The Black Mouth

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Ofttimes it was dependent on one of many factors, or so the skyreaders claimed. The season was the one of utmost importance, as dragons never laid their eggs during any time but spring, up high in the crown of the Black Mount. There would their simmering stones scorch in the sun until the creatures within were ready to hatch.

Other times, it seemed the dragons were at the mercy of men, earthly masters of flesh and bone driven by wanton greed. Strife and war were the fires which drove them, the dragons the coin for the purchase of victory. The dragonmen hunted often but not always well, though those with ability filled their coffers lustily with no given thought for tomorrow. During seasons like these of man's own making, not a dragon could be seen encircling the valley up high in the sky.

But it had not always been this way, with the dragons being left to the devices of the dragonmen. There had been a time when the warriors of the crown had stood sentry in the shade of the Mount. Now only the black bones of poachers who had proved lacking littered its stony feet.

Ashar peered from behind a writhing stump of willow. The day was clear and blue with a light breeze that blew the scents of nearby ponds and dampened soil well past the borders of the Valley. Below Ashar's view, the dale was drenched in golden sunlight as it unfurled into the horizon. Lakes dotted the basin and rivers wove through them to form a web of silver thread and glimmering medallions upon a green tapestry of turf.

The Black Mount rose from the center amidst it all like a jagged splinter, yearning for the sky whilst casting its long shadow across the land. On days not so piercingly blue, its peak was oft girdled in wisps of white cloud. Ashar favored those days over ones like these, for it did a hunter no good to be seen so clearly by his quarry from leagues away. He supposed he must take the long way around, leaping from willow to willow, lengthening the journey to threefold.

It did no good to grumble about what must need be done, however; so he checked the string on his crossbow and the number of quarrels in his quiver. Slinging his harpoon over a shoulder, Ashar tramped towards the towering black obelisk.

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Alekhor dreaded opening his eyes here. Each time he did so, what lay before him was the same--a world of eerie twilight, soaked through in a foul green and heavy black. The roof was water, the ground was an ocean of swamps, and the space in between was the crypt of the netherworld stretching endlessly before him until the thick darkness blotted out even the densest of shadows.

The trudging train of Hunters froze at the sound of a moaning roar rumbling from within the vast skyward ocean overhead. The sound of this place was deep and terrible like the thrashing of great and terrifying waters inside a hollow cave. Alekhor's ears were smothered and deafened by the monstrous reverberations, as if a thousand thousand millwheels churned the waters above him; yet he felt he could almost hear his companions through the noise, holding their breaths in dreadful anticipation.

Suddenly, the roar thinned into a shriek and the water above them flailed and roiled. Hunters ahead and behind Alekhor fell to their faces but dared not cry out. Alekhor was too afraid to do even that. The surface broke into frothy purple, and a curtain of saltwater drenched the company.

Though the viscous water dribbled slowly into the cracks and crevices of their armor and made them quaver with its clammy caress, the Hunters dared not budge. The deep seething was reduced to the dull moan of deep water, and the groping waves calmed once more. The Hunters slowly stood again and led their horses through the field of fresh mud.

Alekhor kept his eyes ahead at the snake of faint blue light as it slithered slowly to the next stronghold. He concealed his own glowstone well beneath his cloak for fear of being spotted by what may lurk in the water above. He dared not look up--he planted his eyes firmly upon the man at his front. If he looked up he was lost; he knew he would lose heart when he imagined himself beneath the watery vault. Its darkness was a doom, the song of nightmares; yet it called men into its void, a dark and vast infinity of the unknown. A trap of terror awaited a man who stared too long into its depths, for the weighty black mass played tricks on the eyes and made them see spreading shapes of unfathomable magnitude, the shadows of looming monsters. No man knew the water's end, and no light shined from that hungry abyss.

The line halted. Alekhor strained to look ahead, to see if he should fight or flee. He counted his breaths to hold at bay the unease that began wriggling into the folds of his mind. Then, the glowstone at the head of the Hunters blinked thrice, and disappeared.

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The day was warm, but wetter than Ashar remembered them to be during this time of year. He cursed the sun above him, knowing its heat would work to tire him even before his labor was begun. The way of the willows was proving a boon for the shade they offered him, and for that he was thankful.

He wolfed down the last of his bread and stood to continue his course. The breeze grew stronger and brought with it a stench that Ashar had never before known. He quickly dropped to the ground for fear that the unknown smell heralded uninvited company. The reek grew stronger and overpowered Ashar. He fell into a bout of coughing and retched into the grass before quickly unslinging his harpoon. He had foolishly made his presence known by that racket; he may well be prey now. He waited where he lay until there was naught but the whistle of the wind and the rustle of the leaves and none of that rancid smell.

