The Lost Legacy of Ylltharien

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. Long ago, there was a time when dragons only lived in the wastelands beyond the Mountains of Elsedere. Thousands of years had passed since those days of valor. Now dragons dwelt all throughout the shattered kingdom of Orsephane, including in the little valley of Garamin.

Not that any of this mattered to Isthyren. He had lived in the wretched valley for sixteen of his twenty-eight years, evading the village folk and growing wise in the ways of the forest. Isthyren was a half-elf, born of an elven father and a human mother. Such a marriage was frowned upon in Orsephane, making it difficult for Isthyren and his family to find a home. They roved all throughout the kingdom and the elven lands of Farathir, vainly searching for a permanent home. As the family was travelling through the forests of Garamin, a band of marauders ambushed them, killing his parents and leaving Isthyren to die in the thick, inhospitable woods. Isthyren, having the blood of elves within his veins, was wise in the ways of the forest. He survived and made his home in the woods of Garamin. A human village was located in the valley, but the men and women who lived there despised Isthyren for his lineage and refused to let him live amongst them.

Isthyren hated the villagers just as much as they hated him, and he was consequently not unhappy that the dragons had come and eaten or driven away the inhabitants. In the ancient stories, dragons were beautiful, powerful, creatures; to be admired and feared by all. But this was not the character of the dragons in the valley. These dragons were young, quarrelsome, and ugly. They did not feel it was below them to destroy a pathetic little village, and obviously found great pleasure in doing so. It would be hundreds of years before they grew into the terrific beings that populated the stories. For now, the dragons were cruel, cocky, and relatively weak. They would never find Isthyren in the dark, tangled forest that he knew so well.

Nonetheless, Isthyren still had to be careful. The dragons had slept for a week after devouring many of the villagers, but now they were up and about again. Isthyren had counted seven dragons in total, sauntering through the valley in search of something new to eat or torment. They would have happily gobbled down a half-elf if they could find one. Avoiding the dragons was a constant chore. They did not have a good sense of smell, and so could not track Isthyren as another predator might. These dragons did have extremely powerful eyesight, however, making it dangerous for Isthyren to stray into the open.

Not that the forests of Garamin were known for their wide-open spaces. The valley was enclosed by the towering cliffs on all but its eastern side. The little village had once sat on the valley’s far western edge at the end of a lone road which cut through the deep, dominant forest. Keeping this forest back had been an unending battle for the townspeople. Now that they were gone, the plants and trees had slowly begun to reclaim their territory.

These thoughts drifted through Isthyren’s head as he sat in the forest gnawing at a cold leg of mutton. Lighting a fire was not especially safe with seven dragons patrolling the valley in a nasty, hungry mood; so Isthyren had been forced to do most of his cooking in the morning when the dragons were asleep and eat cold food for the rest of the day. This annoying inconvenience did nothing to improve his permanently stormy mood. All the years Isthyren had spent alone, hated, and unwanted in the forest had made him disillusioned and cynical. As he sat in the thick darkness, the ancient Song of Ylltharien sprang, uncalled, into his head. Isthyren had once loved the ancient stories and songs, taught to him by his parents before they died. Now, he hated these stories for their naivete and insufferable optimism. He tried to shove Ylltharien’s song roughly away, but in vain.

All hail Ylltharien, most noble and wise of men,

The founder of Orsephane, the bane of Igracen.

For one thousand years the world had lain

Under the curse of great Igracen.

The First of the Dragons was Igracen,

Hated by elves and men.

Yet none could slay him, save the hand

Of the noble Ylltharien.

He was born in the forests of Eladren,

Far from the terror of Igracen,

His father was a mortal man,

His mother an Aerian.

At the ridiculous thought of the Aeria, Isthyren snorted contemptuously and banished the song from his thoughts. The ancient stories claimed that the Aeria lived beyond the sky, and had once walked the earth along with men, elves, and dragons. Some stories claimed that the Aeria were capable of flying, and had wings instead of arms, while others told of their psychic powers or gaze of stone. Isthyren was certain that neither the Aeria, nor Igracen, nor Ylltharien had ever existed. An ancient prophecy held that the dragons, led by Igracen, would return to Orsephane from beyond the Mountains of Elsedere and that Ylltharien’s heir would vanquish them again. The dragons had certainly returned, but Ylltharien’s heir was predictably absent. Only a fool believed in the stories and prophecies now.

