The Ballad of Ibilin

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. For as long as Isak had lived, nothing of great import ever happened here, at least not until they arrived. Most people in Turanda Valley had only ever heard legends and folktales of them. Until recently, some didn’t even believe they were real. Isak remembered the look of utter disbelief when they had flown over the town of Rugil for the first time. The panic they had instilled as they soared overhead had been enough to send the whole town running for the hills. That was almost a year ago now.

Isak sat alone at the inn reminiscing about the day they had come. He was indulging himself with a mug of mulled wine. Notes of citrous and clove played on his palette as he savored every sip of the barkeeper’s own homemade batch. It had become one of his favorites.

“You’ve outdone yourself this time Ewen,” Isak shouted, as he toasted the man.

“Much appreciated! You’re welcome to more if you would like.”

“No, thank you my friend. I should be leaving soon. It’s going to be a long walk home if I have any more to drink tonight.”

Ewan chuckled, “Well, I didn’t make it for the weak of will. Best to know one’s limits I suppose.”

Isak turned his attention to the center of the Inn. Atop a central stage stood two bards entertaining a group of locals. They were a traveling pair, a man and a woman. One sang and the other strummed an ornate lute of fine craftsmanship. The audience was entranced by their song. The lovely duo was recounting an old classic about the fall of Ibilin, the mythical dragon kingdom of the west. After the great culling, the legendary beasts had fled their home to seek refuge in safer lands. Their once great kingdom wrought low by the Sorcerers of Gorendan. Now they were scattered to the far corners of the world and were all but extinct.

The Inn was filling up quickly with folk coming to celebrate the full moon. Isak didn’t like a big crowd, but he stayed to hear the bards finish their tale. With a few final words and a solemn note from their lute, the pair ended their story. The crowd showered them with applause as the duo joined hands and bowed.

It was time to leave. Isak drained the last of his wine and stood from his corner of the Inn.

“Goodnight Ewan. Blessings be upon you and your kin,” he said as he placed his empty mug on the bar top.

“And you Isak.”

Isak drifted out of the Inn and on to the main street. The pale moonlight bathed the cobblestone in a soft bluish glow and he took in a hot breath of fresh air before beginning his leisurely stroll. About a mile from the edge of town he found the forest path that would lead him home. There were wolves howling at the moon, about a dozen of them. They sounded close, which would normally give anyone else cause for concern. But he wasn’t worried. He was downwind and he knew how to walk through the forest unseen.

The bards’ tale was still on his mind. They had told it better than most, but as was usually the case they had gotten a few details wrong. Isak supposed he couldn’t blame them though. It was a hundred years ago after all and the two of them didn’t look a day over twenty. Even if they had been old enough there was no way they could ever know the truth.

The sorcerers were not alone in their plot to destroy Ibilin. He should know. It was he who’d helped them, a mistake that would haunt him for the rest of his life. And assuming people were kept ignorant to his identity, it would be a long one. After all, dragons lived for thousands of years.