The Dragons of the West

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. Old Bart even claimed to remember when they first appeared, but there were too many in the village who had grown up with Bart’s tales of watching mountains grow from planted pebbles to give the old man’s tales much credence.

“They came from the old magic, see? That was left over from when the world was made. This stuff that Balthazar uses is weak beer, by comparison.”

“Give over, you old fool,” scoffed Harton, “what do you know of magic, or dragons?”

“All I know is all I see, and all I hear. Maybe if you spend any time outside the forge or the tavern, you’ll know as much as I, one day, but you live with iron or in drink, seeing nothing or seeing double.”

This was met with laughter from the assembled company. Harton scowled.

“So who brought them here?”

Bart shrugged.

“Maybe they brought themselves. Maybe there is a time for all things, and theirs is now.”

“A lot of maybes. Not so wise, for all you’ve seen and heard.”

Old Bart shrugged again.

“Wisdom isn’t knowing the answer to every question. Wisdom is knowing that there is always more to know.”

“Then I reckon,” said Gruff slowly, “that Harton is the wisest among us, as he doesn’t know the answer to any question.” Amidst the guffaws that this prompted, Harton’s scowl deepened, and he coloured angrily.

“I may not be wise, but I’m wise enough not to tarry with fools when there’s ale to be drunk!” he said with alacrity, and turned in the direction of the tavern.

In ones or twos, the men and their apprentices departed, either to their homes or to join Harton in the village’s only tavern, and Old Bart was presently left alone with his favourite grandson, Bright. Bart had many grandchildren, and many yet lived, but Bright was unique amongst them in that he sought out the old man’s company and genuinely enjoyed his society, an enjoyment which Bart thoroughly reciprocated. That Bright was the favourite among so many was an admission that wild dogs could not have torn from him, but the two spoke freely on whatever topic their fancy alighted on, almost as equals, or as equal as any two separated by nearly three score years could be. The boy was aptly named, it seemed to Bart, and was ill suited to be apprenticed to the dull witted smith who was in all probability even now spilling more of his ale than he was drinking, and trying to reach up Kyra’s skirt as she passed.

The talk returned to the dragons.

“I heard that there’s a prophecy that the dragons will lead our armies against the East.”

“Oh, prophecy, is it? Yes, I expect there is one. And if there isn’t yet, there will be.”

“Grandfather?”

“Well? What is a prophecy? Just some words. An idea. Where do you think they come from?“

“The gods?”

“Ah, the gods. You ever seen the gods? Ever heard one speak to you?”

“The gods speak through the holy men. Everyone knows that!”

“Of course. Silly me. And remind me, young Bright, how does everyone know that the gods speak only through the holy men?”

“Because…because…”

“…because the holy men make sure to tell everyone they do,” finished Old Bart.

Bright opened his mouth, and closed it again.

“Clever lad. There already, aren’t you?”

“But the gods are powerful! Mighty! They would strike down the holy men if they spoke falsely!”

“If they’re so all powerful and mighty, why aren’t they down here with us, lording it over us like Balthazar does? Why aren’t they lording it over Balthazar too? Why, being so powerful as they are supposed to be, would they have the slightest interest in us, unless it was to crush us, or eat us as we eat the animals?”

“The ways of the gods are not for mortals to understand.”

“Oh, I see. That’s convenient. That’s just another way of saying I don’t know. Funny how they know so much about what the gods want or don’t want and then when you ask them a difficult question all of a sudden it’s : ‘dunno.’” Old Bart spat into the fire. “When you were a little ‘un, you used to play soldiers, yes?” Bright nodded. “Right. And there was always one kid who when you poked him with your stick sword, refused to play dead.”

Bright nodded again. “Bailey.”

“Bailey. Just so. But Bailey still wanted to play with you and the others. So what did he do?”

“He used to say he had magic armour that a sword couldn’t penetrate.”

Old Bart cackled.

