Tales of Asharia: The Rise of House Dragonsbane

"There weren't always dragons in the Valley" declared Joris as he walked, his booming voice failing to echo from the surrounding stone columns of petrified trees. "Did I ever tell you that?"

"Only a few hundred times," muttered his companion - Thorson sat astride his bay gelding, brushing the long brown hair that had escaped his plait away from his face as the breeze tugged it to and fro. He kept his eyes fixed on the narrow mountain road ahead, mindful of the drop a few hundred feet high to his right.

"One more time won't kill you then, will it?"

Joris continued on without prompting. "Back in my day, we used to have to climb a damned mountain to kill a dragon. Seemed like every mountain in Asharia had at least one of the fuckers up there. Then they decided to hide out in caves. Now you're lucky to see a single dragon in a year, let alone kill the bloody thing."

"Perhaps that's what happens when you kill creatures that don't want to be killed," said Thorson, scratching his beard. "Dragons tend to make it harder to kill them after realizing that". He had made the same point a few hundred times before and was aware he had hundreds more waiting for him. "Besides, it's wyverns that concern us today, not dragons."

"You make an excellent point, Joris-Bearer Twenty Nine" Joris chuckled. "You're not nearly as dumb as you look."

"I look like you" Thorson pointed out, guiding his mount away from the ledge with a light touch of his knee.

"Hardly" scoffed Joris, "You have neither my eyes nor my hair." He gestured at Thorson as if that settled matters completely. Thorson swung his hand into Joris’ clean-shaven jawline - his fingers passing through the incorporeal form.

"As if you could tell." Joris reappeared beside him, mostly translucent, with scant facial features. The likeness of his face waned in and out, making him hard to read. His clothing and scarred-up arms faded in and out with each movement - Thorson turned away, indulging in a roll of his eyes.

"I do remember what I looked like, thank you very much." Joris turned to the horse as it plodded along, leaning in conspiratorially to say: "I was much better looking when I was his age, Ward, believe me." He finished this statement with a rude gesture that drew a grin out of Thorson.

"He can't hear you" reminded Thorson. "Only I can." He urged his mount to a trot with a few clicks of his tongue. "Do try to keep up, old man."

Pulling ahead, Thorson heard Joris grumble -"little fucker"- as he picked up his pace.

The clopping of hooves and the creak of saddle leather were the only sounds for a time. They passed by a section of fire-darkened stone, the charred surface broken by several ghostly outlines. Thorson dipped his head to those of his kin who had faced down a dragon centuries ago. The words 'they died on their feet' were etched into the granite above them in runes, their names carved beside each outline. Joris paused by one of the outlines for a moment, his fingertips disappearing into the granite while tracing the runes he had carved more than six centuries before. Thorson reined in his horse at sudden memories of a blinding flash of light - searing heat - a group of warriors turned to a cloud of ash - blowing away by the next beat of a dragon's wings…

Together, the trio of horse, rider, and ancestor, continued on their way to the southern watchtower.

They arrived almost half an hour later. Thorson directed his horse over to a crude wooden hitching post. Joris waited by an iron-bound wooden door as Thorson dismounted. His hands went to his belt out of habit, feeling the familiar weight of the sword and axe hanging opposite each other in addition to the other blades concealed beneath his cloak and sleeves. Satisfied he'd set each weapon in their proper place, he made for the overlook. Thorson halted on his way to the tower and turned back to the big bay. Ward turned his pale face to look at his rider, discerning eyes watching him approach.

Thorson scratched his mount behind the ear as he spoke to him. "Hey Ward, I know you hate sitting here. I'll be down as soon as I find any trace of that wyvern. Alright?"

Ward nipped at Thorson's hand in response. Thorson - who'd been expecting the move - pulled his fingers away as the horse's teeth clacked where they’d been a moment before. Thorson flicked the big gelding on the nose as he said: "You'll have to be quicker than that."

