Song of Steel

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

The great beasts used to keep to themselves in the Bone Mountains, huffing steam that wreathed the frozen peaks in clouded crowns.

In the tales of my grandmother, however, there had always been Steelsingers in the Valley. The sounds of my father and brothers’ axes bouncing along the steep hills of our home, echoing my grandfather’s and father’s before his, in a steady beat that sung the children in the village and the goats in their pens to sleep. Yes, there had always been Steelsingers in the Valley, for we were the only ones brave enough to dwell under the eaves of the tall trees that swung in the wind. The only ones unafraid of living beneath the lofty homes of dragons.

I’d roll my eyes at my brothers every time father would invoke their name to ensure we come home on time for dinner, not stray past the river, and never, ever, leave the henhouse unlatched. It was easy to dismiss them, until a winged shadow would pass overhead reminding you they didn’t just live in an old woman’s bedtime stories or a father’s half-hearted threats. I’d look up quickly, hoping to catch a glimpse before it flew out of sight, although I never was so lucky to see a dragon in flight.

Gareth once came running in through the door babbling about a tail as thick as our father’s shoulders, stretching more than the length of our house. His chubby freckled cheeks had been red with excitement, his eyes dancing around the room as if seeing it all again as his hands clutched at his carrot-orange hair.

No one could deny they were real beings, but everyone told tales about where they had come from and why they were here. Gareth liked to think they kept watch over our Valley, protecting us from what lie beyond. Rhylan, always practical, thought them to be a large type of eagle or hawk which through a trick of the way light fell here in the Valley, cast a twisted shadow. Hatch saw them as a punishment of the gods, ensuring we never aim to climb to their peaks, staying low where we belonged. I fancied my grandmother’s romantic notions of them as cursed princes, mourning a lost love, searching for a heart that could free them.

My father always laughed at these tales. “Princes or dragons, it doesn’t change that they’re animals, always hungry for their next meal. Don’t ever forget that, Mel. ”

Fear them or worship them, everyone grew up playing dragons. Little arms splayed out, running in circles, snarling out raspy roars, ending summer days curled in the grass, pretending it was snow cooling our scaled bellies.

I liked to imagine how it would feel to have fire in my throat, power waiting to issue forth, rather than nothing but the hollow gasps of a caught river trout. A mouth moving with no sound. Although now, looking at the beasts toppled in sad, oily heaps on the parched ground, chests rising and falling in labored breaths, we don’t sound or feel so different.

I wipe a bead of sweat from my chin and look over to our village through the waves of heat. Our house on the end in the cleft of the mountain and the tallest tree, looks more like a mirage swaying through the glaze.

The summers in the valley sit on your back like a yoke, and all you can do is strain forward and pray for winter. Rhylan says the heat gets stuck in the pocket between the mountains and can’t escape until the winds finally blow through. The stench of decaying dragon wafts my way and I pull my tunic over my nose. Hunched from my burden and the wet heat, I make my way home, careful to avoid the fallen beasts strewn across the valley like large, misshapen tombs.

I’m halfway across when I see the dark shadows writhing down the side of the mountain.

Trying to block out the glare from the sun with my hand, I squint trying to make out the snake-like shape making its way along the sharp switchbacks that lead down from the mountains. A road I’ve only seen used three times in my life. Once, by a brave peddler and twice by older boys eager to find out what lie beyond. If they found out, we never heard.

I feel my lip scrunch up to my nose as I squint harder, trying to make out the blurs. Carriages. Carriages dark as night, pulled by gleaming black horses. A full company of armored men behind.

I look back towards our village and pick up my pace, skirting closer to a dragon than I would like, careful to keep my footing with the ground trembling with the dying beast’s labored breathing.

I’ve only heard stories about Kings Men. Armor the color of scorched earth. Teeth whiter than cave snakes. Swords tall as a man. I think about how Gareth must be hopping up and down with excitement.

The ground stops moving, throwing me off balance and directly into the path of an amber, tortured gaze.

This dragon is not the largest in the Valley, it’s eye only about the size of a billy goat. I’d always imagined dragon scales in red and gold, flashing brilliant and proud in the light from their flames. But most are color of ordinary grass in its many seasons, ranging from dark green to pale yellow.

This one is green as birch leaves in early spring, and it’s looking directly at me. It huffs out a breath, and the air goes rancid, hot wind rushing past my face and blowing my hair back. My knees shake but I open my eyes, like a mouse watching as its captor peers down into the trap. But looking into its golden eye, leveled with mine, all I can feel is compassion. It’s in pain.

