The Drakin Guardian

Chapter 1 - Birth

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. But the bone chilling winds, which swept over the jagged, white peaks of the Fangmounts, were shifting and changing. This wind, the Breath of Izestrom, swept over the great snow cornice—a dangerous, overhanging ledge—of the tallest peak, The Ancients’ Throne, where it was said that The Ancients, the first eight dragons, greatest among their kind, had held council in the distant past.

Magnificent, they were, The Ancients. Sent down by The Creator to safeguard his creation, The Ancients, the majestic dragons, stewarded all nature upon the earth, and the peoples who inhabited it. There was Farébret and Helfaré, the two fire dragons, Izestrom and Vatrewöl, the water dragons, Érthcliive and Shateérth, the earth dragons, and Taiphün and Vendstrom, the wind dragons. For millennia, they governed, and were deemed to be fair by all...until one day.

Dragons and men fought. They fought together, and against each other until dragons were but a shadow of their former selves, and The Ancients’ Throne was abandoned by the dragons, instead becoming a testing ground for the young seeking adventure and glory—a chance to say they had visited the council chambers of The Ancients. The rough and jagged slopes of the great mountain, though, were littered with the frozen corpses of those who had succumbed to the unforgiving mountain paths; the Breath of Izestrom kissing their frozen, lifeless bodies.

The Breath of Izestrom swept down the slopes and, upon entering the pine filled valley below, became nothing more than a stiff breeze. The Ancients’ Valley, for it was still called by its name of old, a deep bowl in the heart of the Fangmounts, which was home to the town of Celtaric, a collection of sturdy buildings encircled by a tall palisade, with towers at each of the four corners. Within the palisade, the ground level of each building was made of roughly cut rock fitted together with mortar. Each floor above was made with thick timbers capped by a high pitched roof which were decorated with wood carvings of dragons, and banners which whipped in the breeze.

Passing over the steep roofs, swirling the fine flakes of snow which collected on the rooftops, the breeze wended itself through the cobblestone streets of the town, the sounds of voices calling for customers, the hooves of beasts of burden clacking and cartwheels creaking, all intermingling and creating a melodious cacophony that proclaimed peace for the time.

The people themselves, a group as hard and tough as the mountains surrounding them, paid little attention to the icy breeze that would cut to the heart of outsiders. They were the ones who had adapted to this climate, this frozen wasteland, and made it home. Even with the dangers in the mountains, they fought on with dogged determination to stay in their town. Even the children, showing their defiance of the cold, let their cloaks fly loose as they ran through the streets, laughing and shouting as they chased a white pup—a small white dragon the size of a house cat—through the alley, the pup skittering and hop-skipping over crates and barrels, catching the breeze and becoming airborne before landing back onto the cobblestone below, its tail nearly clutched in the hand of an outstretched child.

The breeze eventually rushed out the West gate and mingled with the grass of the knoll on which Janguin, warlord of Celtaric, stood. Reaching his hand out to the side, the Pureblood warlord formed a fist, as if trapping the breeze, and felt change. Warmth. Oh, the Breath of Izestrom was still the coldest wind in the world—a curse some called it. But something was happening, and Janguin knew their home of Celtaric was about to experience a dramatic change.

Lifting his chin, his dark, shoulder length hair whipped by the breeze, Janguin inhaled deeply and smelled a sweetness in the air. He squeezed his eyes closed, brows furrowing as he focussed his senses to give him an answer, anything that could explain what was happening to his territory. He stood motionless, arms outstretched, feeling the breeze, ears listening to the breeze talk, feeling its caress on his freshly shaven face.

Opening his eyes, Janguin looked up to the Fangmounts surrounding the valley, and saw the wild white pups dancing in the breeze. Strange to have them in the valley at this time of the year, he thought to himself.

“Janguin!”

Janguin sighed, the answer to all the change escaping his grasp. “Yes, Hurald,” Janguin said as he turned to see his war chief striding up the knoll, his heavy footsteps sure, but his face knitted in concern. Hurald never showed concern, not even when facing terrible odds in battle against the greybacks. Janguin turned to face his friend. Hurald was tall for a human, nearly able to look Janguin in the eye, and Janguin towered, head and shoulders, over typical human males. But today, Hurald’s shoulders were hunched, showing extreme unease. “What is it, Hurald?” He faced his friend, ready to hear the worst. If Hurald was showing open concern, the greybacks must have been marching on the warpath straight for Celtaric. “Whatever it is, we will fight it off like we always have.”

“You have a son,” Hurald said.

Janguin staggered for a moment, the sudden shock a swift punch to his gut. A what? He was about to ask a question when realization dawned on him. Wanting to deny his suspicions he said, in a wavering voice—uncharacteristic of the strong warlord—“Impossible! The baby isn’t due for another two months.”

Hurald took a step closer to Janguin and, pointedly looked him in the eye, inhaled deeply before saying, “Both your wife and the babe are well.”

At that, Janguin collapsed to his knees, and breathing in ragged gasps. “It all makes sense! The change in the breeze…” Then his eyes took on a look of dread. “They will come for him,” Janguin groaned. “They will take him away from us.” He felt a hand on his shoulder, and then Hurald was down beside him, a tear rolling down his cheek, and losing itself in his thick, rust coloured beard.

