The Last of the Dragons

Terreges.

The Land of Kings.

Or rather it once was, until the rulers of the age were deceived, following the lusts of their hearts, wishing only to fulfill their selfish desires.

None of Arc’s Tempest, an intimate pack of dragons, ever thought a human would harm them but the old texts never lie;

Betrayal always comes from within.

I was not there that fateful night although I know the story well. But alas, that is a tale for another time.

Dragons are powerful and immortal but humans are devious and numerous. Many years have passed but the pain of that dreadful day still lingers in the hearts of the few that remember it.

Those few being the last of the dragons.

This is where I will begin, to weave a tale needing to be told, to teach lessons too painful to learn, and share memories of unspeakable horrors.

Let us give alms to the father of dragons, whose spirit still resides with us;

Curse us, O Great Archiphidos, should we choose the paths of our ancestors!

Spill our blood before we draw it from one another!

Let the sins of the past burn forever in our hearts lest we forget and echo the transgressions of our forefathers!

Let the lamentations of kings rise as an acceptable offering!

May the mournful cries of the deceivers fill your nostrils as sweet incense!

All of Terreges bows to your will, sempiternally!

Ä’min!

The northeast winds have begun to blow, storm clouds are gathering and as soon as a fire is built I will begin. So please sit, pour yourself a drink, and relax as I recall to you the tale known as The Last of the Dragons.

***

Ovansöng had been reflecting on the past, as he frequently did, when a shadowy figure slipped between the trees, silent as a predator seeking prey. The ancient beast now watched, with his only good eye, as the cloaked figure carrying a wrapped bundle entered the sacred inner ring of the forest, called Verenheim in the old tongue.

“That is the unmistakable scent of an elf.” he thought and began to salivate, “Time has escaped me, for it is indeed the season of the offering.”

The gentle gloaming hour was upon the forest and torch beetles and fireflies helped the stars illuminate the small clearing. In the center remained the stump of a felled tree and this is where the hooded stranger left what they had brought, fleeing empty-handed.

Ovansöng slithered through the forest, making very little noise for a creature so large. Hatched during a solstitial squall, he bore the color of a summer storm. His pale green and grey scales rolled in waves beneath a layer of ragged fur as he moved, his cloud-colored eye darting around.

His horned head snaked down to the offering the elf had placed upon the stump and what his one eye fell upon angered him greatly.

A child, mayhap not even to its second name-day, stared up at him. Its eyes peered up at him innocently behind the cloth that covered nearly all of it and even though the beast was quite intimidating, the toddler did not shy away from Ovansöng.

“I should destroy you right now!” he shouted, his voice as of distant thunder mixed with roars and rumbles. “How dare an elf defile my forest with a human!”

Fire the color of lightning danced at the back of his throat and small arcs of electricity ran the length of his spine as he prepared to obliterate the offering when something unexpected happened.

***

Sincerest apologies for the interruption but the fire needs to be stoked, a chill has crept in and I’m afraid this storm has made a new home here. Nevertheless, I will continue but there are a few things you must know.

First, you must understand that dragons are rarely caught off guard.

Also, and I tell you this because I assume you know little of them but dragons despise humans, loathe dwarves, and tolerate elves. It wasn’t always this way and isn’t so much now.

Lastly, in the land of Terreges, there reside only three of the aforementioned creatures.

A conundrum exists as follows: to see a dragon is considered a good omen and will bring much luck, but to anger one (and I can assure you they are easily angered) is almost certain death.

The trick is to see the dragon before it sees you and then, by fair means or foul, make haste in your retreat.

That’s much better. I can feel the cold leaving these old bones, although I could do without the smoke that seems to have joined us as a guest. Ahh, but the old texts never lie:

One cannot bathe and wish to stay dry.

Please, pardon my garrulous nature, shall we continue?