Isthyren smiled cynically, walked into the wretched hut he had lived in for most of his life, and lay down upon the animal furs which served as his bed. As he fell asleep, the words of the Song of Ylltharien drifted faintly through Isthyren’s head, mingling with his own stormy, skeptical thoughts.

Isthyren dreamed that night as he had not dreamed since the days shortly after his parents died, when their words and tales were still fresh and alive in his mind. He was in the wastelands beyond the mountains, where the dragons had once dwelt before returning to Orsephane. He was wandering through the dark tunnels of a volcanic mountain, every step carrying him irresistibly deeper into the mountain until he stood in what he knew to be an immense cavern despite the impenetrable darkness that surrounded him. Isthyren instinctively felt that some vast and powerful being slumbered within the cavern. The being stirred in its sleep, and the whole mountain shook beneath its weight. Then, Isthyren stood atop the mountain, looking out beyond the seemingly endless expanse of wastelands below him toward the distant Mountains of Elsedere. A countless horde of dragons of all colors and appearances blotted out the sky above him, streaming towards the mountains, yet they were held back by a distant point of light that grew increasingly brighter until Isthyren could see nothing more.

He awoke in a cold sweat, grasping frantically for the dagger that lay by his bedside. Then he realized where he was and gave himself an angry mental reprimand for being scared by a mere dream, a dream that stank of the ancient stories. Isthyren left his bed of furs and stormed out of his hut. The sun shone brightly, illuminating the canopy of emerald green leaves above him, but this did nothing to improve Isthyren’s already sour mood. He swiftly climbed a tree to ensure that the dragons were asleep (they were, as evidenced by the seven columns of dark grey smoke rising lazily from several caves along the cliff walls) and then set about lighting a fire. He had shot a deer with his bow the day before and hoped to roast it before the dragons awoke.

Half an hour later, the deer hung over the cheerfully crackling fire on a spit, gradually roasting while Isthyren ate his warm breakfast. This pleasant turn of events had put him in a much better mood. In the bushes, across from where he sat, Isthyren heard a far-off rustling noise, moving in his direction.

“Surely nothing but some animal, coming at the smell of my deer,” he thought, but he nonetheless went into the hut to fetch his bow, putting an arrow to the string before sitting back down by the fire.

The rustling grew ever closer and louder, until out of the bushes emerged a woman, riding a white horse and leading another smaller chestnut horse behind her. Isthyren couldn’t imagine how she had managed to get the horses through the thick, tangled forest, but that wasn’t his chief concern at the moment.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Isthyren said sharply, rising while holding his bow threateningly in his left hand.

“Silence, half-elf,” the woman replied harshly, looking contemptuously at Isthyren. The look in her eyes told Isthyren that she was about to start on some long, grand soliloquy for his benefit. He rolled his eyes at the thought, but remained silent, determined to get this episode over with as quickly as possible.

The woman sat straight and tall upon her horse, confidence evident in her blue eyes. Her hair was auburn and hung down slightly past her shoulders. She was young, probably no older than twenty-five. A broadsword was sheathed at her side, and she carried a long spear. A shield was strapped across her back, hidden by her cape, but she wore no armor. She was clad in a simple shirt and pants, but these garments were not as roughly handmade as Isthyren’s clothing; instead, they looked as though they had been made by a professional seamstress in the city.

“I am Althria, a Novice in the Guild of Dragon Slayers,” the woman began, pride apparent in her voice.

Isthyren rolled his eyes again. The Guild of Dragon Slayers was another alleged invention of Ylltharien, founded to drive the dragons from the kingdom of Orsephane and keep them beyond the Mountains of Elsedere. Once, the Guild had nobly fulfilled this task, but their strength had waned over the last few decades, and now dragons had once again begun to invade Orsephane. These days, the Guild was largely composed of aging, power-hungry men and women, who spent more time fighting for wealth and status than slaying dragons.