Ward butted Thorson’s chin with his forehead, causing him to stagger back a few steps. Joris roared with laughter as Thorson copied Joris’ rude gesture as he made his way to the tower door.

"Well handled, Twenty Nine," chortled Joris, shaking his head.

"I think I'm growing on him," Thorson commented, dabbing at his nostril with the back of one hand as he entered the doorway into the tower.

The tower itself was in a poor state of repair. The masonry sported cracks in enough places to be concerning. Tiny streams of water trickling in from the ceiling above. A set of worn wooden steps spiraled around the inner wall of the structure, some of which Thorson hopped over as he ascended. In ancient times the tower had belonged to House Alden, the order of knights that still protected the lands of Asharia. Now, their great network of towers and walls lay in disrepair under the stewardship of House Dragonsbane. Unmanned, unmaintained, unwatched - with one or two exceptions of course.

Thorson made it to the top of the tower and gazed at the surrounding terrain of Blackstone Valley. Apart from a spattering of scraggly pines and hardy scrub brush, there were few indicators that anything living flourished among the stones long since laid waste by dragon-fire. The heat of the flames had left clusters of petrified trees scattered about which made up the majority of plant life in the valley. The brown and gray trunks added a bit of color to the burnt floor. Some of the trees still had leaves clinging to their branches, brittle and sharp as flint. Piles of ash and charcoal still lay in places where the ancient trunks sheltered them from the winds that blew through the valley. Every direction Thorson looked, mountains loomed. The tower upon which he stood had once been used to guard the mountain road. Now, the road was the only path to his home at the summit of Mount Tirveim - at least what was left of the summit after a battle with a dragon had sundered the entire peak.

Thorson stood with a foot upon the crumbling battlement, watching for any disturbance in the land below or the presence of a big flying creature above. His eyes narrowed in an attempt to pierce the unyielding cover of the numerous stone trees. They remained unyielding. Thorson, normally a bottomless well of patience, stood motionless as he would for any mission where he had to remain in the same place for hours, ever watchful for his quarry. Joris was not. He was currently pacing, each step wearing on Thorson's last nerve.

"Do you have to do that?" he asked, half to himself.

Thorson ran a finger across the scar on his right temple to hide the fact he was rubbing his head. Despite the fact Joris had no physical presence, Thorson could still feel his ancestor's memories shifting within his skull as he moved. Joris paced; Thorson planted his feet. The wind blew by - Ward snorted as he found a new patch of marsh grass.

"Have you seen anything yet?" Joris moved to stand beside Thorson with his arms crossed.

"No."

It had been five minutes since the last time Joris asked - making twelve times in total. The apparition sighed and leaned against the battlement, sinking into the stone a little as he did so. "We could be somewhere else," he commented casually.

Thorson sighed, he knew where this was going. "Such as?"

"Asharia," Joris said simply.

"No.”

"We made an oath.”

"And we have kept that oath," Thorson reiterated for the thousandth time.

"And this is what you all call keeping it?" Joris scoffed, shaking his head and he gestured to the desiccated valley below.

"House Dragonsbane have patrolled the mountains and this valley for over six hundred years,” Thorson retorted. “We've kept the wyverns and dragons in check all this time. That is what we swore to do–"

"I swear to serve the people of Asharia," intoned Joris, extending his arms out before him. "To safeguard them from any and all foes--"

"I. Know. The. Oath," Thorson spat, rounding on his ancestor. "I took it - same as you. By the Ten Hells, Joris, you were there when I bent the knee! I've done nothing but protect Asharia since I became a knight!" He stopped then, realizing he'd been shouting. Thorson turned back to the valley, his face a mask of stone once again.

"Such a noble knight," cooed Joris. "Tell me, when was the last time you protected someone out of anything other than rote obligation, Knight of the Realm?" This resulted in no response from the young warrior. Joris’ expression turned to a glower. "You know nothing of Asharia beyond fighting the few bandits foolish enough to enter Alden territory."

