The Scorched Skies of Isartilaesia

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

No, these are indeed very different times, he thought, as he maintained a discreet presence about him. Glancing swiftly and unnoticeably about him, he gathered his breath from having increased his pace, and made light of the scene about him. The townsfolk would soon be finishing their businesses for the day; already the street merchants looked set to collapse their stalls. Horses and mules were being laden with packs in their preparation to depart, and the taverns and inns were soon to be filled for the night. Only they now provided sanctuary and safety for strangers to the town and region.

A commotion was occurring to the right of him. Two men younger than him were appearing to be having a disagreement over a batch of vegetables. The merchant’s face was wrought with anger and worry as he attempted to fend of a would-be thief. The thief, not much younger than he merchant, appeared desperate yet slightly punch-drunk as he not control his arms enough to snatch away his prize.

“Begone, peasant!” the merchant cried, “these are saved for others to buy, not to be taken by you!” They both struggled over a sack, each trying to best the other’s strength. This was not unnoticed by the passing folk; some hurried on past but a small throng could not be helped but to gather in the vicinity.

The brief excitement of the occurring could not last and the atmosphere among the throng changed very quickly. This would attract attention very quickly. In an earlier time of day, the townsfolk would not be nervous. But the sun would start to set soon and the Guardians were soon to start their patrols. They may have even began already.

The potential thief had his footing disturbed and fell to the dirty ground. Having lost his prize and dignity, his face contorted into one of rage as his looked about from the merchant and the thrall gathered around. Some looked apprehensive but a couple sniggered at him, not loud but not altogether unquiet. This angered the would-be thief. Like a dog, he leapt to his feet and drew a knife from the rags that made up his shirt and jacket. Collectively, the crowd gasped and drew back somewhat.

This did not deter the thief; making unintelligible threats to those around him, he charged at the merchant, who timidly brought a blade up himself; one useful for only chopping up the vegetables he sold to make his living. Yet fate or good fortune was on his side that day; the young thief, merely a yard from his intended target, caught his footing again on the stall edge and fell. The merchant, untrained in the art of the blade yet anticipating the attack, had already brought his own knife close to his person with the blade pointed toward his threat.

The merchant felt the breath of the thief as the air left the latter’s chest. Hot, red liquid poured onto both tunics as the thief collapsed to the ground, blood bubbling at his mouth and the last breaths being no more than pathetic gargles. The thief’s fingers released the knife and his dead hand thudded on the ground.

The crowd hummed again in surprise and disappointment. Slowly, they turned away continued on their apprehensive business. Turn away, turn away, there is nothing to do. It did not do to linger. This may attract the attention of the Guardians, and there would be much retribution. It was all the shaken merchant could do to drag the thief’s corpse down a nearby back alley, and hope the stray dogs or wolves of the night would swiftly the dead meat before his bloodied body would be found by more malevolent entities.

Turn away, turn away, there is nothing to do. Ever so different times indeed, he continued to think as he moved his hand from the handle of a worn rapier, hiding beneath the long, grey, indistinct robes. He remained still unnoticed by the crowds. These garbs draped about him he had grown to be fondly accustomed to. Once he wore vibrant reds and brilliant blues, but that was a time long past. Now, his business was of a clandestine nature and he was required to be hidden in the plain sights of peasants, merchants and all manners of common folk.

Dark cloth covered his nose and mouth. His eyes were shadowed by the circular brim of the leather hat, tilted forward somewhat so that his face may be obscured whenever he engaged with both innocent peasantry and malevolent agents of the Enemy.

This headdress was not his preferred. It did not reflect his true self. Many types of clothing he was content to amend and adapt to. But the headdress, given the choice, he would be wearing something other, something that identified his craft, position, skills and mastery. In easier and happier - nay, better - times his headdress would have been triangular shaped; cut from the finest leathers and embroidered with the most expensive satins and silks. For this man was no mere peasant nor untrustworthy sell sword. Despite the secretive nature of his business he was by no definition a black rat - a spy for hire. He was, by his own definition, a Ship Master.

They were no ordinary vessels this Ship Master would command. Barges that traversed the spindling rivers, vast lakes or endless seas had never held an interest for this Ship Master. It was the open skies this man sailed.

