The Charge of the Dragons

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. But when they came, they were strange and terrifying to behold. Writhing, hateful masses of tentacles. These maritime nightmares had long, reptilian mouths filled with wicked teeth, on stout bodies from which countless appendages protruded. Strands of seaweed still clung to their jaws and foam ran down their backs. They were ripping up the snow and soil beneath themselves as they charged blindly ahead with gnashing fangs. There were roughly a dozen of them in this stampede. Hissing and clicking, beating themselves further into a rage. Clouds of vapour began to rise from their blubbery torsos as the exertion of scrambling up the dry land heated their bodies against the biting of the air. Fuelled by the fire of fury within them, they continued tearing up the hard dirt beneath themselves, leaving a dark trail behind of ruined land like a stroke of a tarred brush on a fresh canvas.

Following in their wake was another strange sight, although one more easily recognisable than the thrashing horror of the sea dragons. The front half of a great longship was being dragged, like a sledge from a distant nightmare, by a team of horses. The vessel had seemingly been torn apart, either in battle, or dashed against a rocky shore. Its hull now rested on two broad runners, one on each side. Despite its sturdy build, the strain of trying to keep pace with the horde was bringing the sleigh closer to its destruction. Boards with rusted nails were torn off with each violent jolt as it collided with half-buried stones. The right runner rattled as it came ever nearer to detaching from its frame.

It is too late. The driver’s mouth was a thin line as he stood at the prow holding the reins of the herd, his gaze fixed on the columns of smoke rising over the horizon, squinting against the glare. His posture was steady, in stark contrast to the rattling chaos surrounding him. Once the beasts start charging, they will not slow down. He wore a heavy woollen cloak over his shoulders, hood fluttering from the icy air racing past. His face was wide with deep-set features – pale skin with blond hair, his eyes narrow and dark. The fall will destroy the ship. Intrusive thoughts almost made his resolve falter. He glanced down at the powerful horses, visibly tiring from the excessive pace. They will be devoured because of you. The driver looked forwards again. This Valley is a grave. The stampede was fast approaching a small cliff edge, strangled with roots. A fool’s errand. Vicious hisses escaped from the vile creatures the man and his pack were chasing, flailing limbs tore through wood and thorn.

The slaughter begins.

******

Agna was on the brink of despair as she watched her soldiers slump against the stones littering the gash through the earth in which they were trapped. She was left with nearly half the numbers they had set off with. A handful of deserters had abandoned the troop as they had trekked to ever more frigid climes, knowing they would bear no punishment from their fellows. Any hope reignited when their goal neared was violently extinguished when they walked into an ambush. A crushing mass of ice and earth fell from either side of the trench. At least the bodies were buried instantly. A panicked retreat was quickly met with a bristling wall of spears.

White stained red. Backed into a corner like rats. One small mercy was the reluctance of their enemies to advance and finish them off – though this would just mean they die of frostbite instead. It was a bitter thought when Agna realised that even those who had initially followed her with such zeal would no longer do so, not for mountains of treasure. A quest for glory turned out to be naught but a death sentence for an entire village.

This broken group of men had watched brothers die, lifelong friends vanish in a heartbeat, each of their neighbours murdered one by one. And they knew the impact each death brought with it. Even if by some miracle they could survive, return to their people with the artefact they sought, entire families would be shattered. And if they perished here, in this Valley – an entire generation gone. It would mean extinction. Every adventurer there knew this, as they cradled their wounds with a mutual stoicism. Shaking breaths visibly rose in the air. Resigned to their fates.

Fate.

Agna allowed herself to leave the current moment for an instant, to return to the halcyon days before their voyage began. The tales she had heard spun to enraptured audiences. The lost treasure of their race. Fawdellon – the Picture of Fate. Before raiders had snatched it and culled their people, it was a statue of such beauty that simply being in its proximity would lead to fertility and bountiful harvests. Her idea to reclaim it rapidly captured the hearts of those in the village. Farmers began preserving food for the journey, even butchering milk cows for their meat. The blacksmith turned his craft from tools to armaments. Family heirlooms were bartered for quality metal and crossbows. All worked to the bone for their valiant warriors, who were training under the tuition of Agna in the martial arts. Every day they would practise mock battles with fervour, imagining bringing those who violated their forbears to justice.

She shuddered back into the present, her heavy limbs encased in metal, her short dark hair concealed by a dull helm. The walls of the cliffs concealed the sun, but from the darkening sky, she knew the time to act was upon them. Looking around the dire trench in which they now sat, she took stock of the situation. Unfortunately, there were many grave wounds – if they didn’t incapacitate now, the open flesh would likely become infected. Herself included, there were twenty-five soldiers and she estimated only sixteen of them would be fit for combat – outnumbered heavily. Despite their losses, all were still well equipped – at least compared to what the enemy spearmen besieging them seemed to have. While their foes carried wicker shields and wore dingy pelts, her soldiers were donned entirely in metal: brilliant and impervious. Many of them still had their crossbows, still unused apart from the occasional rabbits on the journey. A ray of hope began to shine for her, spurring her to action. Each man would have to slay at least three foes, a tall order for anyone. And if all of them fell? At least they had the spirit to fight.

“Brave warriors!” Agna cried out. Dejected heads turned to her, the flickering candle of life within them still enough to listen. Wrapping cloaks tighter around themselves as their attention shifted to their leader, with scattered scoffing and suspicious grumbling. She paused for a moment before speaking, gathering her thoughts so she could speak exactly according to her intentions. As she had so many times before, she belied her years and roused her battle-weary men. Despite having scant experience of the intricacies of war, she was a well-trained leader and once again shot inspiration into their tired minds and galvanised their fatigued bodies.

