from the Sunrise Kingdoms travelled in on noble steeds. Their weapons gleamed in the sunlight as they rode off to do battle. And every able bodied man that could lift a spear was drafted and sent into the fray beside them. They fought bravely, and they died bravely. But they were never expected to win. The Dragon Slayers merely fought a holding action, while the King haggled with the Wizards guild. Eventually, old Kulgrim made the right offer to those greedy old conjurors and the entire Guild massed at the Grey Mountains to face the Dragons. For three whole days, fire fought against lightning. Many dragons fell, but always more beasts took their place. Many Wizards died and their ranks were not so easily replenished. When all seemed lost, Fulgurn, the master of the Guild gathered the remaining Wizards and they poured all their life-force into one final spell. The effort cost them their lives, but created a shield that could not be burned by Dragon fire, nor torn by Dragon claws, nor smashed by a Dragon’s spikey tail. Fulgurn’s Shield they call it and it stands to this day. Thus the Kingdom was saved, but at great cost, for all the Wizards perished, and with them passed nearly all the magic in the world. Fulgurn’s Shield alone stands as testament to miracles the world will never see again.” His story finished, the old man smiled in satisfaction at his own skill and began another long pull on his beer mug.

Across the filthy table, the little thief fixed the old man with a flat stare. “Yes, that’s all very interesting,” he snapped. “But if you recall, I said I wasn’t interested in your bloody fairy tales.”

The old man choked on his beer, and began to cough and splutter uncontrollably.

The thief hated meeting in pubs; too many dark corners, too many people to watch. Even in respectable establishments there were usually at least a couple of pickpockets, and the odd angry drunk looking for a fight.

This dive was several thousand miles away from respectable. It would have been a great improvement in character and overall market value if the building burned down. The aging timber beams and white-washed walls had all been blackened by years of accumulated soot and grime. The furniture was crudely made and in ill repair. The floor was nothing more than hard packed earth, spotted by muddy puddles where patrons had spilled their beer. As though made to order, the patrons themselves were perfectly matched to their surroundings- dirty, sweaty, wearing mismatched and ragged clothing. (The thief hadn’t bathed in a week, and his clothing was stained and travel-worn. Yet he still felt he stood out like a gold tooth in a beggar’s mouth.)

But the unease he felt went deeper than unwashed peasants in an unwashed sty. There was an atmosphere of wrongness about this pub. On the surface, the patrons seemed to be enjoying themselves- laughing, talking, and drinking. But the laughs were forced and too loud; everyone was talking but nobody was listening; and the drinking was excessive. The whole scene lacked any warmth or fellowship. Those who drank here did so because they had nowhere else to go.

Great, thought the thief. I’m in a room crammed with desperate criminals.

The thought made his back itch in expectation of being stabbed. He fought down the urge to scratch, the urge to look over his shoulder. He was hoping to meet one of the city’s most dangerous underworld leaders. Any nervousness or hesitation would be taken as weakness. In a den like this, if you were really lucky, weakness would only get you killed.

The old man finally got his sputtering under control. “What did you say?” he demanded.

Speaking slowly, as though to a child, the thief replied. “I said I don’t want to hear the senile ramblings of a drunken old fool. I’m looking for Varrek. I’m told this is where to find him.”

The old man drew himself up to his full height, which would have been more impressive without his massive beer gut. “And what makes you think that Varrek wants to see you?” asked the old man, his voice dripping with disdain.

The thief caught a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. Finally! He flashed a mirthless smile at the old man. “Oh, he definitely doesn’t want to see me. Which is why he sent his apes to throw me out of his tavern.”

With blinding speed, the thief grabbed the old man’s pint and turned to face the lean cutthroat standing by his right shoulder. The thug was reaching out to grab the thief and was shocked when his quarry turned to face him. In that moment of hesitation, the thief dashed inside the tall man’s reach and smashed the mug into his nose. From opposite the first attacker, a second thug bull-rushed into the fray. He was big and brawny and assumed the weight advantage would allow him to tackle the smaller man to the ground with ease. The thief continued the momentum from his first strike and spun around, throwing a perfectly timed sweeping kick at the bull’s front foot, causing him to stumble. While the bull tried to right himself, the thief grabbed the stool he had been sitting on and swung it up under his opponent’s chin. It connected with a satisfying thud, and the bull fell backward, unconscious. By this time, the lean thug had recovered enough to throw a punch at the back of the thief’s head. The thief avoided the blow with another graceful spin, and smashed the stool across the thug’s back. The tall ruffian crashed into the old man’s table and rolled onto the floor, conscious but clearly out of the fight.

The whole room fell silent as every person in the pub turned to stare in awe at the spectacle. The thief glared back at them, daring anyone else to have a go. The silence was broken by the old man behind him. “Protect me you fools,” he screamed.

Got you, thought the thief, triumphantly. As half a dozen more henchmen rose from around the pub, the thief placed a hand on the table separating him from the old story teller and vaulted nimbly over it. He landed beside his target, produced a short dagger from his sleeve, and pressed it menacingly against the old man’s throat.

“Call your men off, or I’ll pull your tongue out through your neck. And that would really ruin your story-telling. Though it might improve your breath.”

The old man's eyes were wide with fear, and all the colour had drained from his once ruddy face. He frantically waved the other cutthroats off. “I’ll tell you where Varrek is. Please don’t kill me,” he whined.

The thief pressed the tip of his knife harder against the old man’s throat. A tiny spot of blood welled up and began to trickle down towards his chest. The little man's eyes were flinty, entirely devoid of mercy. “Are we really going to play this game Varrek?” whispered the thief.

Varrek gave a defeated sigh. "Well, you can't blame a fella for trying." And suddenly his entire demeanor changed. The expressions of fear in his face and voice disappeared, replaced by a business-like tone and dangerous fire behind his eyes. “Who are you?” the crime lord demanded. “What do you want?”

“My name is Latro,” replied the thief. “I’m here to rescue Duke Rainalf. And you’re going to help me.”

Fantasy
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About the Creator

Martin Estridge

Occasional actor, infrequent writer, amateur photographer, aspiring electrician.

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