The Clawpeak Conspiracy

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. The villagers of Fellstead weren’t always prey. But ever since the mountains had revealed a glimmer of the riches beneath their cold rock, everything had changed for those unfortunate enough to live in the shadow of the Clawpeaks. For all their power and pyrotechnics, the dragons could not stem the onslaught of treasure hunters swarming the highlands and disturbing their nests, and so the great wyrms had abandoned their ancient home and descended east in search of new caves and fresh meat.

In hindsight, the valley was an obvious destination. And in hindsight, Ulaf’s friend Vaerun and his family should have fled when the first dragon was spotted drifting on the air currents far above the Nirrawarra river five cycles ago, its golden scales glinting like a star in the noon-day sun. But as the days had turned to months and no attack came, urgency had turned to complacency. Like that dancing star, the threat of fire and claw eventually became more and more distant, something to be discussed rather than dealt with. Vaerun’s family delayed their departure. Another two cycles, Vaerun had told Ulaf at school last week, and his father would have enough gold to leave Fellstead and move his family within sight of the capital’s walls. At the time, it seemed like a sound plan.

Ulaf’s chest and legs itched from the straw poking into his clothes as he lay flat on his stomach. He was beginning to regret choosing the stable roof as a vantage point, although it was the only spot high enough to see everyone in the village square but low enough to hear what was being said. He counted more than a hundred faces, pretty much everyone in Fellstead, except for a few of the mothers with younger children and the more remote farmers west of the Nirrawarra. The villagers were gathered around the great stone well, where Gerud the elder stood on a gnarled, narrow bench trying to plead for calm from the more rowdier elements of the crowd. He did not appear to be having a huge amount of success.

“The time has come to demand action!” yelled Amir, thrusting his hammer into the air. “The king grows fat with riches from the mountains while the Valley villages are terrorised and set aflame. How many more corpses must we bury? How many farms have to be burnt to a cinder?”

The charred bodies of Vaerun and his family, or what remained of them, had been discovered that morning just west of the Nirrawarra in a vast stretch of scorched earth that had once been Bridge Farm. Ulaf couldn’t begin to imagine such a scene or the stench of burnt flesh, and his father had forbidden him from heading out to look, but the pale faces and numb eyes of those who had found the grisly sight told him all he needed to know. It still didn’t seem real to Ulaf, not just the devastation and death wrought by one creature, but the idea that he would never see Vaerun again. Ulaf had been too young to remember his mother when she had died seven winters ago, but Vaerun was someone he had grown up with, someone he had seen almost every day, someone he had played elf sticks with. That he would never see him again seemed inconceivable. And yet there was no time to mourn or process what had happened, the villagers had a stark choice to make, and they had to make it quickly.

There were only two options: flight or fight. The farmers west of the Nirrawarra had already chosen the first, and Ulaf couldn’t blame them. They were likely packing right now. The second option would only be possible with knights from the capital. Gerud had already made the case for a diplomatic approach, a respectful plea to the king for a show of arms to keep the dragons at bay. It was sound advice but for one flaw – the village had made the same request when the dragons had first arrived. There had been no answer, not even a courteous denial.

“I say we demand protection. I say we demand recompense,” roared Amir. “And I say if we don’t get it, then to hell with the king. To hell with his tithes. He bleeds us dry as it is. What good are tithes if we get nothing in return? And if he ignores us again, maybe the king in the west will listen!”

The village elder gestured for quiet as many in the crowd yelled in agreement. Despite his elevated position, Gerud was still at eye level with Amir, whose broad shoulders and height naturally drew attention. For all the wisdom they implied, the grey hairs and weathered features of the elder did not inspire the common man as much as simple good looks and charm. Fair-haired Amir had both aplenty, and the confidence of someone who knew it.

“Now is not the time for rash action, nor treasonous talk,” reasoned the elder. “This king is not like the last, you know that better than anyone Amir. He is like to respond to such a request with steel as smile. We have to wait for a response from the other villages before we make threats. If we act now without support, we risk the palace’s wrath. Together, with the other chiefs, he would not dare deny us.”

A flicker of movement at the back of the crowd caught Ulaf’s eye. A hooded latecomer in a forest-green cape was taking in proceedings. Despite the hood, Ulaf recognised the gloriously wild beard poking out from under it at once. His father had returned. Ulaf wondered what had kept him, what he had discovered. He watched as his father took up a spot far to the left behind Samun the village butcher, whose apron was stained with fresh, dripping blood. Clearly he’d been working right up until the last moment before joining the crowd.

“And how many more of us will have been burnt alive and eaten while we wait for a response from the other elders?” shouted Amir. “You honestly expect the people of Bagdale to side with us? They’re as like to tup dragons as slay them.”

There was bitter laughter from the crowd. Ulaf turned to watch his father’s response, and for a brief moment mistook him for another latecomer clad in similar clothing. He too was hovering at the back of the crowd, but this man had a shorter, darker beard, and while he wore the garb of a valleyer, there was something in his gait and stride that didn’t seem quite right; somehow it was too purposeful and practised. Ulaf squinted as he tried to focus on the face beneath the hood, but the man slipped into the mass of bodies and was lost.

“And the people of Gladesby owe us no love,” continued Amir. “They’ll never agree to make a stand while our trade routes are disrupted. No, no, better we act now, and act decisively. Yes, I know the king’s ways better than most. And I know he respects strength above all else. So let’s show him just how strong we are. Let’s show him the pride and fire of Fellstead!”