“I know your hearts are heavy, mourning our lost kinsmen. Truly, I am sorry for the role I played in their demise – a burden I alone shall carry. Do you think me cruel and evil? But surely you should cast your doubts of my intentions aside. You walked alongside me in past weeks, your motivations and mine are one and the same, are they not? Even as our breath comes to us evermore weakening, we still hold dearly on to that chain which pulled us here. I’m sure all of us could repeat by heart any of the legends our storyteller told us about Fawdellon. Remember the descriptions of it, the splendour of its form. Fawdellon alone is why we came here. I led you here for the plenty it will bring. Do not despair. Have we not reached the land where our statue lies waiting? Fate has shown us our goal. There is only one obstacle remaining. They are standing between us and Fawdellon. I will not lie down and die. I will fight for Fawdellon. Stand and fight with me brothers!”

As she gave her speech, light began to grace the spirits of the soldiers. While her words became more enlivened, some began to rise to their feet. Each mention of Fawdellon restored vigour to the men like swigs of fiery liquor to brace against the frost. Passion for their cause rekindled. Hope returning. As Agna finished her address, she hardly noticed as the crescendo built to a roar. At the final word, the company cheered, emboldened by their leader. Snowshoes were strapped on, weapons readied, and a lethal determination directed at the brigands between them and the mouth of the trench. Four of those injured were willing to brave their wounds and fight, even those still incapacitated reached for crossbows in case any foes came into view.

Agna was not an imposing figure compared to some of the tall warriors surrounding her. She wore no more design or decoration than those who followed her, apart from a colourful scrap of cloth at her waist. Yet at a single gesture from her, they charged.

*****

Numbness.

Emptiness.

Nothing but pain.

The fighting could have lasted seconds or days. The clattering of metal. The taste of blood. There were a few hard blows to her helmet, could have been from enemies or allies. Her ears were still ringing. She was all too aware of the lives she had taken. She saw every face. The energy of the assault had caught the enemy off-guard. But another would always fill in the gap their comrade had left. Hearing the shouts of someone from her childhood before they were silenced abruptly. Bruises throbbed under her skin. The looming dread as she glimpsed another row of spearmen and the mouth of the trench. And then somehow, in that frantic buzzing of sensations, chaos erupted.

An unimaginable force ripped through the battle; fighters pushed by a wave of bodies. There was no way to stay standing against the tide. Great tentacles thrashed and tore as more and more dragons piled into the fray from the cliff to their side. Corpses were being thrown overhead. Snapping jaws punctuated with cries of pain. The fury of the sea crashing against their foes. Agna and her men were lucky – the dragons had landed behind the enemy lines, causing little damage to her troops as they flooded over the edge above. Their limbs lashing out were able to cut through wicker shields like butter. Unable to scale the far wall, the writhing tangles of appendages turned to the only exit to the ditch, towards the last remaining spears, already braced in the hopes of slowing the stampede.

Before her soldiers had fully gathered themselves, the colossal sleigh skidded down the remnants of the avalanche that had trapped them before. The horses dragging it tried to plant their hooves to slow their violent descent, one of them hitting a rock awkwardly and crumpling, dead. As the runners were still sliding to a halt in the slush churned up by combat, the driver vaulted over the bow of the vessel and started to cut the animal free from its harness.

“Don’t just stand around! Some of you help me drag this horse out of the way. The rest of you – climb aboard if you do not want to die in this valley. You have seconds if you don’t want to be killed.”

Agna had reservations in trusting the stranger but some of her men leapt into action in a heartbeat, pulling the horse aside as the driver clambered back into the ship and took the reins. As the sleigh once again lurched into motion there was a frenzy to climb onto the deck. Agna jumped onto one of the runners and was dragged onto the vessel by some of her soldiers. The horses built up speed. She pulled herself to her feet and immediately watched for those who hadn’t yet got on. A couple of men were still in shock, rocking gently, not noticing the ship rumbling away. A few tried to hobble after, to grasp at the reaching hands of their comrades, but their injuries tripped them up. As they accelerated away, Agna frantically implored the driver to slow the horses.

“I can’t do that. It will take too long to start moving again and we will miss our opportunity.” He pointed forwards, not shifting his gaze to her as he spoke. She looked ahead and saw what he was referring to. As the last straggling dragons barrelled through, a gaping hole had opening in the line of spearmen at the mouth of the trench.

The enemy brigands were still reeling from the power of the charge, not filling the gaps and attention diverted from their prey now mounting an escape. There were still enough standing to make quick work of every person in the sleigh if they stopped the horses with their pikes.

Resigned, Agna turned back again to watch as the men left behind grew smaller. She felt sick. One man still stumbled after the vessel. The rest, knowing they had been abandoned, continued the fight with the enemies remaining – a futile task. They would be butchered by the wall of foes still guarding the exit. Some of her soldiers tried to help by loosing bolts as they slid past, but it was of little help. The ride was not at all smooth; the vessel was bouncing with each corpse it hit. The right runner had come partially detached from the hull, skewed at an angle.

Despite leaving the trench they had thought would be their grave, there was no relief in the minds of the soldiers on that ship. Only bitterness and grief, disbelief at the miracle that had saved them. The horses slowed, the driver letting them rest now that danger was clear. Clouds of vapour billowed off their hot bodies, the steam rising into the frigid air. The vessel turned further inland, offering a view of the shore to the men gazing backwards.

A dark gash of exposed dirt cut through the snow from the water’s edge, the only evidence of the fury and death that had come to the Valley. Some far-off shapes could be seen lumbering back into the waves, the bloodlust having been abated. The tentacled horrors had likely destroyed a village in their rampage before their tempers cooled. The dragons were departing from the Valley and returning to the sea.