The Hunt of the Dragon

"There weren't always dragons in the valley," the man at the bar said dejectedly. He perched on his barstool, fingers tracing the lip of his glass of mulled wine. “And at this rate, they won’t last long.” It was a surprisingly sentimental tone from a man whose arm clearly bore the mark of a dragonslayer: a serpentine dragon enveloping a sword branded into his skin.

Owen always admired the profession. He used to dream of receiving the brand on his own one day, but when he met Verona, his plans changed. Slaying dragons was not a career for a family man. Dying on duty was practically in the job description.

A few nearby patrons shifted their gaze towards the dragonslayer when he first spoke, the topic of dragons always attracting a spark of interest, but as the slayer’s words shifted to a sentimental tone, that fleeting interest was replaced by scoffs of disgust. The citizens of Shroudwood had heard the lectures of preserving dragon kind for far too long. Now, they were once again ready to reap the benefits of harvesting dragon magic.

From his own table, Owen watched the nervousness trilling through the dragonslayer’s body language, and how he challenged the other patrons despite it. Owen leaned in, trying to steal as much information from the air as he could without imposing. Located just inside the border of West Shroudwood, this bar wasn't a place he could afford to frequent. It certainly wasn't a place where he could afford to make an enemy.

Ignoring the dragonslayer’s rambling, the bartender served the requested shot to an older man at the far end of the bar.

"In our ancestors' youth, maybe,” the dragonslayer continued, undiscouraged by the lack of reception, “but it's a sign of the Creator's favor that they're back. If people keep going after them for such trivial things-" he trailed off, gesturing at the deep mulberry liquid that faintly glowed in the old man's shot glass.

Anger pooled as sweat on Owen's palms. The rumors were true, this place was selling brimstone.

"Alright, that's enough, Ciar." The bartender chuckled amicably, but the warning was obvious in the hard edge of his voice.

The old man shot an amused smirk toward Ciar. “Can’t handle the heat, boy?” he asked, then threw back his shot.

Owen watched the old man’s eyes as the drink started to take effect. His pupils bloomed into large, vacuous shadows. They took on a frenzied, frantic aspect. The thin blue veins running down his neck rushed like rivers below a broken dam, pounding with the staccato drum beat of his pulse. His face was ruddy in the aftermath of the spell, and sparks fizzled from his open mouth as he breathed heavily. So it was genuine brimstone, then.

It was back on the market, practically within his reach, but Owen could never afford it here. He had to bide his time, see if he could find the bar’s supplier and maybe barter for just a few ounces, no more than the shot. There was nothing in his meager life he wouldn’t surrender for a second chance.

“I can handle far more than you know,” Ciar snarled in return. The multitude of scars running from his jaw, across his shoulder, and down his forearm substantiated his claims. He stood up, his barstool clamoring to the ground.

If the fight was fair, Ciar would have been the clear winner. His arms were well-toned from years of training and his stance made it clear that he was familiar with combat. Two ounces of Brimstone, however, were enough to tip the favor towards even the weakest of men.

When the old man stood, he was firm on his feet. His cane clattered to the floor. He let out a frenzied yell that originated from deep within his stomach, spraying flames towards the ceiling where they dissipated harmlessly against a row of crimson scales. He snatched up the barstool, holding it over his head threateningly.

The dragonslayer blanched. He held up his hands, his voice losing the bravado of intoxication in the sobering situation he found himself in. "All I'm saying is we shouldn't be buying it so cavalierly. How many people in East Shroudwood would kill for that? Truly? How many of their lives could it change?"

Ciar looked around the bar for allies. Owen couldn’t meet his eye.

Would he kill for it? Yes. At this point, absolutely. Even more infuriating, he'd play nice for it. At closing when he asks the bartender for a contact, he can't be recognized as a bleeding heart. He can't let the bartender think he might take the information to the Delegates.

So when the old man threw his empty glass at the dragonslayer’s feet, Owen cheered along with the rest of the bar. When the old man threw a punch that made contact with Ciar’s eye socket, a wet thunk that resounded through the room, Owen did nothing. Ciar was escorted outside, and Owen tried to push the whole ordeal out of his mind.

