The Night Bellows

1

The Great Irony

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. The Rectres told me that, long ago, the valley was sprawling with bright foliage and golden fruits that hung in abundance upon their many branches. That furred creatures replete with kilos of fresh flesh roamed and fought and played and mated. Before my time, that was normal, that wondrous Age of Plenty. An ignorant dream, I always thought, made by men too afraid to face the truth. Fairy tales and folklore, all. Even if the tales were true, the bedtime stories of a land without dragons proven to me, it would not change the world as it is. I am a Delver, nothing more. And I will never be but that.

Atop the crag we call Mound, I surveyed the blighted lands below; grazing scaled beasts skittered and snapped at the few small furred creatures that still remained. Wyverns, guardians of the flesh. Hunters used to try and steal morsels from these lesser dragons, but it proved too dangerous – and too little a reward for the almost certain loss of life on our part. For all the years that we’ve lived in this fetid landscape, no one has found a viable technique to kill a wyvern. Without grave injury, at least. And the more we fight, the more we sneak and hide among the barren rocks that once were surrounded by trees and grass, the hungrier we become. The Great Irony has become the most efficient and, truly, the only way to feed us. It sits at the very center of the valley, a monument to the arrival of the dragons and their subsequent decimation of our ecosystem. A gaping maw, stretching hundreds of kilometers along the valley floor, though only a few hundred meters wide at its widest. From within, the wyverns crawl, more and more by the day, but they never expand their territory; they always return to their mother.

The Great Irony is the first story the Rectres tell you as a child. If I cared to remember the whole thing, I would have no room in my head for new thoughts – one of those ongoing stories that never ends and just keeps getting worse. The gist was: “When our fathers and mothers took this land from the ancients, a foul curse was set upon us: the coming of the Great Irony from the sky. Two score nights prior to our home’s acquisition, a blinding red light appeared next to the stars and for a week it grew ever brighter and larger until it was close enough for its true form to be seen. An enormous beast from beyond, horned with teeth as long as twelve men. Eyes wider than our largest lakes. The Great Irony hurdled toward the valley, now only just beyond the clouds, making sounds of thunder that are still heard today, bellowing from its putrid maw. The Night Bellows, they called them, and so we do as well. Our ancestors saw, as it approached the valley, that the beast was injured; a massive wound down its belly and to the tip of its tail. If not for the wound, it surely would have had the mind to attack our home, and so a small blessing came of that day. But it was short-lived, as when the beast crashed into its new home, the earth shattered beneath it, our ancestors’ homes demolished, their lives taken by the acrid dust and the falling rocks and trees. Only a handful of us remained, bleeding and bruised, and so the age of plenty had ended. The blood of the Great Irony spread into the earth, killing the plants, the wildlife. Poisoning our waters. The ground grew sterile so that all we had left was the flesh of the beast that fell. Thus, we are doomed to eat its foul meat if only to survive to the next day. The Night Bellows should always remind us of the cursed ancients and their hex upon our people. And of the Great Irony of our continued existence.”

Self-loathing canters of the old, the destitute. If we were cursed it’s because we’ve cursed ourselves by choosing to stay in this place.

I began my descent into the valley, clambering down the sheer rock face of the Mound. From my surveillance I saw but four wyverns patrolling so I let my pace slow – it was bound to be another easy day on the Delve and it’s best to conserve as much energy as possible for an emergency escape. During the day, the wyverns are few, they hunt in packs of two or three and are generally more concerned with the scuttling creatures that hide in the gravel than with us, but caution is out greatest ally.

I reached the valley’s floor after a half an hour, grabbing a few loose rocks from the ground for distractions down the line. The guardians of the flesh may be powerful and naturally armored, but they are a mite dumber than an average child, attracted to sounds and smells with no need for a second or third guess as to their origins. From what I’ve been able to garner, they can see but their vision is a last-ditch effort, as they live mostly within the maw where light dissolves quickly. I moved fluidly down the thin trail that I’ve created over the years, marking the least trod path of the wyverns. It’s best to keep low and behind boulders and outcroppings when approaching the Great Irony; one’s feet must fall soft and slow, careful not to touch gravel or old shed-off scales that litter the ground. They wouldn’t second or third guess me, either. It’s terrible on the thighs, keeping that lowly stance for the three-quarter mile trek to the point of descent, but worth the effort. I kept my eyes on the closest wyverns, some fifty meters to the West, sniffing at the ground like dogs, whipping their heads back and forth across the gravel with little grunts. It always surprised me how quiet the valley was – wind barely made its way this far down and the near-absence of life other than the wyverns made it so I could hear every muscle they moved, every rock they upturned. Every squishy bite they took of some unfortunate animal. It was almost peaceful at times. But, peace is a deadly distraction down here. One must remain focused and alert until they reach the peak of Mound once again. Or end up like the dozens of rent bones that are scattered about the valley. Stripped carcasses of old friends that got caught in their peace.