The ancient and wise craft of sky sailing was this Ship Master’s trade. From the age of three years was he learned in the knowledge and arts of

But that was a time long ago. The roaring trades and thrilling adventure that sky sailing offered were no more; the who still dared did never live long enough to return and boast their darings. The Ship Master’s heart still sank when he thought about his former life and what should have remained. His mood had been lessened all the while passing through the settlement he was in. Even less than a quarter of a century had passed since when Skyporton brimmed with trade, opportunity and life. The town hosted many Sky Ships that brought fish, wines, spices and cloth from far away regions and in it’s place traded the meats, milk, cheeses and ales of the farmlands of the Valley. Indeed the town derived its name from Sky-port-town when the settlement evolved from the few wooden houses that surrounded the rocky outcrop, perfect for mooring the great floating Vessels.

The Ship Master was smiling to himself with these recollections when he had all but passed through the now desolate and destitute settlement. He wasn’t smiling for long. His purpose in Skyporton was not one pleasure, not least leads given what he perceived as ‘grouchiness’ or ‘cantankerousness’ of the acquaintance his was to meet. The Ship Master grew uneasy as the acquaintance had yet to present himself. The crowds would soon lessen and the evening would change the sky. He had to find him soon.

The Ship Master walked to a crossing of paths a part of a mile outside the town. He was still walking about a small throng of people; peasants and farmers returning to their lands and fields of toil before the night arrived. Here, he could gather his thoughts and plan his next movings, even if they were to finds an inn for the evening.

“Ship Master Malachi,” a voice murmured. The grizzled ship master stopped in his tracks. Ignoring the curses of the peasant who walked into him from behind, he warily scanned about him, sure with a familiar unease that the voice that had called his name was not foe. In the corner of his eye, inside a thicket of trees, the Ship Master could make out a figure atop a horse, well blended into the small wood and shrubbery, unnoticed by the peasant folk who cared only of returning home before the sun set.

“Sir Emmerate?” the Ship Master named Malachi asked, warily. Too often had he trusted too easily. Too often in recent times had he escaped by sheer luck or minute skill of the sword better than his opponents’. A prized and proud warrior he was in his youth, Ship Master Malachi had in recent times begun to feel his seventy four years of age. The horseman nodded. Malachi brought a favour from his pouch inside his garbs and presented it to the horseman. The horseman in return, grunted and nodded, producing a favour to show to Malachi, who in return nodded, content.

“I never thought I would live a day,” growled the horseman, “when I would have to show in secret a favour bearing an acorn to any man, let alone a Shipman.”

“There are some who may not call this meeting a secret,” responded Malachi, nodding subtly towards the folk passing the thicket, “these farmers would be tempted by any amount of coin to pass the information of a meeting with a man atop a horse in thickets on the edge of town. Perhaps the Forest would have been better suited, for its edge lies less than a league away.

“These people care not for us, they do not even look to us,” snarled the voice. He was not wrong; the peasants looked the road ahead of them or down towards the dusty paths, “at any rate, it would not be such a risk had you made your timekeeping better,” he knight continued, “You are almost late.”

“Forgive me, master horseman,” said Malachi, as his acquaintance dismounted his horse, “you know the skill required in my mission, that it was no easy goings. Indeed the closer I came to achieving my task, the closer I came to an encounter with them. Their shadow hovers over the Valley this day,” the horseman turned and raised an eyebrow. “You know of what I speak,” said Malachi, “Dragons.”

“Dragons! Spare me the same excuses as before.” the horseman growled, “Your type relented at the first advancing of the beasts. Had your hearts bore the same strength as your boastings, the Valley, nay, all of Isartilaesia would not be so enslaved!”

Malachi could not respond; the horseman did not speak untruthfully about the boastings of those who flew. The Shipmen who sailed over the Great Skies - although Masters of their discipline and trades - had much to learn in the art of humbleness. They made few friends by their manners and were sometimes known to have even looked down their noses to the Kings below, whose feet stood always on the Earth. The great lords of mountain, field or forest could never inspire the Shipmen who soared the skies alongside the Great Eagles over the green lands of Isartilaesia, or the Roc over the Great Deserts of the Southlands.

