The End of an Era

There weren’t always dragons in the valley.

The column of footmen marched as silently as one could through the remains of what had once been an orchard, the earth scorched black, the trees burnt to gnarled stubs. Days had passed since the blaze, yet smoke continued to rise from the ashes, heat seeping through boots and blistering skin. As they approached a mound of gathered corpses, the stench of burnt flesh brought water to Kenna’s eyes.

The only reason she didn’t heave up her breakfast was because she already had. Holding back the urge, she uncorked her wineskin and poured the little vinegar that remained onto a rag, which she then held over her mouth and nose. s

Vile but better, she thought, the vinegar almost overpowering the cooked flesh. She needed more of it. Where was Svar? She’d sent him off looking for more vinegar hours ago but the boy hadn’t returned. Scavenging the dead soldiers, she guessed.

Minutes passes as they neared a hill overlooking the fields beyond. Following the stone path that winded its way up the hill, they came upon the blackened remains of several soldiers, Ammisins by the shape of their helmets, the first of which she stepped over without thought. Inadvertently she stepped onto the arm of a second corpse, snapping a bone with a gut-wrenching crack that was far too similar to the snapping a dead branch.

Taralsin, following several paces behind her, finally threw up, disproving the man’s claim that he could stomach anything. Kenna paused, waiting for the man to stand straight again before handing him the vinegar soaked rag.

“Thanks,” he muttered, spitting out bile several times before covering his mouth and nose. He inhaled deeply. From beyond the hill came a terrible howl, the unmistakable sound of a dragon. He gestured that they continue forward. “Don’t want to miss what we came for, do we?”

The two scholars, accompanied by several guards carrying their belongings, trudged their way up the steep path. The ash from all the fire somehow slickened the rock, making the task much harder than she’d expected. She planned on a bath the moment the returned to Marteksted. Or maybe several. There was so much ash in the air that she swore she could taste it.

Kenna crested the hilltop and beheld the dragon.

Golden-red like a setting sun, Mallaugin unleashed a stream of fire at a group of spearmen who’d foolishly stepped too close, the reward for killing the beast too tempting to resist. Death was their reward, their incinerated corpses littering the ground beneath the dragon. As soon as they dropped, others rushed in to take their place, crushing their dead comrades beneath their feet. Pressed in behind them were thousands, each ready to jump in, each seeking glory.

Arrows launched from all directions struck at the creature harmlessly, though several dozen had found their way into the exposed flesh between the dragon’s scales. Screaming in fury, the dragon released a smaller, yet more concentrated, flow of fire at the nearest archers, burning the arrows to ash in midair.

No sign of the archers remained once the flames vanished.

“Incredible,” Taralsin said, beginning to sketch the scene on paper.

“Breathtaking,” Kenna concurred, gesturing for Gadin to hand her paper and pen. She had to yell his name to pull his attention from the dragon. When he finally fished them out of his pack, she began furiously taking notes.

If the reports were accurate – and Kenna had little reason to believe they weren’t – Mallaugin was the last of its kind. The last of all the dragons. If the next hour went by as planned, the valley would finally be free of dragons as it had once been, the concluding result of a century-long extermination that would, according to popular belief, bring a peace that would forever reign upon the land.

Kenna was no longer certain about the prospect of peace.

Skirmishes had already begun among kingdoms, conflicts over new lands and the rights to use those lands. King Larland had fallen to an assassin’s blade in the heart. The Queens of Dalholt had both choked on their tongues, the poisoned wine gifted to them by their brother. Even the Falswek were at war with one another.

Below, the dragon continued the massacre.

It was an odd experience, a lifetime spent studying and recording the fall of the dragons, once confident it was the path to peace. It had made so much sense when she had been younger, and yet as each dragon fell, it dawned on Kenna that man – not dragon – was the savage. An evil had risen among men that surpassed anything the dragons had ever done.

She feared today would be a beginning of an era, not an end.

The dragon howled furiously, sending several soldiers into the air with a sweep of its tail, claws crushing those foolish enough to try to stab it with swords. Dozens died in the space of several heartbeats. It howled again, this time sounding more like a wail. A death cry.

“It realized it’s going to die,” Taralsin said, sorrow in his tone.

“To accept ones fate,” Kenna said, writing the words down as they came to her. “To embrace finality.”

Men died for that finality.

Tales about the time before the dragons were few, scattered stories of kingdoms gripped by war and destruction. Mkarisnin, it was called. The Age of Darkness, though darkness was an incorrect translation, an inevitable corruption due to countless transcription errors. It was accepted that mkari meant shadows, but there were historians that argued that a more correct translation to be beneath the shadows or ruled by the shadows.

Something about that translation frightened her from the moment she’d heard about it. The fear that phrase drove into her was ridiculous. It was a word, after all.

Wasn’t it?

Hours after the dragon had fallen and the celebrations begun, Kenna visited the slain dragon alone. As she stood in the darkness, something stepped forth from the shadows. She screamed, falling backwards while trying to escape it .

It occurred to that the translation was wrong. Ruled by the Shadows, it should have been. A capital S.

No one heard her scream as the Shadow attacked her. No one raised the alarm.

The Age of the dragons had finally ended, the era of the Shadows – the Mkari – had returned.