"I know enough," snapped Thorson, his back still to Joris. "I've seen your memories."

A bark of laughter escaped from Joris. "From six hundred years ago, and none by your own making. You remember, but I relive them. I wish you could actually see what the people of Asharia were truly like in my time… perhaps then you wouldn't brush them aside so easily."

Thorson didn't turn his head to acknowledge Joris, however, he did bring his arm back behind him and beckon with his first two fingers. Puzzled, Joris looked to the sky for a winged silhouette. He still slunk over to stand beside Thorson and look where the young warrior pointed. A thin column of smoke rose from within the confines of a copse of petrified trees a few miles distant.

"It seems you'll get your wish," Thorson called over his shoulder as he descended the stairs, already on the move.

Joris was already waiting on one of the landings ahead. "Bandits?" He asked as Thorson passed him.

"No. We've killed so many that none would dare to light a fire that made so much smoke. Unless, of course, they're fools - which they may just be. You know wyverns prefer to attack at night."

Thorson cursed as he came through the door, seeing that Ward had seen fit to free himself from the iron ring. The big warhorse stood a few dozen paces up the mountain road, grazing on a small patch of grass - hard to come by in these parts.

"So what are you thinking?" Joris pondered, excitement electrifying their connection as a series of possibilities floated . "Lost nobles, farmers, hunters, refugees?"

"Doesn't matter, '' Thorson said as he turned from his horse and began to jog down the mountain, loosing a shrill whistle as he ran. "I'll have to tell them to begone no matter who they are. No outsiders are allowed." He caught Joris looking at him, a touch disheartened. Thorson sighed, knowing full well he would probably regret this, he said: "I'll scout them out, if they seem worth of my time, I'll talk to them. Happy?"

"Perfectly," avowed Joris, a smile upon his lips even as he faded into the recesses of Thorson's mind.

Thorson heard the rapid approach of Ward's hooves and he spun to take hold of the front of his saddle. As much attitude as the horse had, he was well trained. Thorson took a few rapid steps and leapt up onto his mount, feet finding the stirrups in short order. He fixed his gaze on the setting sun, judging he had maybe an hour left before dark. Both horse and rider enjoyed the faster pace for a few minutes before Thorson reined Ward in. He didn't want to tire his mount too much. Though unlikely, it could turn out to be bandits after all.

The sun had just disappeared below the horizon when Thorson finally brought his horse to a halt. The sunlight now remained almost entirely in the sky, leaving the valley floor covered in muted grays and dark shadows, while the sky remained a tapestry of vibrant pink, orange, and gold. This too would be soon replaced by a star-strewn night sky. Thorson could see well enough to make out the small hill and the cluster of trees scattered about its crest, as well as the column of smoke rising up into the darkening sky. A slight breeze caressed Thorson's face, carrying the scent of smoke and horses to him. The campsite was just ahead.

Leaving Ward by a scraggly clump of half-dead grass, Thorson made use of what little light he had remaining and knelt by a pile of ash, feeling around until he found a few lumps of charcoal. He crushed them in his hands, the brittle material easily giving way. He rubbed his hands together, grinding the pieces until they produced a fine powder. Thorson used a charcoal coated finger to draw diagonal lines across upon his skin, breaking up the composition of his face in the dark and to allow himself to move a little more freely. He then coated the back of each hand in a layer of grime. His preparations complete, Thorson began to make his way in the direction of camp.

Thorson took his time as he moved. There was no need to rush. Whomever was foolish enough to enter the valley was clearly camped for the night and wouldn't be going anywhere for hours yet. He made the tree line without incident and sat on his haunches for a minute or two, listening. He hadn't heard any voices thus far and was not surprised to find that he could not hear them now. The pockets of ash as well as the blackened forest floor were excellent for deadening any sound beyond a certain distance. He looked up and could see the tree trunks kissed with amber light as they stood motionless even as the wind blew by. As he crept closer, Thorson was treated to flashbacks from the many hunts, scouting missions and raids Joris had participated in over his, and others' lives.