Even the mute old widow Renyak shook her fist in encouragement as the villagers shouted their approval once again. It went against everything his father had told him, but Ulaf couldn’t help but be impressed by Amir. He was a gifted orator, as talented with words as he was with hammer and anvil. Reason and logic were on the elder’s side, but it seemed to mean little in the battle for hearts and minds.

“I say we don’t wait for another Bridge Farm,” demanded Amir, turning from the elder to address the crowd in his midst. “I say we don’t wait for the other villages. We should send an envoy to the capital right now to get our message across loud and clear – no protection, no taxes.”

The village elder shook his head but no one was watching him except Amir, who stared ahead, arms folded, while villagers clamoured to pat his back.

“If we send an envoy to the capital without support from the other villages our threats are meaningless, we risk reprisals!” pleaded the elder. “And talk of the king in the west is madness. This is the first instance of a dragon attack we have had since mining began in the mountains. This could just be an isolated incident, a farm paying the price for being too close to dragon territory. We don’t even know if…”

The rest of the elder’s words were lost as the blacksmith’s supporters jeered and scoffed. Gerud tried to raise his voice above the din, tried to finish his sentence several times, but without success. This was the moment, thought Ulaf. He looked expectantly towards his father. If he had found something at the site of the dragon attack, this was the time to reveal it. A slight breeze ruffled his father’s hood to reveal more of the scraggly beard and a hint of coal-hard eyes, but the man himself remained motionless. The moment passed.

“I understand why our esteemed elder may be hesitant,” Amir’s conciliatory tone seemed to momentarily throw the crowd. “Staring down a king when you come from the Valley can be a daunting thing, dangerous even, which is why I volunteer to travel to the capital with you.”

The villagers cheered in support. The elder seemed as surprised as Ulaf. For all his bravado and bold words, Amir was usually light on action.

“If your political wiles don’t work on the king,” continued the blacksmith, patting his hammer. “Maybe I can knock some sense into him.”

The villagers punched the air and stamped their feet. The elder shook his head impotently but it was clear to all the debate was over, and had been for some time. The village’s decision was made. To fight dragons, they would threaten a king. When Ulaf looked to see his father’s reaction, he was already gone.

When he arrived home, Ulaf was surprised to hear his father in the skinning shed in the garden. After a typical day’s hunting, Waylass Frediksson would often spend several hours in the shed working on the day’s kills, taking as much of the meat and pelt as he could, sometimes even the teeth depending on the animal. But today was not a typical day. Ulaf’s father had not made any kills.

The door creaked as Ulaf opened it but his father, who was kneeling in front of a kit bag at the other end of the shed, didn’t even turn around. Ulaf did not look at his father either, he was too surprised. The place was usually full to bursting with bows, knives, traps and every other tool of the hunting trade, but they had all been removed from their designated workbenches and drawers. Ulaf couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a bare wall in the shed – overlapping pelts usually took up every inch of available space, but now they were nowhere to be seen. Even the meat hooks that ran down the spine of the roof were empty.

“Why were you lying down on the that stable roof?” his father asked while wiping a cleansing knife and wrapping it carefully in a cloth sheath.

“I was doing as you taught me, trying to look inconspicuous as possible, downwind of my prey.”

Ulaf got the impression his answer amused his father, even though he gave no sign of it.

“And did you find a worthy quarry on your hunt?”

For some reason, Ulaf thought of the hooded stranger.

“A rare stag, the colour of forest,” he said, then lowered his head. “But he got away, lost in the foliage.”

Ulaf’s father finally turned around. By all accounts Waylass Frediksson had been handsome once, and perhaps still was beneath that raucous tangle of hair, but life as hunter and young widower had taken a toll. He was slim now, almost unhealthily so, and had become so solitary and unconcerned by appearances that he had been mistaken as a vagrant on more than one occasion in Fellstead. One thing that had never changed though, were those piercing blue eyes, somehow ice-cool and warm at once.

“I think I know the stag you speak of,” he said. “Unusual to see in these woods, though I am surprised you lost him. You know what to do in that situation.”

Ulaf bowed his head further. “Follow the ripples.”

“Follow the ripples,” his father confirmed. “The stone may sink out of sight but the ripples tell of its resting place.”

He stood up and walked over to his son, lifting Ulaf’s chin until their eyes met. “You’ll remember next time,” he smiled. “Failure is the greatest teacher, and this failure had no consequences.”

Ulaf vowed to himself that he would remember his lessons next time. He would make his father proud. He looked at the marks on the workbench left by some of the tools that had not been used much, their outlines still imprinted in the wood by dirt and mould.

“Are we leaving?” Ulaf asked.

“Yes. I shall head to Bagdale tomorrow to sell the rest of our wares. The day after that we shall leave Fellstead, though I have yet to decide where to head next.”

Ulaf frowned. He had never known anywhere but Fellstead. “But I don’t want to leave. I have friends here.”

Waylass stopped packing, but did not turn around. “This is not a decision I have taken lightly Ulaf. There is no other option.”

“But why? Are you scared of the dragon?”

Waylass snorted at the idea. “There are worse creatures than dragons about Fellstead. A hunter’s worst nightmare is to feel like he’s the prey. That is why we’re leaving.”

The answer confused Ulaf. Why did his father always talk in riddles? “Is someone hunting us?” he asked. “Did you find something at Vaerun’s farm?”

Waylass shook his head and momentarily paused his packing. Still he did not turn around, instead staring straight down as though deep in thought.

“I went to that farm looking for answers and all I got was more questions,” his father said, finally. “There’s only one thing I know for sure. That family suffered a horrible, agonising death in the place they felt safest. And it wasn’t a dragon that killed them.”