“No they won’t,” Hurald growled. “And if they do, we’ll fight them off, like we have with everyone else.” The burly war chief stood up and grasped Janguin’s arm, helping his friend stand. “Come on Janguin, let’s go see your wife and meet your son.”

~:~

Quickly making their way up the age-smoothed, stone stairway, the two friends marched with a purpose through the warm, narrow, well-lit corridors of the ancient keep. Janguin was a proud descendant of the Grimborson clan, a Pureblood faction who had broken away from the empire of Jouranda, and ruled in the territory surrounding the Fangmounts, for millenia. Great tapestries hung on the stone walls, depicting victories in battles over other Pureblood families, over the Greybacks, even clashes against the empire itself, who had tried to force Celtaric to become part of Jouranda—which had nearly ruined the Grimborson clan, but they had fought for the survival of their way of life, and had won. In the mountains, they were a formidable force, even though they were few in number. It had always been this way, the sons and daughters of Celtaric paid with their blood to retain their way of life—a life of freedom.

Nowhere in the empire could humans live freely as they did in Celtaric. Here they were equal with the Pureblood families, and both races worked together against common enemies: the elements; the Greybacks; and Jouranda. Each were threats that the people of Celtaric faced with such fierce courage, that Celtaric had become more than some simple mountain village eeking out an existence, it had become a formidable power that now held the monopoly of white soul globes, in particular, the white pennies, which the desert empire needed for their population. All of this, though, could be for naught because of what had just happened.

Wending his way through the halls, with Hurald a step behind him, Janguin came to the age-darkened, ash doors of his family apartments. Taking a moment to compose himself at the closed door, he opened it and stepped into the sitting room. His five older children, his sons and daughters were waiting anxiously with their maids and tutors. They all looked to Janguin as he strode past without a glance. Stopping momentarily at the golden oak doors that led into the private chambers, Janguin inhaled, a deep breath to calm his nerves, and then he entered the room.

Taking his first step into the room, he was accompanied by that sudden feeling of awe and disbelief that he had felt with each of his children right after the birth. The familiar sights and sounds—the dim light in the room coming from the low burning fire, women gathered quietly around the bed, the sound of whispering, the trickle of water from a cloth being wrung out into a bowl. He stepped closer to the bed, the women shuffling to make way for their towering lord. Janguin looked, lovingly, down at his wife, Zina. Her face was flushed, her hair, sweaty from the exertion of childbirth, clung to her forehead and cheeks, and small beads of sweat still trickled down her neck. Her face shown in the soft glow of the room. She was beautiful.

She held the babe at her breast, the little one, his son, fussing as he tried to feed for the first time. Overcome by it all, Janguin bent down and caressed his wife’s face, kissing her deeply. Looking into her eyes, he saw worry and fear, the same that he felt, and the same that was mirrored in his own eyes. He looked at his son, his pale skin already showing the soft outlines of scales, and reached to gently run his hand over the babe’s cheek. The little one reacted with a quick jerk of his arms, and popped off the breast, the disturbance causing him to wail loudly. He has strong lungs, Janguin thought. Zina pulled the babe tight to her body, wrapping him firmly in the cloth to keep him from struggling. Whispering in the babes ear, Zina calmed him down, and the babe’s flailing subsided.

“His name is Gorath,” Zina said softly.

“A good, strong name,” Janguin replied, sitting down and pulling Zina closer to him. She lay her head on his shoulder. “Who knows about little Gorath?”

Zina turned her eyes to him, her gaze deep and searching, “Do we need to be worried?”

Janguin looked at his son, snuggled warmly in the cloth, the image of peace and calm. He thought for a while before answering. “If the Drakinites find out…”

Zina broke in, cutting him off. “They won’t take him, will they? They can’t. We aren’t part of Jouranda,” she said in a firm tone.

“That won’t stop them. They will come for him.” He watched as his wife hugged Gorath closer to her chest.

“We can’t let that happen,” she said. “He is our son!” she said fiercely. “We can hide him. Only a few here know he is Drakin. They will swear an oath to keep it secret.” She said this, staring at each of her midwives, each nodding their willingness to take such an oath.

“That won’t be enough. Gorath will grow up as a normal son of the mountains, but we will ensure that his existence is known only to those of our town. I will double the watch for visitors. When people come, Gorath will go inside then. All here are loyal to us—I question no one.” Janguin was filled with a fire and sudden determined resolve. This little one is my son, and I will do whatever is within my power to protect him.

~:~

Janguin quietly closed the door behind him, and saw his family, and those closest to him, still gathered in the sitting room. His children looked to him. His oldest son, Eldrashim, nearly twenty years old, with his brows knit in concern, was looking after his two younger sisters, Abre’il and Si’lani—nine and three years old. His two middle sons, Varis and Venris—seventeen and fourteen years, and near mirror images of the other—stood as tall as they could when they saw their father step out of the room. But Janguin could sense the unease of everyone. They all waited to hear what he would say.

“You have a beautiful, little brother,” he said, and then barked out a quick laugh, “and tonight, we will celebrate little Gorath!” The mood in the room lightened, and his little daughters rushed to hug him. He hugged them fiercely. He felt a few thumps on the back as his sons all came to congratulate him. He soaked it all in, the joy in his heart blossoming suddenly. In a short while, their lives would change. But tonight, tonight they would celebrate the birth of Gorath—one with the spirit of a dragon who would dwell in the valley, changing their lives in unfathomable ways.