Althria did not seem to notice Isthyren’s contempt for the Guild of Dragon Slayers. She continued grandly, “Before a Novice can attain the rank of Warrior within the Guild, she must slay a dragon by her own hand. I have come to this valley to kill a dragon in combat and carry its head back to the Citadel so that I might take my place among the noble Warriors of the Guild of Dragon Slayers.”

At this point, Isthyren could not help but interrupt. Althria obviously had much more to say, but Isthyren was not about to sit by his campfire all morning, listening to some puffed-up Novice extol the virtues of the Guild of Dragon Slayers.

“That’s all very well” Isthyren said in a condescendingly sarcastic voice “but what does this have to do with me? I’m just a simple half-elf, living out my days in the forest, and I have no interest in slaying dragons like you great warriors.”

Althria glared daggers at him, furious at having her speech interrupted. “Look, half-elf,” she began coldly.

“You can call me Isthyren,” he interjected.

She ignored him. “Dragon slaying is no simple business. Before one goes about killing a dragon, it is important to know the creature’s habits and disposition. I have heard of you from some of the villagers who escaped the dragons’ destruction. I assumed you would have observed the dragons and could tell me more about them.”

This caught Isthyren by surprise. The last thing he had expected this prideful dragon slayer to do was ask for his help.

“Fine,” he growled shortly, “The smallest dragon in the valley lives to the south in a cave. He has a horrible disposition and will be waking up in about an hour. Good luck.” Isthyren turned back to his campfire, swearing quietly as he realized his deer had burnt while he was talking. He rotated the carcass so that the other side would cook and looked up to see Althria still sitting atop her horse, now with a lopsided grin upon her face.

“It’s not that easy, Isthyren. I need to actually see where the dragon lives, and I want a full description of its size, abilities, weaponry, and tendencies. Besides, I was planning on slaying the biggest dragon, not the smallest one,” she said.

Isthyren rolled his eyes. Typical arrogant humans. Instead of doing things the easy way they had to take unnecessary risks just to show off. He sighed, took the deer carcass off the spit, put it in his largest sack, and hung it in a tree about thirty feet from his hut.

“The biggest dragon lives about three miles from here, along the northern cliff,” Isthyren said, “If we walk quickly, we can make it there before he awakens. You may as well leave your horses here. I’ll tell you about the dragon as we walk.”

Althria nodded and dismounted from her horse fluidly. She touched both horses’ noses, then followed Isthyren into the forest. He described the dragon to her as they walked. It was a hideous eggplant-purple, about 35 feet long, 8 feet high at the shoulder with long sharp claws, and a hard, spiny ball at the end of its tail. The dragon could fly and breathe fire—it was a formidable beast. Isthyren expected that Althria would change her mind and decide to slay the smaller dragon after hearing his description. Yet with Isthyren’s every word, Althria’s smile increased. She was not only undaunted by the task that lay before her, but happy that she would be slaying such a mighty dragon.

“We’re here,” Isthyren whispered as they arrived at the edge of the forest, which stood some fifty feet from the mouth of the dragon’s cave. A column of smoke crept out of the cave, emitted by the sleeping dragon, and a soft rumbling sound could be heard. The rocky ground between the forest and the cave sloped up at about a thirty-degree angle and was randomly littered with stones. Isthyren couldn’t imagine more unfavorable terrain for a battle with a massive dragon, but once again, Althria was not alarmed.

“Let’s wait here for the dragon to emerge from the cave,” she whispered, her voice joyful at the thought of soon doing what she had always dreamed of. “I’ll spend today observing him, then tomorrow morning I will fight him.”

Isthyren sighed. Of course she couldn’t slay the dragon immediately but had to spend the entire day following it around, probably dragging him along with her. He wouldn’t get anything useful done, and would be stuck with an arrogant, optimistic human.