What can you do with something in that much pain, when you cannot find its source? Rhylan would say the greatest mercy would be to kill it, and Gareth would plead with him for its life, but Hatch would look grimly in the face of death, say “Let the gods keep their course,” and walk away.

I see my hand before me, reaching out as if to stroke its nose, as if it were a horse. When I realize what my hand seems intent to do, I flinch away. But not before the beast lifts its snout up, directly into the palm of my hand.

It’s hot to the touch, but I’m too afraid to pull away. I get a peek of sharp, pale fangs as its jaw slackens, like a dog about to roll over and expose its belly.

That’s when I feel it. Or hear it. There’s no way to explain, except that it’s both. Like a song that you can feel, like finger tips on your back, painting images; joy, loss, despair tumbling bright as the sunrise on the inside of my eyelids. It’s telling me a story. Something about a boy by the sea, cliffs and mountain tops, nine witches seated on thrones of teeth. The fear and pain is too great and I gasp, pulling away.

I only realize I’ve fallen backward once I’m blinking up at the sky, the backs of my legs itching on the dry, sunburnt grass, and something wet pooling around my shoulders.

Fainting was a way of life growing up. Climb too high with my brothers, and I’d get the black spots eating away at my vision. I'd wake up in my bed at home, grandmother’s worried face hovering over me. I could never swing an axe as hard or as long as my brothers could, not without eventually keeling over. It wasn’t until I fell into the river, bobbing along with the logs that my father banned me from their work. So I found other ways to be useful. Like risking a plain of fallen dragons for the summer berries that only grow on the Far Side.

I feel those berries now squashed beneath me, the juice warm on my spine. I sigh. The worst part is my brothers won’t even be surprised. They’ll laugh and say the most useful thing I can do is stay put and stay safe. But their eyes will dart to each other, worried. Imagining what could happen to me on my own when I can’t call out for help.

As if knowing my frustration, the dragon breathes out a sharp, angry huff of air. I lift myself up onto my elbows and look up at the beast. Right. Still on a monster’s doorstep. A monster in pain.

Carefully, I kneel and then make my way to standing, doing my best not to wobble too much. The dragon keeps its heavy lidded gaze on me as I struggle to my feet.

Then we both turn our heads at the sound of metal screaming in the sky.

Trumpets. Horse hooves hit hard and fast against the ground rolling like drums. Or is it a growl? The earth is nearly roiling beneath me now and I stumble forward again against the dragon’s snout. Keeping both hands on the flat scaled top, I turn my neck to see black and silver banners snapping across the sky.

Then I hear the sound of a dozen arrows being pulled back on their strings, ready to release.

“Maiden!” It’s a deep, confident voice ringing out across the field, too loud in the still air.

I see blonde hair floating in waves to wide shoulders. Thick, black leather armor strapped across his chest. There’s a long, white beard to his right. Hungry eyes.

“Fear not! We’ll have you back on safe ground shortly.”

I cannot answer, but the dragon is huffing faster, and red spots start to move across my sight. Pain like an axe poll slamming into the side of my chest. I can't tell if it's mine.

“She’s injured!” A different voice this time - higher, scared.

My brow wrinkles and I realize they mean the berry juice staining my back, probably looking like a mortal wound.

“The girl is bleeding!”

“She’s half dead!”

“Slay the beast, your grace!”

It’s echoed throughout their company, and I feel the air shift with the stomping of nervous horse hooves.

I turn around, putting my back to the dragon’s mouth, my hands already flying in the language I use with my family before I realize it’s futile. I motion to my healthy front, try to communicate that I’m safe. I should walk forward and try to explain closer, act it out in gestures like I used to when I was young, but I’m worried they’ll kill this thing that’s trying so desperately to live. That knows joy as well as pain.

It’s not until I hear the agonized cry of my brother that I know it’s done. It’s a breathless, fear-filled shout that I know belongs to Rhyland. Gareth and Hatch with our father won’t be far behind.

Sure enough there they are, three heads of red hair followed by one silver, axes on their shoulders glinting in the sun, unmissable. In a beat, they’re leading the charge forward, swallowed up by faster horses and even faster arrows.

I can’t see if they’ve been trampled or hurt, for in one moment I’m staring down a charging army of Kings Men and their swords, and in the next I’m suspended above them in air.

A talon strong as steel holds me fast in its grip.