The Dragons of Carabass

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.”

Old man Bruntel paused—not for dramatic effect, but to wheeze, cough, and spit a wad of phlegm into the bonfire burning merrily on the village square.

The children huddled around the stooped man didn’t react, being used to the story-peddler's antics. His crusty face, wizened gray beard, bald head and gnarled cane were a fixture in Carabass—like the stone foundations of the huts perched on the mountainside amongst birch trees, or the dry well framed by red rocks, or the single road that brought the rare merchant.

Head shaking, Jasick raised his hammer and nailed up another bulletin to the post reserved for such things. Few came to a place that had nothing to offer apart from tree sap and desperation. He listened with only half an ear as Bruntel cleared his throat, straightened on his stool, and resumed his tale.

“Then one night the earth trembled. The heavens rained lightning and fire—bursting trees into splinters, killing anyone caught out. Thunder peeled from one end of the Valley to the other—north to south, then back again. When the rumbles quieted, we people of Messeriv that survived breathed a sigh of relief, and sent a prayer to Darnatha for sparing us.”

In the corner of his eye, Jasick saw Bruntel press two gnarled fingers to his left cheek and then his right—portraying the Goddess of Light bestowing her favor. He snorted. Gods and Goddesses were as useful as a cart with no wheels. None had picked up a shovel or hoe, worn their hands raw or ended the day with slumped shoulders. He plucked another parchment from his satchel and banged a penny nail through the missive’s center—a plea for help digging the new well.

We need water, not stories, Jasick thought. Or come summer, none of us will be here.

He worked his tongue over dry lips and sniffed the air, though he had no hope of catching the scent of an incoming spring drizzle. Hope was in shorter supply than water, and the skies had been clear for weeks—leaving the barley wilting and baking in the sun.

Bruntel scratched his nose with his cane and lifted his chin high. “And then they came. The Great Wyrms. It seemed a dream at first. Some trick of the moonlight. A hallucination. But the screams were real. Those who felt the bite of black teeth made sure we believed—filling the foul night with their cries.”

Jasick slid the hammer behind his belt and walked away from the flickering light. He remembered well enough, though he’d been young. No amount of time erased memories like that. He didn’t care to hear about the Valley’s river running red and steaming from the beast's fiery breath. How the trout threw themselves on the banks to avoid boiling to death.

He rubbed his palms. The rough scars left by clambering up the slopes to escape remained. Fear had made him clutch onto anything for a handhold—rocks, brambles, roots, saplings no bigger than a finger—all with his niece’s weight dragging on his shoulders. That at least, he had managed. One of his kin saved—the last of six generations. Most families lost everything, and everyone, that night.

Hooves crunched on the gravel road. Jasick froze, right foot in the air, and stared into the deepening dusk. No one else reacted, enthralled as they were by Bruntel’s yarn.

A horse plodded up the lane between the Merril’s cottage and the apothecary. On the edge of the square, in the shadows, a figure dismounted—coming no closer to the firelight or the circle of children.

Uneasy, Jasick planted both feet and gripped his hammer. It was late in the day for a wholesome visitor to make the trek up the mountain. Unwholesome types, on the other hand, kept strange hours. But the stranger, only a few paces away, made no movement. When he spoke, Jasick jumped.

“Is what the old man says true? Dragons infest the Valley below?”

Jasick nodded, nervousness relieved. The man’s tone was that of a weary traveler, not someone bent on mayhem.

“Aye. They’re real. Been there for twenty years, more or less.”

“No one’s driven them off?”

He snorted. “Chase away a dragon? Maybe the warriors where you come from are stout folk, but no, nobody here has tried.”

“How about mages? Have any tangled with the wyrms?”

“One did. A decade past. The mightiest spell-slinger in Haidrith. Promised to rid us of the creatures. We heard his bones crunching from up here.”

“That’s good.”

“What? How is that good?”

“Is there a way into the Valley from this village?”

The stranger stepped into the firelight, giving Jasick his first good look at him. He was average of height and build, with dark hair and sunburned cheeks. An Argathan, if he had to guess. The man was far from home—and not the sort of brawny chap one might imagine dancing with a barn-sized wyvern.

“You want to go down there?”