“Haha! Magic armour! That’s good! The point is, lads like your Bailey won’t play by the same rules as everyone else. They want to make the rules. When you think you’ve got them, they just hop to another branch and sing a different tune. When I were a lad, Syron used to say he had drunk a potion of invincibility before the battle. Could have done with him and his potions when the real wars came. Course, he was up the mountain by then, learning the old ways.”

Bright’s brow furrowed. “Elder Syron?”

“The same. Elder Syron. It was obvious to all of us…” Old Bart paused and allowed himself a wide grin “…well, some of us, which path Syron would take. And who’s to say he was wrong? Not many men live to be 70 round here. Syron wasn’t the strongest, or the handsomest or the cleverest, but he avoided all the fighting, got three good meals a day all his life and is second only to Balthazar in all the land. With the influence he has over Balthazar, you might even put them level. But Balthazar is capricious. Syron wouldn’t have survived this long if Balthazar thought he’d ever been manipulated by him.”

Bright turned his gaze from the mountain back to his grandfather.

“You’ve survived this long,” he said, and fixed his grandfather with a look so piercing that the old man burst into a delighted chuckle.

“Haha! Indeed I have, young Bright, indeed I have. Haha! I said Syron wasn’t the cleverest. Someone has to be, though!”

“So how did Syron do it? Become an Elder, I mean.”

Bart grew serious again, and when he spoke, all trace of levity had gone.

“Words. Words have power, and Syron knew it. A sword may take a life, but the order to destroy a village takes more. The declaration of war more still. And what of the words that burrow into hearts and minds, and finding a warm dark place, breed hate till they consume their host? Are the men in the east so different from us? They farm the land, they hold their loved ones tenderly, they serve their lord. And yet we send our strongest and best to cut them down, or be cut down by them. And it starts with words.”

“But what of the dragons? You told Harton they came from old magic?”

“Could be, could be, who can say? For want of a better explanation, magic will suffice. Bright? I’m going to ask you a question and I want you to think clearly before you answer it. What do you actually know, beyond any doubt, about the dragons?”

Bright opened his mouth, then shut it again.

“There are at least three of them. Two are of the same size, the other is larger. All of them breathe fire. They do the bidding of the Elders…” he paused. “…they seem to do the bidding of the elders. They are used in executions of traitors.” He stopped, racking his brain for anything else that his grandfather could not refute, and finding nothing, shrugged.

“Very good, lad,” said the old man, “not much, is it? Compared to what you’ve heard about them?”

Bright shook his head, and Bart continued.

“Because people say they were conjured out of their own realm by the magic of Balthazar and Syron. People say they number five dozen, and the biggest and most terrible of them all can only be awoken when enough dragonstone has been quarried. People say they cannot be killed by blades or fire. People say they are the guardians of this land, and that they serve Balthazar to protect us. People say they only obey the command off the elders. But you’re right. We don’t know any of that.”

“So that’s all we know? You don’t know anything else?”

Old Bart shook his head.

“I know Dragonstone is important somehow. It’s funny how it turns out so many people have committed offences not quite serious enough to warrant death and been sent to the mines to quarry it. But there’s only one way to find out more about them, and there’s any number of ways to die in achieving it.”

“Go to the valley?”

“Go to the valley.”

“Grandfather, why did you not go?”

Old Bart stared ruminatively at his grandson, then tapped his right leg.

“I broke this leg when I was 19. Told everybody I done it falling off a horse. That was a lie, see? If I’d told the truth, that I fell while attempting to climb up to a dragon cave, I would’ve found myself at the next Gathering, with a close-up view of a dragon. Crawled all the way home from the valley with the bone poking through the skin, and my ma guessed where I’d been and gave me such a ding round the ear, broken leg and all.”

“You never went back?”

“I never did. After I met your grandmother, it didn’t seem so worthwhile risking my neck over dragons, and then of course your father was born, and everything changed.”