He began to stand again; at that instant, he heard a low moan. He listened closely, believing he had misheard; the sound came once more, and he realized it was higher in tone, perhaps belonging to a boy. It seemed to come from the west. Clinging close to the ground and under the cover of trees and reeds, Ashar crawled, all the while keeping a close eye towards the sky, praying to the heavens that a dragon would not swoop down and scoop him up in its jaws. He still had much coin to earn in addition to the fee given him by the overseer for undertaking this task at all, and he had urgent use for that coin likewise.

A thicket of yellowed reeds surrounding the border of a clear pond was all that stood between Ashar and the sounds of the wailing boy. He surveilled his surroundings once more--to the sides, to his rear, front, and above. When he saw that he was safe, Ashar rose from the ground to a crouch and poked his head above the spindles, slowly cranking his crossbow as he did so.

A small figure was huddled near the edge of the pond, head buried between its legs. It rocked back and forth, its small shoulders quavering. Ashar felt pity for the child, and he stood and tiptoed closer.

When he had made it halfway around the pond, he spoke so as not to scare the child from too close. "Hello, there."

The child gave a cry and made to stagger backwards. It must have been no more than six or seven years of age.

A girl child! Ashar had seen foolish boys who were bestowed with brash bravery and thirst for gold and glory, only to be burnt to the bone by dragonfire once they climbed the Black Mount. Never though had he seen a girl out in the open within fifty leagues of this place. Girls were always wiser than boys, hence the reason they lived longer. "I won't hurt you," Ashar promised. "What's your name?"

"Aindaga, milord."

"My name is Ashar," he said, approaching the girl.

"Are you here to capture a dragon as well, milord?" The girl wiped the tears from her eyes with the backs of her pudgy hands.

"I am," Ashar answered, cautiously taking a seat beside the child. "What are you doing here alone? Where is your father, or your mother?"

"My father went there to catch a dragon likewise, milord," the girl said, pointing towards the Black Mount. Her lips quivered as she spoke. "And he still has not returned."

"When was this?" Ashar asked.

"Five days ago." The girl was on the verge of tears. "Father told me to wait until he got back."

The poor fool was likely dead, Ashar thought to himself. But then again, perhaps not. "Aindaga. You're not from around here, are you?"

The girl shook her head. "No, milord."

"Do you know where Eldebeth is?" Ashar pointed towards the south. "It's the city in the cave, not one league from here. If your father was a dragonman, he will have stopped by it. With the big gates of black and red."

Aindaga nodded.

"You should return back thataways," Ashar urged. "Here it's not safe, but there, there are good folk who will give you food and shelter. I'll send your father to you if I see him."

"Can't you take me back, milord?"

Ashar shook his head and made to stand. He had already tarried far too long. Such were the nature of timely-delivery contracts, as the one the overseer had pushed upon him. "I'm sorry, Aindaga. I have something else to do. Don't be too sad! I can show you the road leading there. It's well hidden by trees, and you'll have plenty of shade from the sun." Ashar scrunched his nose. "Five days! I'll give you some bread and water as well. You must be starving." A strange anxiousness began to tickle at his mind.

"You are cruel, milord. Why are you in such haste?" Aindaga's voice was trembling, and Ashar thought she might burst into tears at a wrong word. "I am but a little girl!"

"I...I suppose you are," Ashar said. He took his crossbow in hand and pushed himself onto his feet. "Well then, I'll be off. Goodbye." He turned to hurry away when something spoke.

"You are sharper than the other ones, less swayed by acts of mercy."

Ashar whirled around and faced the girl. Her forlorn face had transformed into one of mocking cunning, and her eyes smoldered with taunting. A sneer was painted across her lips as an omen of forthcoming devilry.

A deep, scornful laughter emanated from Aindaga's throat. "When exactly did you catch on?" The voice was no longer the girl's but that of a fiend.

Ashar threw a bolt onto his crossbow and aimed. "Do not come near, foul beast!"

The girl's eyes spread until they encompassed half of her face, and her sneer curled into a wicked smile. A dark shadow began to loom over the Valley. "You will die, as the others did."

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"Is this your first Hunt?" Saragad drank from his skin.

Alekhor shook his head. "I have been on many."

"Truly?" Saragad looked him over carefully. "You are but a boy!"

"And you are a fat man, yet here you Hunt."

Saragad gave a guffaw and lifted his hands in surrender. "Forgive me, boy. It is my first Hunt, so naturally, I assumed."

"I began young," Alekhor said. "'Tis my fifth year."

"Fifth year! I never would have known! You must instruct me in all matters then. My mentor, as it is." Saragad offered Alekhor his skin. "Water?"

