The shepherd of dragons

There weren't always dragons in the valley. There was a time when the skies were harmless and placid. One could wander through forests and plains without trembling at the mere sight of a strange cloud. This lasted until the 29th year of the scribal period, when a vast import of spices and species filled the island with cinnamon and dragons.

Not that the dragons of the Morgon Valley were particularly fearsome. They were of dwarf breeds, closer to crocodiles and fire eels than to those enormous stallions of the sky that populate fables and minstrels’ daydreams. However, even the smallest dragon is still a dragon, a devastating creature capable of taking a man's head off and reduce an entire town to ashes. Wolkard Talabot knew this, and there wasn't a day that went by that he didn't fear a swooping attack from above. And that evening, even though he was in the comfort of the castle balcony, he grew anxious about these grotesque and flying neighbours.

—Something strange is going on —said Wolkard to his mother—. Take a good look at them: they're flying in circles.

For over an hour, ten dragons had been flying over the Bonsoms forest. A cluster of scales and fangs gliding over a grove of oaks and oblivion trees, their gaze set on a jumble of shrubbery, like sharks circling a sinking ship. But unlike sharks, these beasts would not take the meat to the depths, but to the celestial realms of the clouds, from which blood would rain down later.

—They’re probably chasing a wild boar. It must be a good specimen —said Lady Fandra, her voice as passionless as her eyes.

—They don't need to fly in circles to hunt.

—Wolkard, I don't care if they're flying in circles, doing pirouettes or reading poems —said Lady Fandra, looking sternly at her son—. Don't make a big deal out of it, son. They're just animals playing.

—Dragons are not gregarious —Wolkard said. Then his expression grew slightly troubled—. They weren't until now, at least. Do you think, if they joined forces, they would attack us?

—I dare them to try —said the mother, flashing a defiant smile to the dragons—. But enough of this, I am...

Lady Fandra couldn’t finish her sentence, for as she spoke a new silhouette burst onto the horizon. It was a vaporous shadow hidden among the creatures. At first it looked like the dragons’ gastric smoke. But Wolkard did not take long to realise that the black wisps did not come from any throat, but from the very forest beneath the animals. The smoke grew darker and thicker.

—Is the smoke coming from our side of the forest or from Drunnon? —asked Wolkard.

—I think neither —said Lady Fandra—. Let's wait a few minutes. When the smoke reaches a certain height, everything will be clearer.

The Magna Terrace quickly filled with councillors and servants. The matriarch commanded that the longeye should be brought to her. The instrument consisted of an emptied narwhal horn filled with nivean treacle, a fruity liquid which, when heated, enhanced the refracting properties of the spyglass. Lady Fandra took the instrument and drew a deep breath. Her expression became one of horror. An excruciating minute passed, and then she stepped away from the horn. She turned to her advisors and, shutting off her breath, gave them a meaningful look.

—What is it, mother? —Wolkard asked, sensing disaster.

Lady Fandra merely nodded. Before long, in the midst of twilight, they all saw what had been troubling her: black wisps of smoke that, instead of fading away, gathered into a single thick, black column. A familiar sight to those who had fought in a war. Faces turned from shock to horror, the valley’s expression shivering in every little soul, reminiscent of those oil paintings of the Cuangra, the day of judgement of Gods, where all the eyes are fixed and the mouths unhinged. Five minutes felt like twenty. They gazed into the smoke as one would gaze into a giant squid’s den, and not long after, at the hour of the old sun, the column of smoke split into many scions.

Several councillors covered their mouths in disgust. There was some whimpering. Down in the castle's esplanade, people had gathered and were murmuring. Children, thrilled by the strange spectacle, cheered as if fireworks were about to start. Not long after, the black branches separated into spiral segments, curves swelling like bubbles and then breaking up into erratic shapes. No smoke was as sharp as the one exhaled from a howling tree.

—You are no use to me here —Lady Fandra told her advisors—. Bring me the best howlers interpreters, and calm the people.

—What should we tell them?

—Tell them it's a howling tree with festive motifs. Tell them that it was burned to honour the gods. Invite them all to wine, sing. Do whatever it takes, and do it at once.

Her aplomb brought the three councillors back, who nodded and immediately obeyed. For most of them it was the first time they had seen something like that. Until the scribal period, howling trees were little more than a strange kind of tree. Their trunk was composed of many intertwined trunks, winding and tangled like frantic snakes during mating season. The sinusoidal lattice extended to the top, full of equally curved branches and leaves. Howling trees, also called howlers, could once be seen all over the valley. They bore no fruit, nor were they poisonous. Their uniqueness lay in how they burned, in a centrifugal manner, blazing from the inside out. As the fire spread through the wood, howlers exhaled smoke ruffles, breaking through the deep blue sky like divine scribbles. Shifting shapes that could be prearranged merely by chiselling the trunk. It was only a matter of time until the nobles of the valley learned to make use of it.

Every lord had its own masters of howling. They were very unique craftsmen, who knew how to carve the bark and polish the branches so that the howlers burned in a certain way, sketching steamy signs and vaporous meanings in the sky. This mysterious craft was called Smoke Grammar. It was unbelievably complex, with an alphabet encompassing volumes, heights and motions. Howling trees, as well as their craftsmen, achieved great popularity in the scribal wars. There was even a school for the craftsmen, where the Smoke Grammar was taught and practised with orange blossom vapours. The smokes allowed dialogue between distant armies, which ended up with skies full of signs: encrypted messages, false messages, provocations, threats, promises and even posthumous farewells.

To see a howler burning in peacetime was a rarity. To see a howler burning on the border, where so many wars had been fought, was deeply disturbing.

—The message has many inconsistencies —said the interpreter, who had just arrived—. The forms contradict each other and the sentences are unfinished.

—The work of a novice —added Wolkard in a very deep and measured voice, wanting to make clear that he was no novice at all—. They haven't even been able to define the outline perimeter of the smoke.

—Novices do not enter into the forest —said the interpreter, allowing a note of condescension into his voice—, especially cowards.

Wolkard studied the interpreter’s smile, wondering if he meant what he thought he did. That old man had a way of looking as though he knew all his faults and his secrets. There was a mutual dislike, and it was rigorous and it was constant, but always cloaked by a layer of hierarchical ambiguity.

—We must send a squad of soldiers at once —said Lady Fandra—. We’ll need someone with a little sense to lead them, maybe Ser Rolbos.

Excited by a strange impulse of bravery, Wolkard had an extravagant idea: he was up to the task.

—I will command the expedition —said Wolkard, pretending to be decided—. We will set out tomorrow at sunset.

The interpreter rolled his eyes. The mother nodded, not without some scepticism. She had seen that burst of bravery too many times to take it seriously. She knew that Wolkard’s courage would pass as soon as he set foot in the forest. Lady Fandra was going to say something, but at that moment a councilor said:

—Those dragons are spoiling the message, my Lady.

—They're not spoiling it —said the interpreter—, they are completing it.

The message, slightly distorted by the erratic flight of the dragons, went from a beginner's scrawl to a calligraphic wonder. By then, it was clear that the sender was not a novice. It was someone who knew how to move the dragons at will, and use them for the Smoke Grammar. Before the message had fully reached the sky, they already knew who was responsible.

—We must send a letter to all our allies —said Lady Fandra—. Tell them that the shepherd of dragons has returned.