The Dragon Mother

“King Laviernan?”

The voice shook the King from his thoughts. He was surprised to find himself in the dressing room, two servants circling him, slipping layers of royal garb over his frail body. When had he gotten here? When had he left his bed?

“Yes?” he asked, voice calm and deep.

“Is everything alright, Your Majesty?” asked the servant, Garund, a young boy with tussled, blond hair and quivering lips.

“No,” King Laviernan said honestly.

Garund simply stared at King Laviernan with wide, sad eyes.

“I’m not sure it ever will be, my young man.” The King sighed. “Sometimes I wonder why we give them our children. Decades of human sacrifice. For what? For assured safety? We are fools to believe we are safe from harm. Death will always have a way to find us.”

Garund opened his mouth but did not speak.

“I mean no disrespect, Your Majesty,” said the other servant, an old man with withering, gray hair named Ander, “but you weren’t there for The Feast.” He lifted the royal mantle, an enormous red and white cloak, draped it over King Laviernan’s shoulders, and helped him clasp it at the neck. “Dragons are vicious, blood-hungry beasts. They ravaged the kingdom, tore through us like an army of swords. And when they ate us,” he froze, his eyes caught in a terrible memory, “they chewed us until we died.

“We give them a child once a year as a peace offering. Without the sacrifices, they will return to devour us once more.”

King Laviernan chose not to respond. Ander had lived through the horrific event of fifty years ago known as The Feast, when a young prince, King Laviernan’s ancestor, slayed a dragon, and the beasts crawled from their mountains and nearly devoured the entire kingdom.

Ander stepped away from the King, inspected him, then nodded. “You look magnificent, Your Majesty. The commoners have gathered outside for Mourning Day. They await your arrival.” Ander left, beckoning for Garund to join him, leaving King Laviernan alone.

The King turned to the window, which revealed a soft and quiet snowfall. He’d always considered those who sacrifice their children to be brave, but he didn’t feel brave.

He felt like a coward.

#

King Laviernan stood on the balcony, staring at the courtyard below. The snow had painted everything white, and the air nipped with cold teeth. The entire kingdom was here to mourn the death of his daughter. They all kneeled and held clasped hands up to him as if in prayer.

“I have feared this day ever since our Queen announced her pregnancy,” the King said. “Before she passed during childbirth, the Queen begged me to reconsider the sacrifice. Many of you advised me against it, too, claiming it was not a responsibility expected of the king. While that may be so, I could never live with myself otherwise. How can I ask such a great sacrifice of you, if I myself am unwilling to participate?”

The memory hit him with the force of a cannon.

With shaking hands weighed down by jeweled rings, the King lowered his infant daughter to the frosty forest floor. Naked, skin bitten red by the cold, she frowned and grasped for him. The King, whose heart broke at the sight, resisted every urge to lift her and return her to safety. He would have stayed with her, to keep her warm until the dragon came, but he felt his people’s eyes on the back of his neck.

He paused, and aside from the breath of the people—or was it the wind?—it was silent. He knew they expected him to do what kings always did: flail his arms, weep, and mourn the sacrifice as they mourned with him.

“We have lived in fear for half a century,” King Laviernan said. “Because my father’s father decided human sacrifice was necessary to keep the dragons away. But much has changed in fifty years. I am King now.”

The King held his breath, unsure what he wanted to say.

Taking one last look at his daughter and, biting his tongue, blinking away the tears, he marched into the shadows of the trees and found his place at the head of his people. A few hands patted his shoulder, but their touches offered no comfort. How could he feel anything but fear at this moment? How could he feel anything but fear when he knew what was to come?

“I am sorry, my people, to have stood by all these years and watched you take your children to be slaughtered. I am sorry I never understood that grief.”

A murmur dashed through the crowd. People’s eyes flickered to him, then glanced away when he met their gaze.

“It is time we end this foolish tradition.”

At this, the crowd erupted.