***

As Ovansöng prepared to destroy the small human, it wiggled one tiny arm out of its swaddling clothes and managed to get its face free. The child, whom the dragon knew not nor cared not the gender of, quickly began to escape from its cloth prison. The dragon noticed the child was missing a hand, having only a small stump in its place. Its face, aside from innocent eyes, was mostly deformed flesh.

Seeing such injury reminded him of his own and the flames within his gaping maw died. By the time he blinked his one eye, the child was standing on the stump looking up at him. Scars covered the small human’s chest and a couple of toes were missing off one foot.

“What has happened to you, frodïr?” he asked, using the term for ‘child’ in the ancient tongue.

He got no response but instead, the frodïr dropped to its rear, legs hanging over the side of the stump, and ran over to him.

Somehow, over the course of the next hour, Ovansöng found himself watching the child run to and fro as he cleaned himself with his cat-like tongue, removing years of buildup. Most dragons groomed themselves daily but the years had been long, lonely, and hard. Once the grimy fur was gone, the neglect successfully undone, he admired his shining scales for the first time in years.

As the sky was painted in twilight majesty, Ovansöng nestled against an outcropping of trees, the babe curled against him where a wing should have provided protection but alas, the child lay uncovered.

Resigning himself to the fact that he now had a human that not only could he not kill but now had to take care of, Ovansöng began to tell the tale of his life and legacy, something he had not done since his mate, Xerbrea, had been brutally tortured and killed in the battle known as ‘The Night the Stars Fell.’

“My name is Ovansöng,” he started, “In the old language, it means Storm-Bringer. I am called that because once, long ago, I sounded like a thunderhead rolling across an open field when I flew.” He glanced back at the scars on his ribs and sighed, deep regret filling the hollows of his empty heart.

“I do not know why you look like you do,” he said solemnly, “but my injuries came from humans many, many moons ago. My mate and I were beaten and tortured. I watched Xerbrea die because she refused to break. She was strong and I was not. She stopped resisting when the peace of death overtook her, I stopped when my wings were stolen from me. Now, it is just I and two others, each cursed to remain in our prisons. I cannot leave Verenheim, Zomijhin cannot leave the Deandoro Mountains and Sotouin cannot wander beyond the bounds of the Blystoaro Sands.”

What he did not tell the frodïr was that the elves weren’t fully aware of the dragon's imprisonment. The dragons needed the elves for their offerings lest they starve, the elves thought their sacrifices kept the dragons at bay.

He looked down to see the child looking up at him knowingly. “If I had to guess frodïr, humans did this to you as well. Their taste for blood knows no bounds!” His roars startled the youngling, “They are the only race capable of shedding the blood of their kin!”

Expecting the child to cower at his outburst, he instead found the child still staring up at him, albeit slightly frightened. “They broke your body frodïr, but did they break your mind as well? For your sake, I hope they did not. Wounds to the flesh heal well enough, but a broken spirit does not mend so easily.”

A rumble in his stomach brought about a thought that disheartened him further. The elves had replaced his yearly meal of tamarix, a food capable of sustaining a dragon for an extensive period, with a human child. Now it would seem unless action was taken, they both might hunger perhaps to the point of death.

***

Right now, I bet you are wondering how tamarix could be both an offering and a sacrifice. Well, I shall indulge you, as it is in my nature to do so.

Tamarix is a collective term for both a rare and exotic tree grown only in elven woods and for the sap it produces. You see, small insects called dryoconi feast on the bark of the tamarix tree all year and their excrement is collected. Oft called manna, the substance is revered by elves for its supernatural properties.

Furthermore, elves are not the only species to possess a passion for the matter, for dryoconi in the old tongue translates to dragon feeder.

It takes nearly a year for the elves to harvest enough manna from the dryoconi to fill a kulíx, a type of ceremonial vessel, and then they must decide with it what to do.

Only two choices exist for the wood folk: keep it for themselves or give it as an oblation to the dragons.

What the elves see as a sacrifice, the dragons see as offerings.

Is that a satisfactory explanation? Good, I can be rather loquacious if left unbridled. Shall I now carry on with the tale? Take a moment to refill your cup and I will resume.