“Yes,” the stranger said.

“Are you a mage?”

“No.”

“Got a ballista in yer pocket?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Looking to get eaten?”

“Not particularly.”

“If you think you’ll scam some reward, think again. We’ve no coin to pay for—”

“I don’t need money.” The sunburned man dropped the horse’s reins and pulled a sack from behind his saddle. “What’s the quickest route?”

Bewildered, Jasick pointed across the square. “Keep going that way. The road dumps onto a trail, though the switchbacks aren’t fit for a horse—unless yours has goat in its blood.”

The stranger said nothing. He upended his sack, dumping the contents right into the gravel—greaves, the front and back of a breastplate, shoulder pauldrons, vambraces and helmet—a complete suit of plate armor that sparkled in the firelight as if aflame. Jasick recognized osneum when he saw it—the precious metal was once mined in these very mountains. A fraction of what steel weighed, yet ten times as durable, and famed for its ability to reflect heat.

The children had abandoned Bruntel and his latest rehashing of the dragon invasion to observe the visitor—who ignored them all, slipped a ring onto each index finger, and spoke a word that sounded like gibberish.

The armor leapt from the ground.

Jasick blinked.

One minute the stranger stood there, arms wide, clad in dusty tunic and trousers. The next, he was fully covered in the plate—all but the helmet, which he bent and picked up.

Some of the youngsters laughed in amazement. Others turned and ran.

“Magic! A demon! He’s in league with the dragos!”

A blonde haired girl, daring to get closer, pointed at the glistening armor. “No! He’s a spell-bound knight! Come to slay them!”

“I’ll be!” said Bruntel.

The codger had snuck up to the man’s horse, grasped the hilt of a sheathed longsword hanging from the saddle, and bared a hand-span of metal.

Everyone gasped. Jasick had seen plenty of swords—usually ugly hunks of iron, battered and rusted. But even the finest steel he’d ever laid eyes on was made crude in comparison to that gleaming black blade. He glimpsed a fuller glowing with red runes before the stranger slapped Bruntel’s hand away and slammed the longsword back into its scabbard.

“Apologies, grandfather. You wouldn’t enjoy pricking yourself with this.”

Bruntel massaged his fingers. “What in Gods’ names is that thing? Never seen the like!”

“A tool. Nothing more.” The stranger unslung the scabbard and slipped it into a cradle on his belt. The tip dragged the ground. He reached into a purse and retrieved a gold piece. “For your trouble, and to watch my horse.”

“Blood and flames! The beast can sleep in my bed!” Bruntel bit the coin, and grinned.

Jasick knew nothing of magical artifacts—but if that sword wasn’t enchanted, he was an elf. A prize like that was worth more than Carabass, the entire Valley, all its mines, lumber, and game. “Where did you come by that blade?”

“I made it.” The stranger turned his back on them, and strode across town.

But he said he wasn’t a mage! Does he think a bumpkin like me doesn’t know you need spells to make magic devices?

“You’re really going down there?” Jasick shook his head. “Why? If not for money?”

“I need their Spirit.”

“If you aren’t a mage, what do you need dragon souls for?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“But—wait for daylight, at least.” He didn’t know why he wasted the breath. The man was dead—committing suicide, sure as jumping into a volcano—fancy armaments or not. Still, something compelled him to speak. “They can see in the dark.”

“No time. She needs me.”

“She? Who? What’s your name?”

“Corven.”

Jasick wanted to stop him—letting a person, foolish or not, run to their doom was the same as putting the noose around their neck yourself. That’s what his parents had taught him.

But what if he manages the impossible? What if we could return—

Something about the man sparked a glimmer he’d not felt in a long time. He shouted after him.

“Ser Corven! Walk soft! Their hearing is lousy! Ya might skewer one or two while they slumber.”

The stranger slapped on his helmet.

“Thanks.”

He continued along the shadow drenched lane, and vanished into the night.

Jasick didn’t expect to see him again—but he hoped. He said a silent prayer to the God of War to make the stranger’s feet light and his sword swift, then walked back to his cottage and crawled into bed. Dawn would come too soon, and hope wouldn’t dig a new well or find water.

But it helped him sleep easier.