A deep, steady whoosh swept through the sky, and a dragon landed in the clearing. It was a great, sunburn-red beast covered in shining, impenetrable scales. On all fours, it stood taller than the trees of the forest. As it folded its wings to its sides and craned its trailing, tree-thick neck to look at the small thing writhing below it, the King’s daughter cried out.

The dragon lifted one foreleg, opened its foot, and wrapped the child in its talons. The King, who was now filled with something akin to dread, fell to his knees, knowing that if he stayed on his feet, they would carry him to his daughter.

The dragon leaped from the ground, sending a shudder through the earth, and flapped its heavy wings until it rose and disappeared into the darkened sky.

Once it was gone, the King pressed his hands to his face and wept.

“My daughter might have already perished,” King Laviernan said. “But I want her back. And I want to ensure we never experience another Mourning Day. In just two hours, I will be leaving for the mountains and by the time I return—if I return—there will be no dragons left to take our children from us. Those who wish to join me are welcome to it.”

The King left as the crowd exploded into shouts.

#

Hours later, once King Laviernan and a few dozen men had left the castle, the snow began to fall faster and harder. As they traveled toward the towering mountains just beyond his land, the light slowly spilled from the sky, and by the time they wove through the jagged peaks that so resembled dragon teeth, they navigated only by moonlight. The snow fell still, and the King ignored the chattering teeth behind him, the rapid clink clink clink of trembling armor protecting shivering limbs.

The mountains were monstrous, standing so tall it was like they’d outgrown the sky. King Laviernan found himself unimpressed by the landscape. He’d grown up on stories of the beautiful mountain bowels, and he’d always imagined the dragon’s home as prettier, unique. Instead, vegetation had chilled to a rotten state.

“I remember this place,” Ander said just as King Laviernan spotted a great wall of mist not too far ahead. Despite the breeze, it remained unmoving as though too heavy to blow away. The King brought his horse to a stop and motioned to it.

“We have arrived,” said the old servant.

“What is it?” King Laviernan asked.

“We called it the Bog. It shrouds the dragon’s sanctuary from our eyes. We cannot -”

But he was interrupted by a gust of wind. The horses whinnied in protest, and their riders struggled for control. Even the King’s horse stamped its hooves, annoyed by the frozen sting of the wind.

A giant shadow appeared in the Bog, at first, only a dark circle, but then it spread its wings and parted the cloud. A dragon, the dragon, the same dragon that had taken King Laviernan’s daughter flew toward them, red scales sparkling in the snow-light. It opened its maw, letting loose a rupturing roar that tore through the sky. The King knew he should have been frightened by the sight of another dragon, but he saw only his daughter’s face.

“Hold your positions!” he shouted, and his men, who’d been retreating, fell into frightened, but firm, stances. “Ready your arms!” They drew their swords and raised their shields, and the King did the same. The dragon glowered at him from thirty feet above, then descended.

When the dragon touched the earth, its talons extended and slid through the dirt. King Laviernan, against his own efforts, winced, thinking only of those same claws piercing his daughter’s flesh.

“We have not seen humans here in half a century.” The dragon’s voice was the deepest sound the King had ever heard, and it came from everywhere at once, the ground, the sky, the dragon’s mouth, even the King’s own head.

“We have come for our children,” King Laviernan said.

The dragon snorted, and a puff of steam blew from its nostrils. Beneath its great, curling horns, its two black eyes remained on the King.

“That is impossible,” the dragon said, the voice echoing all around. The King twisted his head, and from the look on his men’s faces, they heard the voice too.

“Then for my daughter,” the King said, returning his attention to the dragon.

“I am afraid that, too, is impossible.”

King Laviernan’s blood ran cold, and it felt like every bone in his body had turned to stone. “Then you’ve killed her already?”

“What we do with your infants is none of your concern,” the dragon said. It brought its head closer to the king, keeping one eye on him, now only arm’s length away. Up close, the dragon looked less like an animal and more like something carved from stone.