***

“It has been so many years.” said Ovansöng, “Deep in the recesses of my mind I know the knowledge exists but as of now I cannot recall what nourishment a frodïr requires.”

He knew, much like himself, humans mostly ate small game, many raising them in fenced fields they called farms. Dragons never understood how men could slaughter a caged animal and enjoy its flesh.

“How do they feast,” the late Quinninox, whose name had meant Rock-Breaker, had once asked, “if they have not first enjoyed a hunt?”

Ovansöng was shamed greatly by the fact that once he had devoured all wildlife within the confines of the forest, none had returned to take their place. Years had passed and the wildlife seemed to know his boundaries and now, in a worse fashion than humans, he relied on being fed to stay alive. Just the thought filled him with rage that was quickly extinguished for he knew he would find solace in death, but he had not the nerve to pursue it.

“It is late frodïr, let us rest and on the morrow, we will scour the forest for something for you to eat.” As the child nestled into him he felt the beginnings of something he had not felt in nigh on a millennium; compassion.

Ovansöng began to sing, a lullaby passed down through generations, one that he had learned from his mother but never got the chance to share with offspring of his own.

The sky above may howl and storm

The waters may crash around

The stars may fall onto the earth

To start fires on the ground

The rocks may cry into the night

And danger may abound

But I will hold you close and tight

And keep you safe and sound

Under my wings

You, I will keep

Close to my heart

Is where you’ll be

Under my wings…

The two of them, dragon and frodïr, drifted off to sleep as the words mixed with the breeze and all became still in the night.

As fires danced in the distance, the shouts of men were drowned by the roars of dragons. Blood soaked the ground and pain, searing and blinding, coursed through Ovansöng.

He gazed into the sky to see his brothers, his sisters, his Thunder, falling from the sky in droves.

“How can this be?” he thought and asked his captor, beneath the chains that pinned him to the ground, “What manner of madness makes dragons fall from the sky?”

The man, hairless and vile, with a stink so offensive that it overpowered all other scents and flooded his nostrils, responded with a wicked smile, a grin that Ovansöng would never forget.

“Archiphidos!” the dragon cried, summoning the King of the Dragons for which their thunder was named, his spirit breaking when no response came.

Waking with a start, the scaled beast cried out as the dream faded into memory. The unnamed child yawned and stretched, giving the dragon a look as if to say, “Now is when you feed me.”

Ovansöng didn’t know what to do. He could scour the forest as he had planned the night before, but what good would that do? He hadn’t seen any deer or rabbits in over five hundred years and besides, this youngling barely had the teeth for meat.

“Let us go frodïr, to the very ends of the land to where the wards bind me, to see what fate lies in wait for us. There are elves in this forest and perhaps it is time I break my thousand-year silence and speak to one.”

A challenge presented itself and Ovansöng began to work out a resolution. He had been, and to a great degree still was, quite cunning and intelligent.

“You cannot ride me, little one, as you are much too small. Even still, it takes two hands to ride a dragon and a saddle. I have no saddle and you have not two hands.”

Scrounging in the forest, Ovansöng fashioned a litter out of vines and tree bark and instructed the child to sit. Dragging the youngling through the forest was not his first choice but circumstances dictated their current situation.

As they made their way, the dragon on foot and the child by sled, they saw not one solitary creature. The dragon caught the faintest whiff of an elf and, by the weakness of the scent, judged it was beyond the bounds of the wards.

His heart sank. “I will not let you starve, frodïr. If we cannot find food I will give you the solace one only finds in death.”

Their journey continued, reaching midday and as the trees became more scarce, the sun grew hotter. Ovansöng noticed the child’s pale skin had taken a slightly red hue and where it had been silent before, it had now begun to cry.

“Hush now, frodïr, we are nearly at the wards. I will show myself to the elves and they will grant us boons for luck.”