I wound my way down the thin trail, reaching the half-way point, denoted by a small rock tower held together with string. A small embankment hung over the trail, covering whoever reached it from the West almost entirely. The first and only rest-stop on the way to hell. I crouched beneath the overhang and pulled a strip of dragonskin from my rucksack, popping it into my mouth and sucking nutrients from the scale. Freshly shed scales work best, they keep your mouth salivating as you get closer to the maw where the humidity rises exponentially. It is a living thing, after all, full of sickly innard regulatory functions. The worst part of these endeavors is having to remove your mask to pop one in; the stench of the Great Irony’s open wound can make the strongest willed of us retch and vomit, so we’ve learned to make it a quick and breathless motion. It tasted of dried mushrooms, the last plant to die out. I was lucky enough to have been able to eat a mushroom before they all disappeared via the blight. Dragonskin always reminds me of childhood because of that. Not that it’s much to look back on, but it calmed the nerves.

I sat and chewed, sucked until my mouth was full of saliva and motioned to move when a small crunching sound caught my attention, to the East. My head shot up in terror as I noticed a wyvern that had eschewed my view from the Mound. A gray-scaled beast about seven yards long and two me’s high, scrounging by a mossy rock only twenty yards away. I froze. Fear crept into my body, a rising heat filled my chest and my heart pounded within. I must’ve been distracted or too quick to judge the field. I’ve never been snuck up on before, never. My hands began to shake as I pressed myself harder against the overhang, trying to remain small, but I couldn’t hold my breath back. I was heaving and didn’t have the right mind to stop. The massive wyvern lifted its head from the rock, listening intently to the air around it. It’s heard me, I thought, I’m dead. I’m so dead. My hand slipped from the overhang’s face, a slight scraping sound being made in the process, and the wyvern cocked its head toward me. Its four eyes, dyads on either side of its head, peered directly into mine. Their eyesight was bad but not so bad that the brown coloring of my Delving gear wouldn’t pique its curiosity. It slowly stepped toward me, a prowling predator ready to pounce at any moment, snarling and hissing in its approach. I tried to remember my training, the little I’ve had, at least. Kolak had given me several tips over the years but Delving is not an art form, it’s perfected through experience, and even then it will most likely get you killed anyway. Like Kolak, who didn’t return from his last Delve. Probably he’s one of the carcasses being picked at around the maw. I’m finally caught. Dead as anything in the valley.

The wyvern was now only a yard or two away. I could feel the hot air coming from its massive nostrils puffing at me. I’ve never seen one so close before, it was almost beautiful, its scales shining in the sunlight, yellow eyes glowing from within, teeth bared and sharp to an invisibly fine point. Sweat trickled down my face and back. It can probably smell me even better than it already did. Its face was now inches from mine, the hot breath stinging my eyes as it studied me. I accepted my fate a long time ago, knew this would happen eventually and the Rectres would replace me with some unfortunate soul. I just never thought it would be so frightening. Death is easy to accept when you’re not staring into its face. The wyvern reared its head back slightly, getting ready to take a lightning quick bite out of me, when I remembered something important. I quickly reached into my pocket and grabbed a handful of teardust. I pulled my spasming hand out and threw the stuff into the wyvern’s now open mouth and snout. It inhaled as it would before biting and the stuff flew into its lungs, causing a reaction I had only ever seen once in action when Kolak had been approached by a nasty wyvern: the beast fell back onto its hind legs, shaking its head feverishly, hissing in pain and annoyance as its senses went into overload. I hesitated for a moment, shock settling in and then subsiding, and made for the Great Irony as quick as I could muster my body to move. My legs felt uneasy, weak after nearly being torn to shreds. I could hear the wyvern writhing and scratching its snout against the hard rocky ground but I didn’t turn to watch it, though it would’ve been nice to see at least one of them get some comeuppance.