Alekhor accepted the gesture gratefully. After he had drunk, he watched the other Hunters carefully as they wandered about the underground cave that served as one of many strongholds during the march to the hunting grounds. Many dried themselves near the torches, whilst others sat against the wall numbly, staring into a far distance that no one but they could perceive.

"You shouldn't tell others that so freely," Alekhor said. "It is to your disadvantage."

"Is this my first lesson?" Saragad smiled.

Alekhor nodded. The closest comrades might prove the most vicious foe given the correct circumstances, for each man held his own life in higher regard than that of the man beside him in times of great fear and danger--and in such situations, no one felt secure knowing a green Hunter was the one at their backs.

Saragad was admiring Alekhor's armor when Alekhor returned the waterskin.

"What's a lordling like you doing here, if you don't mind me asking?" Saragad asked. "You hardly look to be in need of coin."

Alekhor's suit was of silver plate as brilliant as starlight and engraved with white runes, the green mail underneath studded with emerald jewels. His weapons were of fine whitewood and runed steel likewise. Saragad's equipage, on the other hand, looked to have been procured at a common marketplace, dull and dented plate with leather gloves and boots. His armor would be heavy without the runes to lighten its weight, a detriment should the Hunters have need of escape.

"I am here for the same reason as you, and all those here," Alekhor said. "To Hunt monsters." He sighed, supposing he should express interest in his companion as well. "From where do you hail?"

"The third Stratum," Saragad said proudly. "Eldebeth."

Saragad's pride at hailing from Eldebeth struck Alekhor as amusing.

A voice from the far side of the cavern called to the weary Hunters. "Rouse yourselves! We march!"

Alekhor stood and brushed himself of the dirt. "On to the Black Mouth, then." He gave Saragad a helping hand.

"On to the Black Mouth," Saragad agreed.

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The Valley was nearly dark by the time Ashar pulled himself to the willow. It was not the sort of dark that night brought in its wake, however, but rather the kind when the sun is blotted out by a veil of something immense.

He heaved himself up so that his back rested against the trunk. He stared at the figure of the foe he had smote. Its remains were that of half-girl and half-man--or rather, of a monster that had purloined the visage of a young girl. He had heard of such things infesting the waters and oceans of the nearby kingdoms, but never his own land. Ashar smiled to himself at the sight of a single quarrel to the heart and a harpoon sprouting from its mouth. Ashar was not highly coveted by overseers and contractors without reason. His aim and speed were without equal, and a dragon could rarely escape his skill.

The monster itself had not even had a chance to retaliate. Yet, in its death throes, it had sent out a last flailing of blue flame that was as hard as tempered steel. Ashar knew not where he was wounded, but he could see that he no longer had a leg, and his torso was burnt to a crisp with several gaping gashes.

Ashar's breath grew heavy, and his sight grew hazy. He had been promised good coin if he managed even a single dragon egg. Perhaps if he rested here, then he might be able to recuperate and gather his wits before continuing his way to the Black Mount. There it stood, stark and terrible, a black shadow against the coming dark. It was close, Ashar thought to himself, but he was so weary.

There was a flurry of pounding on the grass and a horse's neigh. Boots stomped towards Ashar and a cloaked figure kneeled beside him.

"Are you Ashar?" It was a woman's voice.

Ashar coughed. He believed he had had quite enough of unexpected company this day. "Who's it concern?"

"You are wounded." The woman opened her pouch and began drawing out vials.

"Lady Ysmmeonne, it may be too late." It was a man's voice, gruff and urgent. "We must hurry."

"You may be right," Yssmeonne said ponderously. "Here, drink this," she said to Ashar, holding a mixture to his lips. "It will help with the pain, and perhaps ease your slumber."

Ashar drank deeply. "I won't be sleeping anytime soon, lady," Ashar promised.

Ashar thought he could see a sad smile within the depths of the hood. "Good hunter," Ysmmeonne said. "Who did this to you?"

Ashar pointed at his slain enemy.

"It is as we thought," the gruff man said. "The Magisters make their move."

"Were you able to retrieve a dragon egg?" Ysmmeonne asked urgently.

Ashar shook his head. "It...It caught me before I got there." He was beginning to feel dull, numb. He shook his head to grab ahold of his wits and failed miserably. "Give me...Give me a few moments, and I'll be...alright." It was getting so tiring to talk.

"It is as they say then," Ysmmeonne said. "Our people shall never again soar the skies."

"Lady, look!" the gruff man yelled. Ysmmeonne cried in great despair, and Ashar summoned the last of his strength to look up. The gruff man was yet outside the bounds of his view, but the Lady Ysmmeonne was just beside him. She was tall, and graceful, and a light seemed to emanate from her face and silhouette. Her bearing and demeanor were as a goddess of old, with eyes of sorrowful grey and ageless hair of starlight silver. But her eyes now were glued to the west and filled with horror, and when Ashar turned his gaze in the same direction, he knew why.