The trees all but vanished and night had fallen as they approached the wards, invisible barriers placed by dragon slayer Kraiven after he deceived many kings and painted dragons as the greatest threat to humanity. Most were simply slain but, for some purpose unknown, a few were left alive and imprisoned.

As Ovansöng approached the wards, his spirit, which one would think could not be broken any further, did shatter. For what he saw was not the dwellings of elves, nor dwarves but that of humans. Far off, across a deep valley, he trained his eye on a scene parallel to that of his worst nightmare.

A human-built city now stood where the homes of elves once did, fires burned on the rooftops and the shouts and cries of the dying rang out in the night. Figures darted back and forth, pouncing on one another and a scent, unholy and familiar, caught the breeze bringing it across the valley to the dragon.

He roared, fierce and sorrowful, and struck at the wards only to find his claws passed through unhindered. He stepped back, then wreathed his head across the unseen border, crossing bounds into lands he hadn’t touched in thousands of years.

“Hold fast frodïr, the time is nigh that I, Storm-Bringer, seek vengeance for the wrongs that befell my thunder. I smell blood. I smell death. I smell Kraiven.”

As they passed through the valley, Ovansöng caught a glimpse of a hooded figure peeking out from behind a tree

“Elves are only seen when they want to be,” he thought, “so why have you shown yourself to me, aiódïr?”

He lowered his head to the child apologetically, “I admit I was wrong, for I believe the elf did not intend insult by bringing you to me, frodïr. He brought you as a cry for help, as proof that there exists a broken world that only dragons can mend.”

***

I must ask you pardon me once more, and be this the last time, on my honor, until the tale is at its end. There are details of this story I know not how to describe lest I tell them plainly, which I intend to do so.

Ovansöng referred to the elf as aiódïr which in the old tongue means eternal child. They are undying as the dragons but they do not age, not by the standards of men and dwarves.

At the time of this account, what we did not know is that a blood curse had vexed the land. The sins of Kraiven, fallen mage, and dragon slayer, had come back to haunt the children of the deceived. Crops were blighted, animals died of a mysterious plague and what was left were humans afflicted by madness that drove them to commit the most iniquitous of sins; they began to devour each other’s flesh.

Furthermore, I beseech you, to fill your cup and warm yourself by the fire as the night grows ever colder and the rain ceases not. I will do as such and then carry on with the saga known as The Last of the Dragons.

***

Abandoning the sled, they walked into the city. A smell overwhelmed Ovansöng. Humans smelled terrible enough but this, this was the unhallowed scent of death, and it moved around between alleyways and along the buildings, it hovered in the streets and dwelt in all places high and low.

“Dragon,” a soft voice called out and he looked down to see a lowly man, dressed in rags, “the kings of the age cry out for your help. Forgive us our sins and please, we beg, cleanse our lands.”

Ovansöng roared, bellowing with every fiber of his being, a roar that shook the foundation of every building. It was a kravgívoit, a cry to his fellow dragons.

“Brother! Sister! Your bonds are broken! Come and aid, let us rule the lands as we once did!”

Alas, no reply came.

Out of the corner of his eye, he once again saw the elf who had moved up to stand with the stranger.

“I see you have joined me for the battle, elf, and clearly the odds are not in our favor. Do you not fear death?”

The unnamed forest dweller spoke elegantly and with much confidence, “Oh but what is death, dragon, except another beginning?”

“That is not what I asked, elf.” the dragon grumbled.

“If you must know, dragon, if I fear death then the answer is yes. There is something I fear much more, however, and that is losing my forest, losing my kin, losing everything I’ve held near and dear for a thousand years. I do not wish to die, Ovansöng, but I do not wish to live in a world ravaged by war and loss so I will risk my life to save it and lay it down willingly if it is necessary. And you, O Great Storm-Bringer, do you fear death?”

Ovansöng thought for a moment, “I have numbed myself to existence until only recently when this child has awakened within me all that I presumed to be dead. I sought oblivion by means other than death and all I found was darkness. I have been plagued by grief and anguish for centuries, all for the fear of death. Alas, I fear it no longer. I am ready to accept its cold, hollow embrace.”