So vivid were the images, they almost caused Thorson to creep right into the guard in front of him. He pivoted behind a tree, listening for any indication he'd been seen, but the only sounds were that of distant voices and the steady breathing of the guard. Releasing a breath he'd not known he was holding, Thorson peered around the trunk of the tree at the guard who - judging by the angle of his helmet - had fallen asleep leaning on his spear. Thorson shook his head - it would mean thirty lashes for any Dragonsbane caught nodding off on duty. He edged around the sleepy sentry and crept the final fifty feet to the camp.

What Thorson saw wasn't so bad as far as campsites go. There were a few canvas cloths stretched between the trees to keep the rain off those who slept beneath them. A trio of wagons were arranged in a half circle with a pair of guards resting atop them, their eyes facing away from the fire, keeping careful watch over the blind spot the wagons created. The horses were picketed a little further away, close enough to retrieve on a short run, but not so close as to wreck the camp should something spook them. A fire had been set centered between the three wagons, where two servants labored around a large iron pot.

Thorson's eyes went to the other main source of light, a large brazier where a group of men and women sat on a series of small benches and chairs. They were traders, or so it seemed to Thorson, who had had little dealings with those who lived beyond the mountains. The men wore well-tailored tunics with puffed out sleeves in a variety of reds, yellows, blues, and even purple. Intricate embroidery depicted different crests of houses of various animals and patterns. They wore swords that seemed to be more for show than function. The women were garbed in fine dresses with flowing sleeves that hung so low that Thorson suspected they would drag on the ground if the ladies put their arms at their sides. They were all talking loudly, as if they didn't much care who heard them, or what might come.

The loudest of them was a man dressed in a silver and black tunic, who spoke as much with his hands as his mouth. His black hair was combed to one side, his face clean shaven. He was just about the heaviest man Thorson had ever seen, his fitted shirt doing nothing to hide his bulk. He was having an animated discussion with a man Thorson took to be the caravan leader.

"Irwin, are you sure we've gone far enough today? I don't want those blasted Snowthorn to catch up on us with our pants around our ankles!" The big man spoke to the plainly-dressed Irwin with a certain air of disdain.

"I told you already, milord Byrnside" said Irwin patiently, "They wouldn't have followed us this far. We have to stay 'ere until the day. Awful dangerous to go wandering about at night. 'Specially 'round 'ere." He spat to one side before he continued. "Besides, beggin' milord's pardon, the horses need the rest, and so do we all."

"Ah," Byrnside seemed as though he wished to press Irwin more but at last relented. "Very well, my good man, you've not led us astray yet, I shall defer to your experience."

Irwin knuckled his forehead respectfully and made his way to the cookfire where he was handed a bowl by one of the servants. Byrnside returned to his place with the other finely dressed people who were in a heated discussion. Thorson drew nearer to make out their words. Joris crouched down next to him, clearly intent on hearing their conversation.

"...We were lucky to get out of there alive," muttered a flat faced man, his leg bouncing nervously. "I thought we were dead for sure."

"As did I," said the woman next to him, a consoling hand on his shoulder. "But we made it out." This drew a smile from the man, who rested his forehead against hers.

"An entire city taken by those damned traitors," affirmed another man, mustachios aquiver as he spoke. "I never believed another knight house would have the gall to attempt such a thing."

"Another?" Byrnside asked, cocking his head to one side. "Don't recall any knight house declaring open rebellion before now."

"House Dragonsbane did," asserted a noblewoman in an embroidered red dress.

A number of those who sat beside her nodded in agreement. Thorson tensed as anger coursed through him at the implication that his family had been dishonorable.

"Was it not they who abandoned their duty to our king upon the very day of his coronation?" The speaker a heavyset man had low hanging jowls that swung to and fro as he looked from one noble to another. "Or do I misremember?"