“If you cannot provide us our children, then we have come for their bones.”

“There are no bones,” the dragon said, blinking. “You must -”

Fueled by grief, the King swung his sword upward and stabbed the dragon underneath the jaw. The sword went deep as the dragon went quiet, its tongue lolling uselessly from its mouth. When the sword reached its brain, the beast gasped, sputtered, and then collapsed all at once.

King Laviernan, shaking, wiped his blade on his cloak and turned back to his men.

“What have you done?” Ander asked. “You’ve … you’ve doomed us. You’ve started another war.”

“There will be no war,” the King said, “if there is nothing left to fight us.”

He spurred his horse, and the animal whinnied and bolted ahead. Horse’s hooves pounded behind him, but he didn’t turn to see how many of his men followed him. He would kill every dragon in his wake to find his daughter, or he would die trying. Even if he were the only one to fight.

His horse had reached full gallop by the time he met the fog. It was cold and damp, and it tasted like dirt. Ahead of him, rising nearly as high as the mountains, dusted white by the smog, loomed an ancient fortress. Countless turrets shaped like arrows pointed upward. Roofs missing shingles sloped over walls made of stone. Windows glowed with orange-warm light. King Laviernan came to a full stop, staring in awe at the castle’s unfathomable size. No wonder the dragons lived here. But how did they build it? This resembled the handiwork of man.

The King’s men galloped past him, flinging up dirt to mingle with the fog. He joined them, and they headed straight for the castle.

Before they reached the gaping doors that led into an entrance the size of a small palace, another roar cracked the sky. The snow was falling at a tremendous rate, and when King Laviernan looked up, the snow blinded him. Then darkness fell, and a dragon landed in front of them with an earth-rattling thud. The spooked horses reared up, screaming. Three riders fell from their saddles.

“Where is Gralstok?” Once again, the dragon’s voice came from all directions. This one’s was higher pitched, soft. It had to be a female.

“The red beast?” King Laviernan asked.

“Yes,” the dragon said.

“I slew him,” the King said.

Before he could get another word out, the dragon threw its long neck into the sky and wailed. Its cries pulsed with a ringing pitch, and several men, including the King, clamped their ears shut.

“You will suffer for this,” the dragon said.

The King charged forward, sword pointed at the dragon’s chin, but before he could reach her, she leaped from the ground and began flying to the castle.

The King followed, his men close behind him. The shivering red of rage burned the edges of King Laviernan’s vision. His daughter was gone. There was nothing left of her, not even her bones. He wanted blood, he wanted revenge, he wanted genocide.

They entered the castle through doors forty feet tall. A red carpet stretched along the floor, and banners with a symbol the King didn’t recognize hung from the walls. The cold outside died the moment it met the warmth within, and the King stepped off his horse and shed his cloak, already sweating from the heat.

Dragon roars echoed down from floors above. Behind him, the men swung off their horses and swung up their swords. The roars grew louder, and the sanctuary trembled.

“We’re going to die,” Ander said, but upon a glance from the King, he raised his sword and stared determinedly at the gigantic staircase in front of them.

The first dragon appeared. Smaller than the others, dark as night, it slithered down the stairs, its gleaming eyes trained on the King. As it drew closer, the smell of smoke pervaded the room. When the dragon reached the bottom of the steps, the King heard watched in wonder as a black-tipped arrow fired by one of his soldiers bounced uselessly off the dragon’s scales.

“Your efforts to slay us will prove futile,” the dragon said. “Countless dragons are waiting patiently for my command. If I order them here, you will all become ash before you have a chance to raise your sword.”

King Laviernan’s heart hammered in his chest. He wanted to leave and save his men while he could, but his daughter’s face burned in his mind. And then the dozens of children who were sacrificed before came to him. Each infant had looked the same during their sacrifice: body curled and face scrunched from the cold, confused eyes glittering with tears. They wept, always they wept, and then the dragon would come and take them away.