The elf inclined his head and put a hand over his chest, “You honor me with a glimpse into your heart, dragon, mayhap I can provide insight on the darkness within, for I have struggled with it myself.

“You see the void within yourself, the encroaching empty, the living death?”

“I do, dragon, but only when I look with mine eyes and my mind. The trick to darkness is to let one’s heart guide. Where your eyes lead you astray your heart will keep the path.”

“Speak plainly elf, I have no time for your riddles, the world burns around us.”

“It’s love, dragon. Love pierces the darkness, like a flaming sword in the night, to cleave sorrow from joy.”

“This is why you brought me the crippled frodïr?”

“I am guilty as accused, Ovansöng.”

“Tell me then, what is the name of the one who shone a light through the fog around me?”

The elf bowed, “I am called Avrondra’eil. In the old tongue, it means blade-dancer.”

“You have honored your house this day, Avrondra’eil. Come! Now is the time to dance!”

Suddenly, without warning, hordes of men stricken with madness poured out of streets and buildings, flooding toward them with reckless abandon. Blood stained their faces and a hollow emptiness dwelled within their eyes.

“Vrykò.” whispered the mighty legged-serpent, “Flesh eaters.”

“Take the child, zenoií, and if harm comes to it I will seek you out and have you for dinner!” he barked and the stranger did as he was commanded.

As they met, vrykò and dragon, flesh was sundered from bone as carnage ensued.

Flames, white hot, jetted from the dragon’s maw, turning some to ash while others had their life’s water superheated, turning them to glass.

One such unfortunate soul, after being crystallized, fell forward to shatter into a million pieces save for a hand that rolled to lay at the feet of a fear-stricken onlooker.

Full of reverence and dread of the power of the dragon, the man snatched up the glass hand and darted inside his shop.

Avrondra’eil, dark of skin and pale of hair, danced among walls and rooftops, seeming to be everywhere Ovansöng needed him to be, all at once. His long swords reflected moonlight as he battled in silence. The elf was peace and tranquillity incarnate, he allowed not even his enemies to suffer a scream as he cut them down.

Unleashing a roar that deafened all, sparks of electricity arcing down his spine, Ovansöng called down a storm, the spirit of Archiphidos dwelling within him. Dirt exploded into the air as thunderbolts struck the ground. Rain began to pummel the lands, quenching the fires.

The ancient, bone-plated beast's eye glowed bright, his scales vibrated with immeasurable power and he struck down and slew every abomination within the city, calling down lightning across all of Terreges.

He then found himself, amid a myriad of fallen vrykò, face to face with Kraiven.

“Why did you spare me, dragon slayer?“ he bellowed. “Speak! For I have come with vengeance in my mind and violence in my heart!”

Kraiven replied with naught but an evil grin at first then spoke, his voice as a chilling death-wind, “A blood curse was inevitable after what I had done.” He cackled, “ I am wicked, not foolish! It is the blood of a dragon that cures the madness of vrykó. The very ones you have slain could have been healed and by you nonetheless.” He laughed again, “I broke your spirit long ago, dragon, and took the life of your pathetic mate. It would seem you have the nerve to kill the mindless, but do you have it in you to slay a human?”

“You wish to try me and find out?” asked the dragon to dragon slayer.

“I have come into possession of a kulíx of tamarix, which tells me you have not had your yearly feeding. What have you become, Ovansöng? A pet to the elves? One who must be fed to sustain himself?”

“You tread on dangerous ground Kraiven!”

“Do I? I have waged war against your kind and won! I have stood face to face with dragons, my robes blown open by their rancid breath only to find myself the victor.” His smile faded, his face now cold and devoid of mirth, “If one of us is to fear the other, it would be you, dragon, not I.”

Kraiven produced a staff, seemingly from nowhere, and asked, his perfidious tongue dancing behind rotten teeth, “Do you know what this is Ovansöng?”