Just then, the rumbling from the mouth of the cave grew louder, and the dragon emerged. Isthyren heard Althria gasp as she looked upon the majestic yet horrifying creature. The dragon was just as large as Isthyren had described, and much more imposing. It was covered everywhere with smooth purple scales that reflected the early morning sun. A row of short spikes ran down the dragon’s back, and a ball covered in similar spikes punctuated its tail. These too were purple, but they were also evidently made of a harder, sharper material. The dragon’s wings were folded closely along its sides, but when it stretched them out, they were of a thin, semi-translucent, purple membrane. Its head was large, with two horns about two feet long each jutting out from the top. The eyes were longer and narrower than the eyes of a man or elf and colored an exotic bright green. Isthyren began to wonder how Althria planned to carry this massive, clumsy head back to the Citadel, but it was evident in her face that her mind was occupied with different thoughts entirely.

“It’s incredible!” she breathed, obviously in awe, and it suddenly occurred to Isthyren that this woman, trained her entire life to be a professional dragon slayer, had never seen a dragon.

Just as Isthyren expected, he spent the rest of the day leading Althria around the forest, showing her the best observation posts, and watching her clumsily climb to the top of the trees to watch the dragons in flight. The dragon finally returned to its cave close to midnight, and an exhausted Isthyren led Althria back to the hut. He started a campfire to quickly cook the one rabbit he had managed to shoot for a meager supper. Althria had fortunately brought her own food, and so did not expect Isthyren to share his dinner. As they sat on opposite sides of the campfire, quietly chewing their respective meals, Isthyren asked a question that had occurred to him earlier.

“You dragon slayers, you train at the Citadel, right?” he asked. Althria nodded in affirmation.

“Then why are you all the way out here? Garamin is more than a two weeks’ journey from the Citadel. Don’t they have dragons closer to you to slay?”

“Yes,” Althria began reluctantly, “There are dragons a Novice might reasonably be expected to kill within a three-day ride of the Citadel. However,” she hesitated, “The leader of the Dragon Slayer’s Guild, the High Warrior, chooses where a Novice will slay her first dragon, and he decided to send those ready for this quest to distant places.”

Isthyren couldn’t help but laugh. “So he wanted you out of the way so that he and the other elders could get back to their power struggles.”

“That’s not true,” Althria cried, standing up abruptly, but Isthyren could see in her sad, angry eyes that she knew this to be the case. “The dragon slayers are noble people. It is our task to protect this kingdom from the curse of these violent dragons.”

Isthyren smiled sadly. Every child had heard these lines in the ancient stories; these days they were a bit exaggerated at best. “Perhaps that was once true,” Isthyren replied, more gently now, “but you know just as well as I that the Guild is no longer a heroic establishment. It hasn’t been for over one hundred years.”

Althria sighed and sat back down slowly. To Isthyren’s surprise, a film of tears shone in her eyes.

“Yes, I know this to be true,” she said, “yet I refuse to believe that it is the last word in the legacy of Ylltharien. Everything he built seems to be coming to naught these days, and I want to fight back against the rot taking this kingdom.”

She spoke with a fervor Isthyren had never heard before. When he eavesdropped on the villagers to discover the kingdom’s latest news, they had always spoken of Ylltharien and the Guild in a lazy, unconcerned way, taking the ancient stories for granted as Isthyren always had until he knew better than to believe them at all. Few people still felt as strongly about them as Althria evidently did. Although she could not deny the evil and selfishness that were destroying the Kingdom of Orsephane, she hated this evil more strongly than anyone Isthyren had ever met before, and actually wanted to do something about it.

“These are hard times,” Althria continued, “and people need something to believe in. Some of the Guild members are still trying to fight the dragons and hold the kingdom together. I cannot give up on everything now, accepting all that was once good to be irretrievably lost. Too many have already done so; if that is true, what does one have left to live for? No! All is not yet lost as you seem to believe. You will see that this is so tomorrow when that dragon falls.”

Isthyren smiled sadly at her. He could not help but admire her indomitable spirit, but his hopes had been crushed years ago, and it would take far more than the heroic talk of an optimistic girl to raise them again. “I think it’s about time for me to turn in,” he said, standing, “Put out the fire before you go to bed.”