His blood went hot, and without saying a word, he charged the dragon. A flash of surprise crossed its face, but it quickly transformed into amusement. As the King brought his sword down in a violent swing, the dragon swept him away with one brush of its wing.

King Laviernan flew through the air and hit the ground hard, rolling to a stop. He gasped for air as the breath fled his lungs, then got to his feet and found himself facing the dragon’s back. It had its eyes on his men, fire glowing behind its jaws. King Laviernan charged forward and stabbed his sword into the dragon’s exposed stomach.

The dragon screeched. The King placed both hands on the hilt of his sword and ran, pushing his blade, gouging a deep gash in its side.

Its scream turned into whimpers, and it fell back, gazing at the wound the King had made.

“You will die for this,” said the dragon.

As the King readied to deliver a killing blow, six larger dragons emerged at the top of the stairs. Their colors had long since faded to a dull gray, and as they soared toward the King and his men, the scales on their bellies burned bright.

“I want my daughter!” the King shouted, but his words were lost as one of the dragons blew a jet of fire from its mouth. The King rolled out of the way, dodging the stream of flame, but a few of his men weren’t so lucky. They caught fire, and as others frantically moved in to aid them, two more quick blasts of fire sent them up in flames.

One of the dragons landed and stepped in front of their wounded comrade. It swiped a few men into the wall with its arm, their bones crunching with a sickening sound. The King moved to attack, but the dragon brought its wing around the side and knocked the sword out of the King’s hands.

One of his men sliced the dragon across its stomach, and it bellowed an ear-splitting roar. Two more dragons landed, scorching the ground. With straggled breath and an aching side—was his rib broken?—the King staggered forward and brought his sword down on the nearest dragon’s tail. He didn’t care that he wouldn’t pierce the scales. He didn’t care that this stroke would be his death sentence. All he saw was his daughter, exposed on the frost-chilled ground, her eyes full of confusion, wondering why her father would betray her, leave her cold and helpless and alone when he had a duty to keep her warm and safe and accompanied.

His sword shattered against the dragon’s scales, shards of sharpened metal showering to his feet. He went at the beast with his hands, latching onto its scales, ripping them away, but they merely sliced through his fingers, and he wasn’t sure if he was screaming because of the pain or the agony, but he felt his throat ripping, his lungs panicking for air.

The dragon bent its neck around, stared at him with beady black eyes.

“King,” the dragon said, and it extended one arm and grabbed him as Gralstok had grabbed his daughter. He struggled and writhed, but the dragon’s grip was firm, and then it was flying back up the staircase. Through angry tears in his eyes, the King caught glimpses of the scorched Great Chamber, some of his men nothing but charred ruins, others burning, shrieking, clawing desperately for a quicker death. The ones alive had thrown down their swords and fallen to their knees in front of the dragons. Then the Great Chamber disappeared, and the King saw nothing but bannered walls, barren floors, and bursts of flashing chandelier light.

“We are here,” the dragon said as it landed in a corridor with smoky gray walls.

“Where are we?” King Laviernan asked in a wettened, cracked voice.

The dragon didn’t answer. Instead, it crossed the room and entered a yawning doorway. As soon as they crossed the threshold, the dragon tossed King Laviernan to the ground, and he coughed in pain when he landed on his broken rib.

“Welcome, King Laviernan.”

The King raised his head. The room was mostly dark, lit only by a soft glow emanating from windows the size of dragons, and the weak glow of dying embers in the fireplace. A small dragon rested nearby. It opened one yellow eye, saw the thinning fire, and blew a small flame into the wood. The fireplace roared to life, illuminating the rose-patterned wallpaper and -

The King gasped.

Dragons were everywhere. Some lay curled in stony heaps, others stood on all fours, watching him with disapproving eyes, and three guarded a four-poster bed in the corner. And standing by each dragon, gleaming in armor, were soldiers whose faces were exposed. Men and women, around fifty of them in total. Some of them looked familiar to the King.