He drank slowly. He didn't have the money to stay there all night so he nursed his drinks. He played a couple rounds of cards and folded when the ante got too high. He struck up conversations with people at the bar, the same mindless, easy chatter. His thoughts kept drifting to Ellona, alone at the house. He hoped she’d head to bed when it got dark, but he knew his daughter had a stubborn streak even more wicked than his own.

The sun set and the crowd started to thin. Patrons ambled home, shuffling through their slurred conversations. Owen approached the bar, trying to seem casual despite the desperate beating of his heart against his chest.

"That whole business earlier, about the brimstone?" He started.

The bartender huffed and continued clearing glasses from the bar. "Ciar used to be a good man. He stopped drinking it all together when the rationing started. Messed with his head. I've always said, the only thing worse than a drunk is a sober. Somewhere in the middle, that's where you want to end up."

"To the middle," Owen raised his glass, downed the dregs, and handed it to the bartender. "Must be a hard thing to keep in stock," Owen said.

"Mm," the bartender hummed without really looking up.

"You use the same hunter for all your supplies or do you know several?" Owen asked, fearing the words came out too rushed, too desperate.

The bartender set down the glasses and looked up at Owen. His face was set, impassive.

"I only ask ‘cause a friend of mine runs a smaller place a couple of roads down. He's been trying to find a reliable source."

The bartender flashed a shallow smile, "best of luck to him."

"Can't even give me a name? I swear I won't tell anyone I got it from you," Owen begged.

"I'm going to give you one last chance to walk out of here of your own accord," the bartender said evenly.

"Please. It’s my daughter, she broke her leg. The infection is getting worse and we can’t get the elixir out East. Even just an ounce of brimstone could fix it."

The bartender didn’t offer him a moment’s consideration, just carried on with the closing duties. Owen saw himself out, the silence ringing in his ears.

Owen took the long way home, giving himself time to master his anger into something productive before he faced his daughter. He might not have gotten a name, but he did get a location. The dragon herds’ territory had extended to the valley. That wasn’t much farther than the forest outside of town where he hunted for game. If he couldn’t find a dragonslayer to trade with - and what did he have to offer them anyway? - he’d have to become one.

He glanced towards the mansions of West Shroudwood seething with a putrid combination of anger, resentment, and jealousy. It was so easy for them, so removed from risk. The buildings glowed with a faint green aura. He used to live with such enchantments; Light without fire, music without instruments. Now his only child was wasting away under his incompetent care. Not for much longer, he promised himself.

Owen passed buildings that had fallen deeper and deeper into disrepair. This side of town hadn’t had power for nearly a decade, ever since the dragonslayers had to stop hunting, legally, anyway. The average, hard-working citizens of Shroudwood could no longer afford the flame-oil to light their homes or dragon blood for their brimstone. It was places like this where the division between East and West Shroudwood became most apparent. Clothes hung from lines across the street and garbage littered the pathways. The conditions of the neighborhood matched the people who lived in them, hopeless and dirty.

This was what life had been reduced to without access to the magic that had built the city. Owen wondered if it would all change now that dragons had come to Greenwood valley. Only the elite delegates of West Shroudwood had access to the creature in their natural domain, but if the herds were growing, and their range was pushing farther East, there may be hope again for the common folk.

Owen reached his front door and braced himself with a deep, grounding breath. Explaining his plan to Ellona wouldn’t be easy.

Despite Owen’s hopes, Ellona was not sleeping when he got home. She was sitting upright at the dining room table. Her reading book sprawled open in front of her. The level of oil in the lamp next to her was significantly lower than it had been the night prior.

“Where were you all night?” Ellona asked. Her voice was a light whisper, as it had been since the fever set in. Her blonde hair was brittle and messy, like a bird’s nest caught in a twister. For a moment, in the pale lamplight, she looked so much like Verona that Owen had to master his breath in the deep of his lungs. The walk home stirred up old memories he couldn’t afford to get lost in. With an aching fondness, and a promise to save their child despite the cost, he gently put Verona from his mind.

“I was at Wyvern’s Roost,” Owen said. He did his best to stand tall and speak with hopeful confidence, despite the heavy burden of failure that dragged down his words. He didn’t want her getting the wrong idea.