“Shall we find a tavern?” suggested Malachi. Perhaps some honeyed wine would soothe the mood of this downtrodden horseman, “the road has greatly worn me; I am no great knight of strength, such as yourself”. The grizzled horseman’s scowl lessened somewhat. This Shipman knows something of respect, he thought,

“Aye. We may hide our musings among the wretched and drunken folk that now drown their miserable lives in the false comforts of ale and mead.” The knight tied his horse to a tree in the thicket; content that the gelding would settle itself to rest in its master’s absence. Always warily, the knight and ship master set back towards the town.

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A sudden cold accompanied the sun’s taking its path beneath the horizon that evening. There were many superstitious folk in the Valley that would suggest the evening’s chill is brought on by the arrival of dark spirits, demons or other types of monsters.

This night, they were not wrong.

In and amongst the steepening mountains and rolling hills of the Valley, over the Forest and and rivers, the beasts came.

Tonight, there were four. This was unusual, for in the now normal times, it was common to only see one. It was a rarity for two be together. But four. This meant something else. They were seeking something or someone.

One perched atop a rocky outcrop on a hill that overlooked the town. The beast was impatient. The beast was hungry. Its rider willed its patience and dismounted a highly crafted black and metallic saddle. Hooded and masked, the rider scanned the scene in front of it. What it sought, had to be nearby. It could sense it. The unease and fear was rank. It led directly to the town, and had to surely be on the move again soon.

There was something else the rider could smell. It was not a familiar scent. It blends in with and contrasted the fear, suspicion and worry about the townspeople. It was not one of elation but a type of small fire of emotion - not the fires that protruded from the mouths of the beasts the riders commanded.

Its riding companions would scour the Valley far and wide tonight. They would even go beyond and over the Forest to hunt what they sought and also to discover this new smell.

They would keep order, the rider knew. They had to keep order. These pitiful folk served only them now. Their King was long gone, all manners and ways of living were succumbed to their will. This was the way of things. This should always have been the way of things. For only in this type of order and control, would the Earth flourish.

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It was as if the doors to the tavern were a gateway between worlds as the atmosphere inside was one of relaxation, contentedness and joviality amongst the patrons, most of whom seemed well acquainted and familiar with one another. Candles lined the walls and tables and were increasingly being lit, as the darkening of the sky would soon be upon the Valley. Bearded men roared loudly in laughter whilst the barmaids and serving ladies spurned their boisterous advances. Nobody paid more than a little attention to he two hardened men deliberately hidden away at a small table in the darkest and smallest corner of the tavern. The had extinguished their nearby candles themselves so as to not attract any unwanted attention. Both sat in silence, as deep in thought as the other, and had already finished their first mug of ale before a serving girl brought a cup each of honeyed wine.

Malachi studied the face of he horseman who had met him on the edge of the town. Before him sat Sir Emmerate Daraling, knighted for noble deeds and a man of the King.

“You have it?” Sir Emmerate Daraling seemed surprisingly impressed.

“Aye, the substance is about my person,” replied Malachi, “It’s acquisition was no easy task, nor its carriage a lesser burden. I oft had to use all my wits to avoid capture, questioning or imprisonment.”

“A menial feat, then,” Sir Emmerate Daraling growled. Malachi did not respond. It did not bear fruit to argue with the man before him in minor insulting, “Pass it under the table then, and be quick about it.” With one hand to not attract attention, Malachi reached into his garbs into a long, think pouch. Using a separate piece of cloth, he covered the item he sought and brought it across, underneath the table, into Daraling’s waiting open hand, “Good,” continued the knight, “there were many among the Court of old who doubted your ability.”

“Many who heard from your misgivings and musings, I should imagine,” said Malachi, “would they have such doubt but for your influence? Are you the causation of such optimism among your former King and his confidantes?” Daraling looked displeased,

“Be careful, shipman,” growled the knight, “the King always remembers who serves him and who serves well.”

“And does the King’s memory allow you to wear your mail and coat of arms openly throughout Isartilaesia?” The question was, of course, rhetorical yet greatly annoyed the knight.

Knights of the King had not been permitted since the fall of the Citadel, and a new order instated. Those who were captured were not imprisoned for long; their heads were placed on spikes and sent to the towns and lands of which they came from, as a warning to the people of the land to subdue to the new order.