A white veil hung from the canopy of the four-poster bed, and before the King had time to react to anything in the room, the voice spoke to him again.

“It was destined you would come.” This was no dragon voice. He didn’t hear it from all around and all within. Someone, a human, was speaking to him.

“Who are you?” the King asked. Someone shifted on the bed, shrouded by the veil.

“Me?” the voice asked. Was it a woman? He couldn’t tell. The voice was gentle but deep. “Here, they call me the Dragon Mother, though I have many names.”

The room fell into an abrupt and heavy silence, broken only by the snapping fire.

“Come closer,” the voice said. At this, every dragon and soldier stiffened. Still on his knees, the King stood, grunting and wincing, and limped to the bed.

“Why did you come here?” the Dragon Mother asked. The King got to his feet and approached the bed. The Dragon Mother wore a flowing green gown and cradled her arms near her chest. A second veil shrouded her face.

“I came here for my daughter,” the King said.

“I don’t believe that,” the Dragon Mother said. She leaned forward and the King’s stomach clenched when he glimpsed rough scales running along the woman’s face.

“I have no other reason to come,” King Laviernan said, swallowing hard. He felt the dragons’ and the soldiers’ eyes on the back of his neck, and it took every ounce of willpower not to turn around.

“Human beings,” she said with a slight hiss, “you lie to yourselves.” She shifted again, her skin—scales—glimmering. The King peered closer, and finally, he saw her clearly. She resembled the shape of a woman, but her skin was covered in dragon scales. Thick white horns protruded just above her eyebrows, curling to the back of her head. Her nose was longer, wider, like a snout. And when she spoke, her open mouth revealed sharp fangs.

“What are you?” he asked again.

The Dragon Mother whimpered quietly, but no, it wasn’t her who made the noise. Pulse thundering in his ears, the King looked down at the Dragon Mother’s arms, still cradled against her chest. She was holding something, something small and writhing and naked.

King Laviernan froze. He no longer cared about the anything else in the room.

The Dragon Mother extended her arms, exposing a bosom where the scales thinned entirely, and holding, in her hands of talons, a small baby girl. The King took a shuddered breath. His daughter. Alive. Breathing. She was near sleep, her eyes half-closed. Milk dribbled down her chin.

The King stared at his daughter in awe. Overpowering relief washed through him. Then, in the blink of an eye, anger replaced relief.

“What are you doing with her?” he asked.

“You left her, King Laviernan,” the Dragon Mother said. “I am merely caring for the daughter you discarded.”

“Discarded?” he asked, mouth trembling. “I didn’t discard her.”

“Your kind may see it that way,” she said, voice hissing once more, “but from our perspectives, you abandon your children. We are not cruel enough to stand by and watch a child die.”

Stunned, the King clenched his fists until his knuckles ached. “We don’t abandon them,” he spat. “We sacrifice them to you!”

Another silence pervaded the room, and the King looked behind him to see that the soldiers and dragons had moved closer.

“We don’t understand,” the Dragon Mother said as she bent forward and parted the veil.

“What don’t you understand?” the King asked. “Once a year, we sacrifice a child to the dragons as a peace offering.”

A black tongue slipped from the Dragon Mother’s mouth, wetting her lips. “There is nothing peaceful about human sacrifice, King Laviernan.”

The only thing keeping the King from flying into a fit of rage was the sight of his daughter.

“Why do you think we leave a child every year?” the King asked. “Do you believe it to be a tradition? Do you believe we enjoy it? Do you believe that we have no solid reason for leaving our children to be eaten by the dragons?” Tears fell down his cheeks. He hadn’t realized he’d been crying.

“We never understood why you left them,” the Dragon Mother said.

Something was crawling up the King’s throat. His entire chest was so tight it felt like it was going to rip itself apart. “You would have left us alone,” the King asked, “even if we hadn’t given you our children?”