“Should I, scótaino?” rebutted the dragon, naming Kraiven ‘dark one’ in the old tongue.

“Dragons have much iron in their blood, so much that I was able to forge this staff!”

He began to chant, calling on the ancient entities of the underworld who supplied him with his power, when Ovansöng pounced, snapping his jaws. He shook the man, whose screams echoed within his gullet and one could not help to think the two gave semblance to a cat and mouse.

Kraiven quickly passed from this earth and the dragon gobbled him up. With an audible gulp, Ovansöng swallowed, licking what little blood remained from around his snout.

Strength coursed through the dragon. He vibrated with energy as he sunk his claws deep into the earth, cracking pave stones like twigs.

“He must have had the kulíx tucked within his robes.” he chuckled and then left, the battle won, to seek out his frodïr and any straggling vrykò that may still be wandering about.

It was then that a soft voice called out, “Ovansöng, I have been cursed by a vrykò.”

The mighty dragon looked down at Avrondra’eil and sorrow filled him when he saw the bite mark on the elf’s hand.

“You know what has to be done.”

“I do, dragon, do what you must.”

***

The fire crackled in the hearth as rain battered the castle and a cold wind sought entry inside with its icy tendrils. Night had fallen outside the castle and the flames that had provided warmth now provided light as well.

“Thus ends the tale of how Ovansöng, indwelled with the spirit of the great Archiphidos, cleansed the land of Terreges of all wickedness and evil in the span of a single night.”

Lighting flashed in the sky followed by a thunderous boom, startling all save one; the man who sat upon the royal seat.

Gathered around the throne, seeking solace from the storm, many listened, each forming their own opinion of what they had just heard.

“You tell that tale better than any other, my King, but did there truly exist other dragons?” asked one of his subjects.

“Better than any other? I was there!” he laughed jovially. “I spoke of other dragons, did I not? Was anyone else listening?”

The man beside him poured more wine into his glass, “I was!” Laughter erupted amongst the few gathered around.

“That really happened?” the squeaky voice of a young girl asked.

Ignoring the laughter of his peers he addressed his young daughter, ”Yes Rachàel, it very well did.”

“That’s how you got your scars? From the humans before we made amends with the dragons?”

“It is indeed Edgör, it is also how I lost my hand.” he said, looking down at his hands, one naked, normally in an iron gauntlet, the other having a dragon glass appendage affixed where no hand was any longer.

“What happened to the staff?” asked the farrier, who had been called inside to wait out the storm.

“Reforged into a gauntlet” replied the man on the august cathedra, “by way of dragonfire.”

“You were friends with the dragon who saved the world?”

“Yes dear.” interrupted a woman, elegant and regal, entering the throne room, “Your father is known as The King Who Rules with Iron and Glass.” She sat next to her husband, “Iron represents the strength of men, the glass is a constant reminder of the power of dragons. One is mighty, the other fragile but both serve a purpose, as should a King.”

She smiled at her husband brightly, the disfigurement of her face had never been enough to deter him from seeing her true beauty. She rested her arms upon her throne, one hand fair and pristine with painted nails, the sleeve of the other pinned closed where a hand should have been.

“Father?”

“Yes, my son?”

“Where is Ovansöng now?”

Avrondra’eil smiled, fond memories intertwined with heartbreak flooding back, tears welling in his eyes. It had been decades since he delivered his now wife to the dragon in hopes of drawing him out to see what sickness ravaged the world.

He never dreamed he would sit on the throne, would take a human woman as his wife nigh on twenty years later, and then, thanks to the treaty, be permitted to bear children, introducing Terreges to the first-ever half-elves.

“He is free to roam Terreges, mayhap one day he will pay us a visit.”

“Are there any others left?” asked his eldest son Clive.

“No soul that I know has ever seen or heard from the other two, Zomijhin and Sotouin, so I am afraid I do not know the answer to that my frodïr. I fear that Ovansöng is The Last of the Dragons.”