I sprinted toward the maw, nearly two-thirds of the way there, when I heard more shuffling from the West. In my panic, I’d forgotten about the other two wyverns searching for food. I think they’ve just found some. I took a chance glance over my left shoulder and, sure enough, the two were cautiously moving toward me, trying to determine what exactly I am. I didn’t wait for them to realize I was prey. A wyvern in attack-mode could outrun a human easily. Sometimes, a zig-zag pattern could confuse them for a second or two, but in a valley this size, it would only prolong my death. I diverted from the winding trail and opted to go straight for the first edge of the maw that I could see. Gravel sprayed up behind me as I trampled haphazardly through it, the small critters within dispersing as I destroyed their tiny hiding places. My rucksack jangled against my back, the climbing and harvesting tools within banging against each other, ensuring that I would not be able to hide again until I threw myself down the pit, hopefully landing on some bit of hanging flesh.

The quick, lizardly stamping of the wyverns grew steadily faster and more erratic. They must be exceptionally hungry today or, even worse, having fun. My eyes felt as if I hadn’t blinked since I was atop the Mound and a fire grew in my legs. I could see the slightly raised lip of the maw’s edge, fifty, maybe sixty yards ahead, the heat from the dead dragon’s open wound hitting me hard in the face and the humidity making me sweat through my Delving gear. The footfalls of the wyverns sounded like they were right on my tail, the last few of which I could feel shifting the gravel just behind my own feet. I pushed myself harder, tried to run faster than I knew I could, adrenaline pushing me beyond my breaking point, but the snarling beasts still gained ground, their ecstatic breaths tingling the hairs on the back of my neck. One slip-up, one rock snagging my foot, and I’d be ripped open in seconds, looking at my own insides before one of them had the kindness to tear my throat out. Perks of the job, I guess.

I was within ten yards of the maw now, salvation within my reach – I hadn’t thought until this point that, even if I jumped into the hole, the wyverns would just crawl in behind me and continue the chase, but I’d come too far to just let them have me. I had to die a death worth dying. I felt a sharp pressure on the back of my right shoulder and a flow of heat running through it; I had been slashed by one of their razor-sharp claws and I felt the blood pooling inside of my Delving jacket. I chose this time to drop to the ground and slide, legs-first over the edge of the pit. A thick, fetid surge of stink hit me as I fell over. I blinked the tears out of my eyes. I was free. I was free and I was… hanging? I hadn’t attempted to grab anything on my way in. I looked up. The adrenaline must’ve halted my ability to feel pain because without it I’d be screaming in agony. One of the wyverns had caught up to me just in time and had my entire left forearm clamped in its jaws. It chewed ferociously, swinging me from side to side like a toy. The eyes I saw as beautiful before now full of pure hunger and hate. I pulled and pulled, putting my full weight into it, yanking at what was ostensibly dead flesh; by the look of my arm, the full set of teeth had gone completely through, bone and all, and the arm was bent awkwardly in places where it definitely should not. Bone shot through my skin, blood pouring over me as I hung helplessly in the tightening grip of the wyvern’s jaw. I briefly wondered if it would be considered cannibalism if I swallowed my own blood.

I could feel myself falling out of consciousness, blackness creeping in around my peripheries. The snorting and snarling of the beast growing faint and less frightening. Then, the second wyvern appeared next to the one holding me and began swiping at its friend’s face. The two were fighting for their meal while I watched in drunken horror from below. I don’t know how long I was out – existence seemed to pass away and return – but I know that I suddenly felt every inch of pain hit me in an instant. It was unfathomable, as if my entire left side was being stabbed incessantly. My arm had been torn in half, long-ways, by the second wyvern looking for his share, the bones visible and shattered, embedded into the few bits of muscle that remained. I was hanging only by skin and a few intact tendons. Small circles of light assaulted my vision, nothing seemed to be real, and my screams didn’t echo in my head. In fact, all sound was gone, my focus only on the scene above in which I had no say. I wanted to die, the pain was just too much. I had always expected myself to be sad about my imminent death, when it finally came, but I was just angry. I didn’t want the wyverns to have the satisfaction. I’d wanted to go out on my own terms, by my own hand. So, I reached with my good arm and grabbed the flesh-carving knife from my belt. The shaking from the fighting dragons made it more difficult than it had to be but, after a few misplaced swipes, I had severed my own arm. I felt as if I had fallen into water, the flow of wet air behind me seemed to wrap around my body in a soft embrace as the vision of the monsters eating my arm quickly faded to a pinprick. When I hit whatever I ended up hitting, and before I truly left my pain-fueled delirium, I smiled and thought: what a Great Irony.

“He’s not swallowing, father. His body won’t accept the help.” Voices in the darkness, devoid of physicality. “Shall we leave him with the others?” Warmth upon my skin, numbness about my limbs. There is no greater peace than death.