There were few remaining knights of the King such as Sir Emmerate Daraling, and they did not take well to insulting towards His Majesty, nor to the mentioning of the failures of the King, his knights, banner-men, soldiers of members of Court who many say allowed the Invasion too easily to happen. The mindless slaughter of unable men, women and children still haunted the minds of many throughout the land of Isartilaesia and the division of opinion on who was to blame suited the Enemy well, for brother turned against brother, father against son and all became easy to conquer.

Following the fall of the Citadel, the King and those remaining loyal to him were forced into exile.

It was not for only the King and Lords and Ladies of Court that the world changed. All those that sailed the Great Skies could do so no longer. For a new type of Martial had come during Invasion. There weren’t always dragons in the Valley, thought Malachi. For although they came from lands and seas afar, they chose their new roosting nests in the deepest parts of the Valley. From there, their riders guided them over the lands, keeping watch, always on the search for this who would resist them.

The Sky Galleons did not fight well during the Invasion. The great fells beasts manoeuvred far more swiftly and easily in the air against any vessel, and no weapons possessed by the terrified Sky Sailors could accurately fight them. The oaken built ships, although heavily varnished, could not withstand the intense heat of the fiery breath that spewed from the dragons’ mouths, and the once great way of life was wiped from the skies in such a short space of time. With no resistance from the Skies, the Invaders had free rein to burn and control, which they did to great and terrible effect.

Now, all those who sought to fight the Enemy conversed and acted together in secret. However, this enforced coming together of ideals did not always ensure civility, for Daraling was very much set in his beliefs that the feeble resistance of Sky Sailors ensured the Invasion of Isartilaesia, and he became ever more agitated.

“For more than twenty years I have worn my chain mail without anyone knowing; a symbol of dedication to my King and these lands,” the look on his face was as though challenging to Malachi, who did not seek to better his companion.

“I do not doubt your loyalty Sir Emmerate,” said Malachi, “but we must not tell falsities to ourselves. What news of the King? Has he too become wise now of his follies in the Invasion?” Daraling banged a fist on the table that was able to be passed off to those nearby as a slipped mug,

“I will not tolerate another slight against the King or the Court, Ship Master,” hissed the knight, his face reddening with slight rage, “Would that the Sky Sailors sought to fight, the Court would not have been scattered and the King would still sit on his throne!” Malachi sighed and leaned back, rolling his eyes. This was not unnoticed by Daraling, “do not pay me such disrespect. In better times you would bow your head to me.”

“In better times I would be a league above you and would not need to enter your presence,” said Malachi, now rather weary.

“Indeed,” said Daraling, “yet it was follies and failures of you and yours that kept us all from those better times. In days past, we seldom had use for the use of Magick. Now, we rely on it for knowledge, tactics and advances. It seems the users of Magick are more valuable than the trade you enabled.” Daraling took a deep drink from his cup.

“Yet mages and sorcerers and those who purported Wizardry could neither foretell the War nor halt it coming to pass. Why should the blame be apportioned solely to the Sky-sailors?” retorted Malachi. Daraling lowered his cup, a wary and hardened look on his face. Malachi continued with an amused exasperation, exhausted by the knight’s words, “Indeed knights such as yourself sat at Court with the King to be counselled by such men. Who would have believed the King knew not the difference between them and the jesters who occasionally performed conjuring tricks?”

A dull thud accompanied the rattling of chain mail as Daraling’s cup was thrown to the floor. A crack that brought the tavern to complete silence followed and Malachi fell backwards from his stool, knocking over a serving-boy, his nose broken and copious amounts of blood pouring from it.

The silence in the tavern was tangible. Daraling knew he could not stay; the sound that the sudden movement his chainmail had made would have been recognised by many patrons: the mail of a knight; a man of the King. Before any person say anything in their comprehension, Daraling made for the tavern door and left, leaving a sudden buzz of excited chatter in his wake, and Ship Master Malachi tending his injury.

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The Valley was now seldom touched by the light of the sun. Since the first days of the Invasion, some twenty four years previously, a layer of smoke was maintained and lingered over the region. The brightest days were a dirty grey, and one could never tell the difference between the smoke and the thunderclouds that could not wash away the smoke.

Yet the sun was already starting its descent. The ambience of the town felt darker and more subdued than before Daraling and Malachi had entered the tavern. Few people now lingered outside. Those that did moved hurriedly.