"I believe you have the right of it," smiled the noblewoman. She had a sly look to her, as though every word had a tangible weight. "They threw a tantrum like a bunch of petulant children, hiding themselves behind their mountains and their reputation. And for what, because they disliked a ruler? His policies?" She scoffed, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. "They betrayed Asharia as surely as the damned Snowthorns."

A murmur of agreement went up around the fire, heads nodding.

Thorson's hands were balled into fists as he stood, itching to draw his weapons to avenge such an insult to his family’s honor. To compare his kin to those who had fallen so far called for nothing less than a duel to the death. There was a hand on his arm, and upon turning, he found his ancestor still at his side. Joris' touch was more a sensation born of memory than of physical presence, but Thorson felt it all the same.

"Wait, young one," Joris uttered, not unkindly. "Help yet comes."

Thorson was tempted to shrug off his hand and stride into the camp, but the conviction in the words made him hesitate. Joris had never truly steered him wrong. He settled back on his haunches and waited.

Byrnside held up a finger. "Counterpoint." Every eye turned to him as he stood, his gaze going to each individual as he spoke. "Over six hundred years ago, there was a question over who would next become king out of three available candidates. House Dragonsbane informed the king's council that if they were to choose Corrim Lyris, an immortal, that they would pull their allegiance from the crown. The council chose House Lyris, and so House Dragonsbane had no choice but to keep their word." Byrnside spread his hands. "It was not exactly a hard prediction to come by." He sighed. "Too bad really, we sure could use a few hundred warriors worth ten men apiece right about now.

"You forget, Byrnside" sneered the woman in red. "They still owe their loyalty to the king, no matter if he is immortal or not."

"I think not," pronounced Burnside as though he were in a courtroom, his jury a gaggle of nobles, his audience a forest of petrified trees. "When a knight swears an oath, to whom do they first pledge their undying allegiance?"

There was a long pause as those gathered around the fire looked at each other for the answer.

"Oh come off it," cried Byrnside, exasperated. "It's in the first bloody line!" When the nobles remained silent, Byrnside drew in a breath, allowing his chest to swell before intoning an arrangement of words Thorson knew all too well. "I swear to serve the people of Asharia, to safeguard them from any and all who mean them harm, be they kinsman or king."

The words stirred something within Thorson as they did each time he heard them. He had spoken them thousands of times in the process of his memorization, for every meeting of his house, on the day he'd been made a knight. He had yet to hear them spoken like this. They held a certain power, a singular belief. A purpose. That to give oneself over to duty, not to any single individual, but to a country, to its people. To fight for them, to die for them, so that they might carry on their lives of peace long after their names had been forgotten. That that could be the greatest service one could give.

Byrnside continued, his voice rising gradually in volume until it took on a sonorous quality that shook the very roots of the trees surrounding him. "The world is full of instability; Fraught with injustice and subjugation; Justice rings true from our swords; Our shields hold the darkness at bay; For when the evils of this world threaten to consume all; We alone shall defend against them."

As the oath poured from Byrnside's mouth, others took up the words, as the force behind them did as it was meant to: to unite those who heard them together, as one. Joris rose, and began to walk slowly toward Byrnside as he spoke.

"For the Fates that guide us; For the Oaths that bind us; For those we hold most dear; We stand steadfast in life and forever vigilant in death. "

As Joris reached the noble, unseen and unfelt, he placed his hand upon the big man's shoulder and turned to face Thorson, smiling as he did so. As the final words began, Thorson found himself on his feet, quietly adding his own voice to the conglomeration before him.

"For Glory, for Honor, for Alden!"

It was now that Thorson had finally realized his full purpose. While his family had indeed kept their word to safeguard the mountains while keeping the wyverns and dragons in check - that was enough for some - they had somehow lost what it was to be a true knight. He realized that they had left the defense of Asharia to lesser men and women for far too long. They had done well in their absence, but now, perhaps it was time for House Dragonsbane to ride forth once more.