“For now, Malak. He will follow. He must.” The pillow of dreams lie upon me, soft cushions of thought upon the soft tissues of my brain. Peace. And then a whisper. “You must find your own path, new blood. Walk only where you feel it most, and you shall find the way.” Footsteps on rainy grounds. Fading away into that dark abyss. Consciousness waning. Words failing. I go to the sky below, where Delvers go to sleep. Forever more.

I awoke with a start as a sharp shock of pain shot through my body’s left side. I began to scream but covered my mouth with my hand, realizing I was waking up in the literal belly of the beast. I bit down on my thumb, waiting for the pain to subside. It only dulled a bit as I got used to its throbbing. The pitch black of the sleeping dragon’s belly was palpable, like a black sheet had been placed over my head and glued in place. I loosened my bite but kept the thumb in my teeth and laughed softly into the void. I am alive, I thought. For better or worse, I’m still here. I sat for a moment, bathing in the oppressive heat of the Great Irony. I released my hand from my mouth, once I had finished chuckling madly, and felt around for my rucksack. I felt it to my right. My good side. Thank fate for that one. Inside I rummaged around for a torch, put it between my knees, and then rummaged for my tinderbox. I lighted the rag – previously soaked in flammable liquids, back home – wrapped taut about the torch’s end and dim light filled my vision. I was deep. Farther than I thought one could fall. And farther than any Delver had ever been. Uncharted territory. Beneath me was solid muscle, undulating softly as I moved to stand up. Prime pickings. This could feed the village for a week alone.

I moved to grab my flesh-carving knife with my other hand and remembered that I didn’t have one. I looked at it, expecting a grotesque scene. But, what was left of my arm had been bandaged tightly with old cloth. Had I done this? Did I wake and bandage myself before falling asleep? I checked again in my rucksack and found that my own bandages were untouched. Pristine, almost, aside from being soaked in blood like everything else in the sack. I must be going mad. This heat and the stench of this place has done worse to others. Visions of unseen things, panic en masse, voices in the darkness. I am not alone in my madness. Not to mention delirious and, probably, still bleeding out. I must escape soon or this will be my grave. I picked up my rucksack, slung it over my shoulder, and felt it hit the gash on my back. Another stifled scream later and I was on my way, searching for the sight of the maw above so I might climb my way out. Fear no longer gripped my mind; in the bowels of the dragon I was comfortable, content, even. It was a return to normality for me.

I couldn’t find my carving knife, so I had no choice but to return home empty-handed. A shame that I couldn’t reclaim my arm. Even that would suffice in lieu of dragon’s meat. It would’ve fed few but it would feed some. Meat is meat, even if it’s our own. The Rectres, despite my loss of limb, will only scold me for not returning with food. They’d rather I die here than fail. A Delver’s life is never rewarded.

I must have hit something in the fall and landed beneath an organ, as I couldn’t see the sky. I endeavored to creep forward, down the writhing tubes of the great dragon’s innards. A Delver need always be cautious, especially when they don’t know where they are and injured. The wyverns sleep here, mostly, but a single unknown noise could rouse them. And there were many more down here than in the valley. Other things, too. The types of things that couldn’t survive in the sun, that leech off of the Great Irony’s sleeping form. I’ve heard stories of new beasts arisen from the flesh; bile-spewing monstrosities, sinew beetles that could bite your ankle clean off. And, of course, the Abominations. Old beasts that fell into the maw, transfused into indescribable things by some force deep within the Great Irony. It seems sadistic but, from the few I’ve seen in my deeper Delves, they tend to have purpose; some delivering products of one organ to another, some acting as gateways, covering caves that we Delvers have made in the past. Some, I’ve seen, even patch the small wounds we make in the beast after we remove the flesh. They are the worker bees of the Great Irony. Some of the Rectres believe that foul magicks live within the beast, powerful sorceries and incantations, that give the dragon its tainted blood. I don’t know what I believe, but I’ve seen no magick in this thing, only mockeries of life. Mockeries of nature.

Before me was a cave, of sorts, a hollow between muscle groups, held together by tendons and wide enough for me to just about make my way through. Everything was wet in the Great Irony. Everything. Including me. The slight movements of the walls around me always made me uneasy but they never changed. They were constant, like any healthy body should be.