“Good night,” Althria said distractedly, staring at the dancing flames, the lone bright spot in the dark, cloudy night. Isthyren did not fall asleep at once, and out of the hut’s slightly open door, he saw that Althria sat by the fire for a long time before tiredly and (Isthyren thought) sadly sighing, getting some blankets from her pack, and putting out the fire.

Isthyren dreamed again that night, much as he had the night before. This time, he was standing atop the Mountains of Elsedere, next to Althria, as the horde of dragons from the wastelands flew at them, intent on crossing the mountains into the kingdom of Orsephane. As the wave of dragons broke upon them, a sword was suddenly in Isthyren’s hand. He chopped and hacked at every dragon he could reach. The dragons screeched and clawed, yet try as they might, they could not get past. They seemed to be held back by some invisible force. Isthyren looked over and saw Althria, wielding a sword with a translucent blade, the Sword of Ylltharien, lost thousands of years ago. The Song of Ylltharien claimed that his heir would one day wield the sword again.

Isthyren awoke with a start, to the sounds of Althria rustling around in her bag, probably getting breakfast. What did the dream mean? Was Althria the heir of Ylltharien, the one who would drive the dragons from the kingdom again? Certainly she could not be, for Isthyren knew the ancient stories to be false. And yet the dream… Isthyren resolved to sneak a look at Althria’s sword later when she wasn’t looking.

He rose and walked out of his hut. Althria was sitting cross-legged on the ground, munching on her breakfast, and not looking even the slightest bit nervous at the prospect of slaying a dragon.

“Good morning,” she said cheerfully, “Today is a fateful day, the day on which I shall rise to the rank of Warrior in the Guild.”

“Mmhmm,” Isthyren said noncommittally, “How do you plan to slay that dragon, anyway?”

“It isn’t too complicated,” Althria replied, “The easiest way to slay a dragon is to dart quickly beneath it and stab a sword or spear upward into its heart. The scales make this difficult, but a powerful thrust can generally break through.”

“What if it just flies away?” Isthyren asked.

“Dragons do not fly away in the middle of a fight, especially not if they’re angered by several minor wounds coming from a creature that they regard as prey.”

Isthyren nodded silently as he started a fire to cook his breakfast upon. Althria had finished her meal, and Isthyren watched with interest as she inspected her weaponry. She sharpened the blade of her spear with a whetstone several times before she was satisfied, then she began to pull her sword from its sheath.

Isthyren’s heart leaped as she did this only to plunge once more as it became evident that the sword was forged of mere iron. He had been a fool to expect that Althria was Ylltharien’s heir who wielded his mythical sword. Isthyren knew Ylltharien never existed, yet he had allowed his hopes to rise because of a stupid dream. He would not make that mistake again.

After Althria had satisfied herself that the sword was sharp, she reached behind her back and brought forth her shield. It was about three feet tall, two feet wide, and looked heavy; but Althria was evidently used to carrying it.

“This is a fireproof shield,” she explained, “Dragon slayers don’t wear armor because its weight would slow one down, while providing little real protection against a dragon. But one can crouch behind this shield while a dragon is breathing fire and avoid being burned.”

Isthyren nodded again as Althria returned the shield to her back. She was ready now and mounted her horse.

“Thank you for your help, Isthyren,” she said, “I wish you good fortune in your future.”

“Same to you, and good luck with the dragon,” Isthyren said as he began roasting the deer carcass that he had partially burnt yesterday.

Althria inclined her head slightly, and rode off into the forest without looking back, leading the second horse behind her. Isthyren tried to focus on his cooking, but his mind was elsewhere. Althria had not treated him with contempt as others had. She had not exactly been friendly, but she had not scorned his help nor regarded him as inferior. Isthyren could not help admiring her optimism, spirit, and faith in the ancient stories in the face of hard times.

He sighed, trying to make himself pay attention to the cooking of the deer carcass. He simply could not do it. Half an hour after Althria left, he took up his bow, threw his quiver of arrows across his back, and set off into the forest after her.

