The Augur Knight

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. In fact, there weren’t always serpents. But one morning in the cold dew, a one-eyed farmer glanced sideways at a crooked branch and thought he saw a viper. He told of it in the tavern that night, and sure enough, by the next morning, the valley’s crannies were squirming with snakes.

You see, in the town of Augur’s Bluff, belief burns bright and spreads fast. What goes around whispered, comes around fact, they say. And facts solidify in the sun.

Long ago, it’s what saved the dying Mayor. He spent a winter bed-ridden, wrapped from head-to-toe in pink bandages, coughing up his lungs. The Doctor declared him dead at noon on the dot, and sent his son to bring the news to the town. It passed ears with two other boys on the way in, and somewhere along the way, “is dead” was taken for “isn’t dead.” By 12:24, the Miller stood on a crate and shouted to the expecting townspeople that their beloved Mayor was alive, well, and making a full recovery.

Things like this happen in most towns. People make mistakes, words are flimsy things, and ears deceive. But anywhere else, they’d find out sooner or later that they were mistaken. The dancing and the singing would sink into silence, and some unenviable soul, gripping his hat in dismay, would bare the bad news.

But not in Augur’s Bluff. At 12:36 the Mayor re-opened his eyes. The Doctor held a mirror to his mouth, and saw the fog of breath. At 12:45 they removed his bandages and found his rashes reduced to small blisters. At 1:03 he stood from his bed. And at midnight he drank from the golden horn and played with the band.

Because enough people believed, it was made so. Such is the nature of this strange little place.

It’s why all the town cats really do live nine times. It's why the communion wine tastes like blood. It's why the spinsters and tavern-dwellers—dishing on rumors and secrets—hold more power than any lord or judge or king.

And it's why dragons came to Augur’s Bluff. It started with a snake, a few dried-up roots, and a child with an overactive imagination. The Blacksmith’s daughter entered his shop one morning and tugged at her father’s trouser leg. “Father, father,” she said. “I saw a snake with legs.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “Snakes don’t have legs. You probably saw a lizard.”

All within earshot laughed. But they all believed.

The next morning, the valley was scuttling with lizards. Small ones—geckos, salamanders, chameleons. By the next season they were commonplace. And as they were accepted, they grew in size.

Next time, it was the Tailor’s Son. He saw an iguana slinking through the grass, a bat in its mouth, with fuzzy limp appendages hanging from its teeth. A quick glance—a frantic, myopic glance…

“Father, father,” said the Tailor’s Son. “I saw a lizard with wings.”

The Tailor laughed. His three assistants laughed. Children can be so inventive.

But the Miller—being fitted for a coat—did not laugh. And he spoke of what he heard in the tavern that night. And to his wife, in bed, before falling into an uneasy sleep.

Finally it was the Tanner, drunkenly stumbling through the valley after an evening of ale. He saw a bearded lizard, and this one really did have wings. Tiny, hopeless flaps sprouting from its back—as unprepared for flight as the Tanner was himself. But wings nonetheless.

And the word “dragon” fell to his lips. And once again, after he returned to the tavern. “Dragon,” he said soberly, softly, but with such conviction that he quieted the room.

If belief spreads like fire in Augur’s Bluff, then fear is like gunpowder.

No one in the town dreamed that night. A mist crawled in from the mountains, and settled thick over the valley. The birds didn’t speak, nor the crickets chirp. The sun didn’t rise at dawn. And by the morning, there sat an egg. Warm, yellow, steaming in the dew. It quivered and hummed. Something wicked lay within.

Now I sit in the rubble of a burnt town, marking the end of a month of carnage. I know not who is still alive. I know not who lies in graves of cinder and soot. I know not who’s been carried off, dropped from the sky, ripped asunder or clawed to bits. Of the remaining few, however, I know I have one duty—to convince them that a mortal can overthrow these monsters. That someone can save Augur’s Bluff. I need to make them believe that I am a hero.

But first, of course, I need to believe it myself.