The Dragon Mother leaned forward, and her large, black eyes set deep beneath her ivory horns found him. “The war is over,” she said, voice quiet and soft once more. “We returned to the mountains so both our kind could live in peace.”

King Laviernan shook. Food—or was it bile?—raced up his throat and out his mouth, splattering on the ground at his feet. It was neither food nor bile. It was blood.

“We killed our children for nothing?” He spoke below a whisper, so quietly he thought no one else had heard the words.

“You did not kill them,” the Dragon Mother said, lifting his daughter higher for emphasis. “We saved them from death.”

Then the king, blood drooling down his chin like the milk on his daughter’s, turned once again to look at the men and women behind him. Now he understood why he recognized their faces. He’d seen them all before. He knew their families.

“They’re … alive?” he asked, voice cracking and creaking.

“I raised them all myself,” said the Dragon Mother, “just like I will raise your daughter.”

King Laviernan spun around so fast that pain shot through his neck.

“You won’t be raising her,” he said with renewed strength. “I’m taking her home.”

The Dragon Mother sighed, and something akin to sadness flashed through her eyes. “I’m sorry to tell you, King Laviernan, but you have been sentenced to death.” She nodded to someone behind the King, and before he had time to react, two strong hands grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him to his knees. He struggled, attempting escape, but the soldier behind him had a dragon-strength grip. Another man, the oldest of the soldiers, approached him from behind, wielding a huge, gleaming axe.

“Why?” King Laviernan asked, more tears spilling down his cheeks.

“You murdered one of them,” she said.

“I killed no man.”

“No,” she said, “but you killed a dragon.”

He struggled once more, but his efforts proved futile. Escape was impossible, and no one was coming to rescue him.

“Please,” he begged, looking between his daughter and the Dragon Mother. “Please set me free. Please let me raise my daughter.”

“I do not control them,” the Dragon Mother said, referring to the men and women behind him. “They are one in mind with the dragons. And it is they, the dragons, who have ordered your execution.”

“Then ask them to free me,” the King said, his voice breaking into a sob. “Ask them to let me take my daughter home.”

“Ask them yourself,” she said. “It’s not as if they can’t hear you.”

The soldier holding King Laviernan spun him around to face the dragons. Dozens of them stood on the other side of the room. Goliaths made of shimmering stony scales, they stared at him with menacing eyes, smoke billowing from their nostrils.

He opened his mouth to speak, to beg, to plead, but found he was lost for words. He had left his daughter to die for no reason, he had led his men into a pointless battle that cost most of them their lives, he had killed a dragon out of cold blood and tried to kill more. What words would convince these beasts to have mercy?

“Please?” he said, voice quivering.

“Mankind has never shown us mercy.” The voice filled the room, and King Laviernan didn’t know whether it was the man holding the axe or one of the dragons who’d said the words. “Not since the Schism of All Things.”

“Please,” the King begged once more. “I didn’t understand.”

“It is often the fear of things we don’t understand that leads us to our own demise.”

The King began to weep. The man before him raised the axe above his head.

“Can I hold her?” the King asked. “Just once more?”

The axe-bearer paused and looked up to the Dragon Mother as the soldier gripping the King’s shoulders turned him once more. The Dragon Mother placed the baby in the King’s arms. She was sleeping, and as he held her in his trembling, bleeding hands, he leaned down and kissed her on the head, leaving a bloody imprint of his lips on her scalp.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to her. “I’m so, so sorry.” Gently, he handed her back to the Dragon Mother. Then, understanding he had no other choice, he fell to his knees.

“Do what you have to,” he said as courage swelled inside him.

A sliver of guilt flickered in the executioner’s eyes. He reared back.

“I’m sorry,” the King whispered. “I didn’t understand.”

Then he closed his eyes, thinking only of his daughter, and waited for the axe to fall.