He caught Joris's eye. His ancestor's smile had turned from one of triumph, to one of quiet pride and mutual understanding. Thorson smiled back at Joris, his eyes damp with unshed tears as Joris' memories swum around him - ancient halls, people long dead. He had found something he hadn't known he was missing at long last. Six hundred years of waiting for someone to take the first step was about to come to fruition.

A sudden scream rent the air above, terrible and shrill as metal on slate. Everyone found their feet in an instant, benches and chairs clattering to the ground as the nobles produced swords from beneath their cloaks, all of them looking around for the source of the sound. A wyvern fell from the night sky like a giant hawk. Its talons latched onto the pair of guards who'd been resting atop the wagons, scooping one of them up as easily as one would a ragdoll. The other guard screamed as his leg was pinned between the crate he was sitting on and the wyvern's claw, the sharp talons piercing the wagon on either side, becoming lodged in the wooden walls. The wyvern attempted to take off with it's prize, but the heavily laden wagon kept it from getting airborne.

Two more guards rushed out of the woods brandishing spears, they advanced on the wyvern shouting battle-cries, seemingly ready to do battle with this new adversary. The wyvern's head spun around, its tail lashing out, catching one of the guards in the throat. He fell gurgling to the ground as his companion balked, frozen in place. The man pinned to the wagon-top had drawn a dagger and began to stab at the wyvern's leg. He scored a few hits before the reptilian head snaked around and bit his arm off at the elbow. His screams snapped the remaining spearman out of his revery. He turned to flee, exposing his unarmored back to the wyvern. It's tail spike drove through his spine before he made it five steps.

Thorson stepped around the forked tree he'd been using as cover and began to walk toward the chaos. Memories came to him in rapid succession. Battlefields covered in rotting dead, ravens pecking at sightless eyes. The feel of a blade hitting bone, the stench of blood and viscera. The clash of steel on steel and the horrific sounds of dying men. The terror of facing down a dragon alone. The pain of loss. All this came to him as it did every time he faced a foe, Joris's memories bubbling up like a pot left to boil. This was not all there was however. There was also the joy of besting a worthy foe. Of standing shoulder to shoulder in the shield wall with the best men and women he'd ever known. The cries of victory and triumph. The thrill of battle itself.

Thorson embraced it all.

The sleeping guard came tearing out of the woods, his spear upside-down, bleary eyes casting about for the source of all the commotion. His attention was so fixed on the fight by the wagon he ran full on into Thorson, falling onto his ass with a yelp. A number of heads turned their way and there was a chorus of gasps as the nobles saw Thorson.

He stood stalwart as he faced the wyvern, the blade of his axe shining crimson in the firelight. Thorson undid the clasp of his cloak with his right hand, letting it fall to the ground at his feet, a shirt of chain links suddenly resplendent as it caught the firelight. He ignored the nobles and turned his gaze on the young guard, so green Thorson could smell the sap on him.

"Give me your spear."

The boy threw it at him and Thorson stepped forward, catching it easily. He pivoted on his right foot before stepping with his left, hauling the spear back and launching it at the wyvern. It flew true, striking the creature in the crook of its wing. It fell screaming, the blade sinking a good foot into its flesh. The Wyvern released the pair of guards who lay where they fell, screaming in agony. The head came around and its glowing eyes found him immediately. It shrank back a little - as one does when faced with their impending death. The wyvern roared its defiance, dark blood spattering the ground before it. Thorson glanced at the nobles, still clustered around their fire, mouths agape. His eyes locked with those of Byrnside, who stood with a mix of shock and awe, a living legend come at last.

"Warriors worth ten men apiece, eh?" Thorson drew his sword as he rolled his neck against either shoulder, walking calmly toward the creature that had already killed two men. "Let me show you how we earned that reputation."

Thorson's face split into a grin as he began to run. By the time he reached the wyvern, he was already laughing.