Evidently, it didn’t help much, because the disappointment was clear on Ellona’s face.

“I thought you were done with that. You promised,” Ellona’s voice took on the youthful whine of a child. Suddenly, she was his sweet little girl again, and not a bold young woman waiting up to lecture him about responsibility. At fourteen years old, Ellona was caught right in the in-between of innocent youth and the heavy reality of adulthood. Owen would never admit it out loud, but he wished with all his soul that he could keep Ellona from aging another day and let her remain a child forever. He couldn’t bear the thought of the world weathering away the last traces of bliss, wonder, and optimism.

“I barely drank,” Owen said. He stepped fully into the house and closed the door against the first traces of sunshine. The faint rays that did reach the window cast their glow in horizontal lines, scattering across the front table and illuminating Ellona’s face in broken fragments.

“Yet you were there all night?” Ellona asked pointedly. She crossed her arms over her book and stared levelly at him, holding his gaze. She may have inherited her mother’s soft features, but she got all of his bold nature. The result was a beautiful young woman that could have charmed her way into higher society on smiles alone. Her usual speech, the brash tongue of an unrefined hunter, was an endearing counterweight. Like a carnivorous flower, Ellona’s sweet allure only made her more dangerous.

Owen stepped to the front window and parted the curtains, letting the light in fully. The sun was still too weak to light up the house, but it was enough that they didn’t need the oil lamp. The rest of the oil could get them through two more evenings, three if they were careful. “I was there for information.”

Ellona blinked in the adjusting light. She stared at him, her emerald green eyes brimming with curiosity. “What kind of information?”

“They’re selling brimstone at Wyvern's again,” Owen said. He locked his eyes with her to assess her reaction. “Apparently, dragons have been seen in the Greenwood valley.”

Owen had been expecting to see his daughter’s face illuminated by hope and excitement, but instead, it seemed to only darken. Her pale blonde eyebrows knitted together and her thin lips tightened into a frown. “I thought the Delegates said that dragons were dying off out West. Why are they in the valley now?” There was a bitterness to her voice that pained him. She was old enough now to understand that if the dragonslayers could find the beasts again, their spoils wouldn’t make it to this side of town where there was no profit to be made.

“I don’t know, Elly, but if I had to guess, I would say that the Delegates haven’t been fully honest with us.”

Owen thought back to the day that restrictions on dragon hunting had first been set forth. The Delegates had gathered everyone in the heart of Shroudwood and had announced that the dragon herds were dying. To prevent them from being lost forever, all dragon-hunting was outlawed. The remaining stores of brimstone, panacea, periapts, and mana would be restricted for emergency access only. They promised the ban would only be temporary. That was nearly twelve years ago, now.

Owen had believed them. He was much different back then, younger, naive. Now, he knew better. Dragon hunting was illegal but the elite members of the Delegation could be convinced to look the other way, for a price. As for all the spoils, those were not reserved for the people who needed them most, but rather for the people who made the best offer. The result was a rift that ruptured through the heart of Shroudwood and grew deeper every day. Evidently, Owen was on the wrong side of that rift. If he had been a richer man, he never would have lost access to dragon spoils. If he had been a richer man, Verona might still be alive.

“If they are selling brimstone again, how long do you think before panacea will be sold at the market?” Ellona asked.

Owen stepped past the table where Ellona sat and walked towards the fireplace. “Too long.” He reached above the mantle and grabbed his crossbow. It was a standard weapon, well suited for killing buck, boar, and even the occasional kelpie, but likely an ill match for the thick hide of a soaring dragon. Still, he had to try.

“What do you mean to do with that?” Ellona asked. Her chair squawked against the wood floor as she rose from the table. Owen turned and watched her. She gripped the arms of her chair tight and pushed down, propelling her body upwards as she got her legs underneath her. All of her weight shifted to her left leg, her right leg tilted outwards. The wrapping around her right knee was old and needed to be replaced. The yellow puss of her infection had stained the cloth and was seeping out down her leg. The dark red pinpricks of blood poisoning around the wound were getting worse. Even from this distance, the putrid scent of it reached Owen’s nose. Owen tried to remember how long it had been since he filled the washbasin with water from the river for her. He made a mental note to have Lance Miller stop by with fresh water and soap that afternoon.