When I reached the other side, the consistent sounds of writhing flesh squishing through my ears, I heard the sloshing of a gum bladder. The Great Irony was a home of wonders and terror alike. Everything the village uses, down to the fabric used to make my Delving gear, the raw components can be found here. The gum bladder, for instance, produces a thick ooze that can be used as an adhesive. Just puncture it, fill a waterskin with its stuff, and a great many things can be crafted. I had no want or need to harvest the gum, so I passed beneath it, looking up toward the maw as often as I could.

I walked for what felt like kilometers, squeezing through channels, climbing awkwardly through bundles of nerves and veins. I eventually came to a great chamber. An impossibly wide hollow with no horizon and no ceiling. From my Delves, I’ve learned that, if you can’t see the sky, you’re either dead or considered as much. I peered over the edge into the abyss and saw only the outline of some massive organ, moving in tentacle-like fluidity about itself. Beating, occasionally, like a heart. We’ve never endeavored to find the dragon’s heart so, maybe, this could be exactly that. My stomach churned. I must’ve been out for longer than I thought, hunger settling in. I may have to eat a chunk of raw flesh, a reviling thought but better than the alternative. I moved to grab a pick from my rucksack, torch between my knees again, when I heard the faint murmur of voices somewhere to my right. I must’ve been more far-gone than I’d thought, the blood loss too much for my mind to handle. There could be no one here. What human could survive in such heat, such despair? But, again, the voices spoke. Wordless sounds but speech nonetheless. Fear crept up again along my spine.

I brought the torch back up and saw a small ledge of bone along the chamber’s wall. It seemed unnatural; shards beaten into the soft flesh in uneven steps leading toward the voices. If I had had any other choice I would’ve left the voices be. They could only belong to the mad. But, alternatives were non-existent, and, so, I gingerly stepped onto the odd bridge. My balance was off, probably due to the absence of one of my arms, but I was steady enough to hug the wet wall and shimmy toward the voices, torch in hand. After a few moments, the voices grew louder and I could see a small cave that had obviously been dug out by hand.

“…Memory. No longer shall we be ourselves and only part of Her…” It sounded poetic in its intonation. A prayer, perhaps. I inched around the corner into the cave and put my torch out against the floor. Dim light shone from ahead with a slightly blue-ish tint. I crouched and stepped on the balls of my feet as I approached. The walls of the cave were held apart with thick bars of bone, to prevent contractions. I ducked under a few and the light shone brighter. A brilliant blue-orange engulfed my vision.

“…You are not the first, not even the hundredth. But, you are not a failure. Not yet. A red star in the sea of white. You are not the first, but you are the first of many…” I couldn’t shake the feeling that the sinister voice was aimed at me. “Do not fear the Grand Mother.” It said, repeating that phrase and nothing else until I reached the small chamber and saw what was talking.

A naked man, taller than any in the village by several heads. His skin was grey like stone and spotted with small scales that seemed forced into his skin. His legs looked to be feeble, amalgamations of a wyvern’s and a man’s. And his eyes. Those burning yellow eyes, four of them. Dyads on either side of his head, surrounded by rough, cracking grey scales. He stared arrogantly at me as I rose from beneath a bone. The blue-orange light emanated from a large, pulsating polyp on the wall behind him, next to which stood another, shorter man also bearing the tough grey skin of a beast.

“What are you?” is all I could muster, coming off more frightened than I would’ve hoped.

“I am the next age, Delver. The advancement. More importantly: what are you?” The question felt like an assault. The man turned slowly and touched the polyp with a withered hand. The ground began to shake violently and the sound of thunder, so close it felt like it was inside of me, rang out around us. It was like a punch to the gut and I doubled over, the pain in my arm growing quickly. I retched and vomited into my mask, then again when I removed it as the stench of the room hit me. I felt weak, warmth covering my stump, the blood pooling out into the old rags. The Night Bellows. I had been in the Great Irony since the morning and well into the night. No wonder I felt so weak.

“I’m”, I began, my throat on fire. “I’m a Delver.” The vile man was unimpressed with my answer. He moved quicker than it seemed he would be able to, grabbed me by the rest of my severed arm, and thrust it into the blue polyp, forcing the stump into its milky blue flesh. Pain like a million stings of a wasp flew through my arm, rising through my shoulder and behind my eyes. The pressure was enormous. Another Night Bellow sounded as I fell back into the void of unconsciousness.

“Do you know why the Grand Mother bellows? So sweetly into the night?” he asked as my vision faded yet again. “It is because she is waking up, Delver.” I could feel his rancid smile grow. “And her Sisters will hear Her call.” Then, everything went black and silent. I sought, once more, for the sky below. But, I don’t think it was ever there.