The sun had been setting, it seemed, from the purple and orange hues streaked across the sky. But the land below was darkened, for from the west loomed a great and terrible mass, a colossal wall that frothed and convulsed, blotting out the sun like a curtain. Each moment that passed, it reached higher into the sky. There was no end to it, stretching from horizon to horizon, rising, rising, like a mountain marching relentlessly closer. In the vast infinity of its shadows, Ashar felt small and terrified. His heart seemed to slow and strengthen its beating, as if counting down to the moment when he would be engulfed by that towering darkness.

The sky flashed in a moment of blinding white as if lightning had struck somewhere unseen, and the three at the willow tree gave a shout of terror. Ysmmeonne recovered first, then looked to the east. Her eyes lit up with something that seemed like hope, and a cry of exultation escaped her lips.

"Yet, we resist!" she exclaimed.

She pointed to the east, but when Ashar could not move, strong hands gripped from behind and turned him as if he were an ancient and fragile relic.

"We are not lost yet," the gruff man said to Ashar.

The ground rumbled, the trees rustled, and the Black Mount quaked. Rising as quickly as if sand were being poured into a mound on a beach, on the borders of the eastern horizon rose an enormous mount of grey, quickly piercing the sky like a prow sluicing water. The mountaintop did not cease its flight, and still it grew, larger than anything Ashar had ever seen, until his entire sight was nothing but hazy grey stone far in the distance. He looked up, and he could not see the pinnacle of the peak.

"That will buy us time," Yssmeonne declared. She looked down at Ashar and furrowed her brow.

"What is it?" Ashar heard himself say. He no longer knew what he spoke or heard, and his spirit felt as if it were floating above his body. His sight dimmed, and his head was light.

"That, is our hope," the woman said, kneeling beside Ashar once more. She held another phial to his lips and tipped back his head. A sweet taste filled his mouth, and darkness overtook his sight. "Sleep now, good Hunter, and may you rise when the queen falls."

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The Black Mouth yawned before the troop of Hunters like a chasm with endless depth and unseen borders.

"They say this place was once a valley of dragons," Saragad whispered. "The place the dragonmen of yore would claim their quarry."

"A hunting ground still," Alekhor said, "of another kind."

Suddenly from all sides horns shouted a challenge, shrill and terrible in their ringing. The sound pierced the roaring waves high above their heads.

Alekhor stared into the distance, where the blackness below and the abyss above melted into one. Then suddenly, the water surged and ripples tore through the overhead ocean straight towards the Hunters like an inescapable breaker. Many of them gave cries of defiance, bravery mixed with terror.

"The bait is taken!" the captain roared. "Ready crossbow!"

There was a tumultuous woosh as a wave washed by, heralding the beast to come. The ocean began drooling in the distance, then unleashed a torrent of curtain after curtain of frothing water; a terrible blue light glowed within it like a siren calling from the depths. Then, the water began lifting as if whirling through a funnel; and it rose, rose, rose as if being sucked into a spuming tunnel. Vicious spikes of terrible teeth emerged through the water. A dark and slick snout as large as a mount descended as the water ascended, and a thrashing behemoth as large as the sky sluiced towards them with great speed.

Such a vast infinity of shadow it was, one that Alekhor could nary comprehend. Many of the Hunters fell from terror and others dropped their weapons to flee.

Saragad stumbled backwards, but Alekhor gripped his wrist. "Don't move!" he cried. "Don't move! It is better to stay, or you will die!"

"Fire!" the captain shrieked. Alekhor lifted his crossbow to the sky and fired aimlessly. Blinding streaks of red flew through the air, lighting the earth below. In that instance, Alekhor glimpsed the murky waters above, the monster within, and the rotting ground beneath. Endlessly they extended, beyond his understanding, and he felt the terror of insignificance. The crossbow quarrels impaled the beast, and it gave a deafening screech.

"Reload! Fire!" Another barrage of red fire screamed at the ocean. "Harpoon!" Scores of fiery shafts hurtled into the sky. Yet the monster lived. It gathered its wrath and shot towards them.

"Where are the others!" Saragad gave a frantic cry. "Where are they!"

Alekhor looked up, and he saw eyes of molten fire glowing inside the watery roof. Blue light blazed brilliantly, and Alekhor saw the shimmering form of the leviathan looming above him in all its terrible glory. A roar more thunderous than the blast of ten thousand trumpets reverberated through the air as the beast reared its immense form, poised to bear down upon them. Darkness opened and unfurled above Alekhor. Vicious teeth faded into the dark depths of its maw.

Alekhor could hear Saragad beside him whimpering in prayer. And he closed his eyes.