“I mean to get you a panacea,” Owen said. “That infection is getting worse every day.”

Ellona snorted. “How?” she asked. “By robbing a merchant or by hunting a dragon?”

“Does it matter, Elly?” Owen tightened his grip around his weapon defensively. He was determined to be the father his daughter needed; to protect her and provide for her. He had not been expected to be faced with her ridicule.

“It does matter. One way will get you killed by public execution, and the other will be death by dragon fire. It's a choice of how you want to die, Pa. Which type of dragons have been seen in the valley anyway?”

“I don’t know. My source didn’t say.”

Ellona snatched the book off the table and tucked it under her arm. She reached for the cane beside her chair, found her footing, then made her way to him one step at a time, leaning heavily against the cane every other step. She managed to get along now without so much as a grimace, but Owen knew the pain was still there. He could see it buried underneath her pale face. Like her mother, Ellona was too transparent to hide secrets.

“Draconius camentium is the species with healing properties. They’re also the most elusive. They tend to travel with Draconius ignuis, the fire breathers. They’re the most deadly.”

When Ellona was standing right infront of her father, she steadied herself on her good leg, pulled the book from underneath her arm, and handed it off to Owen. Owen flipped through the pages quietly, recognizing the text as one of Verona’s old books. He hadn’t realized Ellona had taken to reading it.

“If you go after the healers, the fire-breathers will put up too much of a fight. It’s impossible.”

Owen sighed, the weight of the situation pressing heavily on his lungs. “I have to try, El. What else do you propose I do?”

“I propose we wait, like everyone else,” Ellona said.

Wait. Owen had waited by Verona’s bedside as she faded away, taking his faith with her to the next life. He couldn’t survive that again.

Owen shook his head. Determination surged through him once more. He began gathering arrows from their spot next to the mantle.

“No, Elly, you’ve waited long enough. The infection is only going to get worse. It’s time we get you a cure.”

“Papa,” her voice was pleading. Desperate.

Owen set the book and crossbow on top of the mantle, then placed both his hands on her shoulders and locked eyes with her, holding her gaze firmly.

“You’re going to be on your own for a few days, sweetheart. If you need anything, go next door, you can tell the Miller’s I’m hunting deer and I’ll share the meat with them if they keep an eye on you.”

“Can’t I-” Ellona started but then stopped herself just as Owen’s expression tightened. They both knew all too well that she couldn’t do the things that had once come easy to her. It was no use bringing up her limitations again.

Owen rested a hand gently on her right knee. It hadn’t been able to bend since the break, and even now, standing still, it interfered with her balance. He could feel the weak heat of the infection even now

“When I’m done this’ll heal properly, then you can come out into the forest with me and hunt together like we used to. I promise.”

Her gaze darted between his eyes, searching for something. When she couldn’t find it, resigned anger beyond her years settled on her face.

“It’s going to be alright, El. I’ll make sure of it.” Owen packed a few days' food quickly and left without another word. His limbs were twitching with anticipation and he could no longer bear the stillness. Ellona’s silence draped his movements like a heavy cloud of fog.

It was still too early for the citizens of Shroudwood to be milling about the roads, most remained nestled in their bunks, keeping barriers of thick fur blankets between themselves and the day’s responsibilities. There was no one around to question his late venture into the forest, but as a hunter, he could have explained it easily. The only thing to hide would have been his nerves. At his side, the crossbow felt small and inconsequential against his new prey.

A sparse forest blanketed the Southeast edge of town. Some believed the forest was a place of danger and foreboding, but Owen always saw it as a protective shield around the city. The real danger lay beyond the familiar green trees. Cautious, but filled with purpose, Owen maneuvered through the young, spindly birch trees. Squirrels scurried away from the soft crunch of his boots against the fallen autumn leaves. Bats swooped overhead, their wings flapping against the crisp night air. Owen tried to imagine the sound wings tenfold that size would make.

He’d never seen a dragon firsthand. Even in his youth, they’d been driven so far West that hunters had to journey weeks to start tracking them. If they did make it back to the valley, if drunken rambles from patrons at Wyverns’ could be believed, he’d be able to spot one from the observation tower on Dartrose Mountain.