Daraling cursed under his breath. As good as exiled as he may be, he was a still knight of the King and was expected to maintain his bearing as such. It did no do for a man of his stature and position to take offence to such trivial words, not least from a Sky-Sailor.

But Daraling believed his actions justified. He had sworn an oath of servitude to the King and was proud and glad to have done so. A young knight in service bore many sacrifices and hardships, yet the rewards reaped outshine the toil.

Daraling quickened his pace through the town. He would not be tempted into panic; they would sense it and hunt him down. Turning down a dusty alleyway, Daraling knew that he was vulnerable both in the town and and outside in the wilderness. He had to get to his horse, to ensure its remaining calm, and under the cover of darkness ride for the Forest, where he may be able to weather the night unnoticed.

A shrill sound echoed all around. Daraling was at the edge of the town, a mere handful of scores of yards from the thicket in which his gelding remained tied down when he saw them.

Two dragon riders appeared out the darkness from either side of him. Through unnatural mists it was as though they glided soundlessly. Daraling knew it was futile to draw his sword; he would have to pass himself off as a labourer late to travel home.

The riders short short a couple of yards either side of him.. Before he could protest his innocence the same shriek sounded again and Daraling’s voice caught in his throat, leaving him rendered unable to speak from fear or some Dark effect of the Dragon’s call. A rider grasped his left wrist and upon drawing and raising his sword, found his right wrist in the clutches of the other. The first lifted his sleeve to reveal the chain mail betraying his position as a knight of the King. Before Daraling could attempt to speak again, he felt a sharp strike to the back of his head and all went black.

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Coming too again, Daraling found his arms splayed and tied down on rocks on an outcrop above the town. He had been stripped of his chain mail and all garments of his torso. The battle scars on his chest were exposed to the world. Trying not to shout in anger or panic, Daraling struggled against the ropes and tried to cry out, but found his mouth was bound and cloth stuffed inside. Gazing around he finally noticed the semi-circle like positions the four riders were in, all facing towards him.

Causing the panic inside him to finally spill, the terrible shriek was again heard throughout the Valley and and the source descended seamlessly and unnaturally through the air, landing on the outcrop in front of the tied knight.

Terrible, scaly and angry, the Dragon breathed in anticipation. It had been so long since its last Flaming; this would indeed ease the frustrations. It’s deep breaths contrasted to that of the knight’s short and shallow whimpering. He pleadingly looked about the four riders, still gazing intently at him, for reprieve or mercy. The beast opened it’s mouth and white-hot flames began to form at the back of its throat

The Dragon’s rider gave a single nod and the last thoughts that passed through Sir Emmerate Daraling’s mind were those of cursing Ship Master Malachi’s name, and all shipmen who sailed the sky.

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Embers remnant of the beast’s flames sparkled their golds, reds and oranges on the ground among the night sky. Small plumes of smoke columned above them and one would have been forgiven for not noticing a pile of ash blowing away; the remains of the horseman and knight named Sir Emmerate Daraling starting an infinite journey.

With a growl deeper and ever more menacing that that of its most recent victim, the beast rose on its hind legs and spread its crackled and veined wings, covering an acre Dirt, embers, dust and rock were blown away as the beast rose. Higher and higher it ascended: beyond the height of the buildings, level with the mountains and into the black smog and the fell beast with its Master disappeared from view of all. It’s presence was still known throughout the Valley, for it sounded yet another terrible cry, this time of elation and victory as it dived and fed on an abandoned gelding, still tied up in the thicket on the edge of the town.

Any who remained who were not in they minds afflicted by the recent tragedy that had befell the knight may have been able to distinguish a flickering of light from an almost burnt patch of shrubbery. This was similar yet different from the surrounding embers. A dull light emanated, weak yet hopeful, as this was an item of tremendous significance.

It was a glass vial. The cloth that Ship Master Malachi used to cover it did not survive the Dragon’s rage but the vial itself was unaffected. Inside the vial was a substance of the most brilliant and dreadful form of Magick that could be used: Essence of Dragonfire.

Such a substance should never have been created by the Sorcerers. For the good that could be achieved from such a powerful source there would be evil deeds just as mighty and terrible. Yet the risk involved in such a potential weapon was dwarfed in comparison by the necessity. For there weren’t always dragons in the Valley.