At the mention of Bright’s father, the two shared a melancholic silence, united in remembrance. It was Bright who spoke first.

“That day. The day of that Gathering?”

Bart did not look up. He knew which Gathering Bright meant.

“How could you watch?”

Many seconds elapsed before Bart answered. When he did speak, his eyes remained fixed on the floor, and his voice was low and strained.

“Because I loved him. And because I couldn’t do anything for him but to show him I was there.” Bright saw that the old man’s eyes were filled with tears that he made no effort to wipe away. “They took my boy, and turned him to ash.”

Bright reached for his grandfather’s hand, and at his touch, the old man blinked, dislodging tears that ran silently down his weathered face.

“You remind me of him, lad. And he would have been so proud of you…” Old Bart smiled, and was then serious. “You mean to go the valley.” It wasn’t a question. Bright nodded. “Your mother would tell you not to.”

“So did yours.”

Bart smiled again and ruffled his grandson’s tousled brown hair.

“There’s a trail behind the forge that leads straight into the valley. Pretty overgrown, but still visible, and once you’re on it, you can’t be seen from anywhere in the village.”

Bright grinned.

“I know.”

His grandfather smiled, but there was a touch of sadness in it.

“Of course you do. Be careful, Bright. Wait until it’s dark, and the men are home from the tavern. No more of this family should die before me.”

++++

Bright stopped, caught his breath and waited for the beating of his heart to return to its normal rhythm. The valley floor was wreathed in fog, but he could dimly make out some of the lower caves in the surrounding mountainsides. In each one, a dragon resided, not asleep, but suspended in time, trapped by the strength of the charms that bound them until their master called them forth to do his bidding. He scanned the valley for any sign of guards, but Bart was right; the only guards this place needed were the words planted in people’s minds. Nevertheless, he checked thoroughly before leaving the cover of the bushes and venturing into the valley. He fixed his eye on the lowermost of the caves and set off towards it, his footsteps a cacophony in the silence. He forced himself to walk slowly, but every nerve screamed at him to make haste. To be discovered here was death, but he had to know, had to see! When he reached the base of the cliff the ground sloped upwards, before a short, almost sheer section that terminated in the mouth of the first cave, from where a pale green light emanated. Bright scanned the rock, assessing the difficulty of the ascent. Yes, it could be done. He spat on his hands, took a deep breath, and selected his first handhold. As he approached the mouth of the cave, he became aware of a low hum emanating from within. Hauling himself up the last few feet, he stood for a moment at the entrance, screwed up his courage and stepped inside.

The walls of the interior were dry and smooth, much to Bright’s surprise, and were passably illuminated by the green light that shone from the back of the cave. The source of the light was a green stone, not a gem, but an ordinary looking chunk of rock that rested on a plinth in an alcove in the cave wall. It threw its light over a deep recess, a pit in the floor, wherein reposed a dragon. This was not one of the three dragons that Bright had seen before. It’s scales had a faintly rainbow tint to them, like fish scales, and it’s equine face was slightly more elongated than the dragons he had seen at the Gatherings. The eye he could see through the gap between the creatures wings and barbed tail, which wrapped around it, catlike, was closed. It was, for want of a better word, asleep, but Bright took care to move as silently as possible. On the lip of the pit, carved into the stone in tiny letters was some sort of message, but the light from the rock was too dim for Bright to read it. Were they words of command? The Dragon’s name? A spell? Bright resolved to fetch the green stone closer to illuminate the words. As soon as he removed the stone from the plinth, his mind was filled with a screech that sounded like metal being dragged against metal, and the green light now seemed to be behind his eyes, not in front of them. He dropped the stone and clutched at his head as the sound and light hammered against the inside of his skull, until as suddenly as it had started, it stopped, the light receding back to the stone. Bright found that he was on his knees in front of the pit, but before he could reach for the stone, he heard another sound, like leather being dragged across gravel, and he knew even before he heard the voice, that the Dragon was awake.