The birch trees grew in both height and width as the elevation climbed. Rocks and knotted roots caught at his heels as Owen pressed onwards. He didn’t think of making camp that first night, the journey consumed him. Blood rushed in his ears as if he could already hear the powerful wingbeats of the massive creatures. Alone in the forest, he admitted to himself he was afraid.

He continued on.

There was a plateau about a third of the way up Dartrose Mountain devoid of trees so Shroudwood could use it as a vantage point if Aylesbury ever sent invading armies again. Shroudwood has not been plagued by war since before he was born and while the city prospered from the peace, the small outpost fell into disrepair. Owen approached the building warily. Moss carpeted the aged stone, having knitted through the grout to reach the sunlight. The parapets were dark and stained, but the structure of the outpost still seemed sound.

Owen took in a deep breath and released it slowly. He felt the need to ground himself before seeing the beasts he set out to hunt. He was thankful for the fatigue in his body that dragged his legs down and made his body feel immensely heavy. The heavier the mass, the more force required to move it. Owen crossed the muddied carpet and climbed the spiral staircase to the highest vantage point on the West side of the Greenwood Valley.

The old telescope whined as Owen swiveled it along the base, rust scraping through the aged mechanism. There was a thick layer of dust and grime across the lens that Owen cleared with the bottom of his shirt.

The dragonslayer at the bar had said there were dragons in the valley, but his words had failed to fully encompass the breadth of the situation. When Owen aimed the old telescope at the base of the far mountains he didn’t just see a few dragons, he saw an entire thunder of the mighty beasts. Even from such a distance, the dragons were massive. Larger than houses, they walked among the trees like cats in grass. He counted a dozen, some took wing and flew off into approaching night, their scales catching the last rays of the dying sun and reflecting shimmers of emerald, topaz, bronze, and crimson.

As Owen watched, one of the topaz beasts circled the herd and veered towards the observation tower. Owen’s heart drummed in his chest to the beat of the dragon’s enormous wings. A crown of horns adorned the dragon’s head. It stretched down the beast’s long neck and back all the way to a powerful tail that counterbalanced the creature’s swooping flight. Owen stared in stunned amazement as the dragon’s massive jaw unhinged in a roar that shook the trees around the beast. The roar sent a shock wave vibrating through the ground he stood on. He could almost feel the sharp, jagged edge of the dragon’s teeth close around him. The creature was fast-approaching. At first, Owen thought it sensed his presence and was heading straight to the watchtower to punish his conquest of dragon magic. Then, he realized the dragon’s course was farther North. He shifted the telescope in hopes of spotting the beast’s target.

Almost immediately, he saw smoke.

Someone was making a campfire. A tall and lanky figure sat next to the fire and stirred the contents of a large pot. The figure was cloaked in a long red robe and it was impossible to discern any distinguishing characteristics from this angle, but based on the direction the person was traveling and the regal robe they bore, Owen suspected it was a member of the Delegates coming to arrest him for poaching. That or a dragonslayer out to steal his game. Neither option was very comforting.

Sensing the danger, the cloaked figure glanced over their shoulder and noticed the topaz dragon fast approaching. For a brief flash, Owen could see his face. Ciar, the man who protested brimstone at the bar, was now in the shadow of a hunting dragon. Owen watched as Ciar scrambled into action; smothering out the fire and fanning away the smoke. With the visual marker gone, the dragon shifted its trajectory with a casual tilt of its body, moving on to the next target. Ciar raised binoculars to their eyes and looked not at the dragon, but along the dragon’s path. Owen followed suit, scanning with the telescope.

The sight was enough to chill his blood into ice. There, riding on top of Lance Miller’s old gray mare, was Ellona. There was no denying it was her, even from so far away. She was dressed in her mother’s stark-white yeti-fur cloak and bore his old hunting pack on her back. Her chin lifted towards the sky. She must have seen the beast because she spurred her horse towards the dense part of the forest for cover. Following their movement, the massive creature began to bank north in a gliding arc, the tips of its massive wings just beginning to graze the treetops. It glided over the dense woods, circling its prey. Then, it dove.

Owen released a grieving bellow that echoed, unheard, through the valley.