Isthyren moved swiftly through the trees, arriving at the cavern only shortly after Althria. She had left her horses about twenty feet back in the woods, probably so they wouldn’t be eaten by the angry dragon. Isthyren did not want Althria to see that he had come to watch her, so he climbed a tree near the edge of the forest to observe the battle from this vantage point.

Althria stood about thirty feet back from the cave, her spear in her right hand and her shield in her left. She waited motionlessly and, Isthyren thought, confidently for the dragon to venture forth from its cave.

Finally, the dragon sauntered out, looking smug. It did not immediately notice Althria, even though she was standing in plain sight. When the dragon did finally see her, its green eyes widened noticeably, and a threatening hiss escaped from its slightly open mouth. Then, quick as lightning, the dragon pounced for Althria, propelling itself forward with its back legs, and stretching out its front limbs to grab her. Althria dodged to the right, missing the dragon’s claw by just a few inches, rapidly stabbing its side with her spear.

It was not a serious wound, but the dragon emitted a deafening roar of pain that echoed from the cliffs. Althria stabbed it again, and the dragon whirled to face her, spitting fire as it went. But Althria was too fast. She darted between the dragon’s massive legs, giving it another quick jab in the belly. The dragon briefly took to the air this time, flapping its wings to boost itself upward. It landed facing Althria, pouring fire from its wide-open mouth. Althria thrust her shield forward, scrunching her head and torso together so that they would be protected as she calmly retreated. As soon as she was beyond the range of the flames, she hurled her spear at the dragon’s open mouth with all her might. The spear hit its intended target, piercing the soft, tender flesh inside of the dragon’s mouth. The dragon let out a painful, high-pitched, rasping screech, almost deafening Isthyren.

Althria did not even pause to see the effect of her skillful throw. As soon as the spear left her hand, she drew her sword and charged the dragon, which was frantically clawing at its mouth, trying to remove the spear. Althria obviously intended to dash under the oblivious beast and administer the fatal upward stab, but before she could get there, the dragon noticed her. Its massive leg came swinging down and caught Althria on the shield. Isthyren watched in horror as she went flying backwards and landed with an ugly smacking sound on the rock. Her shield arm was obviously broken, and Isthyren expected that she had shattered several ribs upon her fall.

The dragon bugled in triumph as it menacingly advanced toward the injured Althria. She struggled up, limping. One side of her shirt was dark and sticky with blood. The dragon stalked closer, hissing nastily. It could easily have finished Althria off with a blast of flame, but it preferred to play with its desperate prey.

Isthyren felt despair filling his heart. Althria had failed in her quest and would now die. Before he could think, Isthyren had an arrow on the string of his bow. In an instant, the arrow was perfectly aimed at its target, flying through the air towards the dragon.

The arrow struck the dragon’s eye with a sickening squelch, and it emitted another squeal of pain, whirling to face Isthyren. The dragon roared in even greater anger and reared up on its hind legs before landing again on all fours, shaking the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, Isthyren saw Althria charging unsteadily toward the raging beast, her iron sword gleaming in the sun. But the dragon was oblivious to everything except its new enemy. A massive foreleg swiped at the trunk of the tree Isthyren was in, shaking it and nearly causing Isthyren to fall. The dragon swiped again, and Isthyren heard an ugly crack in the tree trunk.

Then Althria was under the dragon, and with a strong upward thrust she buried her sword in the dragon’s chest up to the hilt. When she pulled it out, it was covered in dark, acidic dragon blood.

The dragon’s entire body trembled. Its final roar made all its former bellows seem whispers in comparison. But Isthyren’s eyes were not upon the dying dragon, wobbling unsteadily upon its massive legs, nor were they upon the flames that it poured unceasingly into the sky. He was not even looking at Althria, who had collapsed, unconscious, after her titanic exertion. Instead, Isthyren stared in wonder at the sword in her hand. The acidic dragon blood had stripped off the thin coating of iron upon it, revealing the translucent blade of the Sword of Ylltharien, shining in the sunlight like glass.