The Sound of Silence

There weren't always dragons in the Valley.

His own great-grandfather had remembered a time before when all the Valley had to its name had been poor, rocky soil, river fish, and poverty.

And small, glimmering stones one picked up occasionally from the ground. They had been pretty additions to the local pottery and smithies, used to decorate wedding gifts and bridles, and sometimes used as slingshot fodder for bare-footed children.

But the dragons had migrated north during the Chasm Wars. The locals, eager to take full advantage of their windfall and do as the prosperous southern kingdoms had, and the dragons, eager to settle peacefully into their new home, brokered a deal. The winged animals mined the small, glimmering stones so coveted in far-off kingdoms, acted as transport, and in return made homes in the excavated caves.

Then the Chasm Wars had ended, and the dragon riders had come north with their great beasts of war seeking their kin, and the dragons had become an indispensable part of the Valley. In addition to mining, they worked as messengers, guardians, soldiers, and the preferred conveyance of trade caravans. Men grew rich, became landowners, then barons, then dukes. The Valley, once so entirely forgotten it had lacked a name, became a center of commerce in the North.

But Jeren's family hadn't seen any of that wealth. Instead, the same great-grandfather had proclaimed the animals pests and gone to his deathbed believing it, cementing his family's place in dusty, forgotten poverty.

Almost mockingly, a dragon winged overhead, a dark shadow against the inky blackness of the moonless night. Jeren cursed the stubborn, toothless old man as he ducked inside the traveler's inn that had glowed so warmly from the dark, dusty highway.

The door to the inn's common room opened onto a wall of sound, smells, and smoke. A seat was open on a bench between two hulking men, laborers from their smell. Resisting the urge to hold his breath and knowing he probably smelled no better, Jeren buried his face in his hands for a minute before flagging down the innkeeper for a drink. The thought of one had been the only thing keeping him going on his long trudge, and he was determined to enjoy it.

But not even halfway through the evening, Jeren felt a prickle of unease on the back of his neck; someone was watching him.

His gaze swept the room as he sipped at the inn's bitter, watered-down ale. Focusing on any one thing was tricky with the constant movement and sound in the room. Most faces were in shadow, and Jeren came up with nothing.

In truth, no one seemed to be paying him any mind at all. It pained his ego to admit it, but not even one of the serving women had come to check on him in quite some time.

One man sat at a table in a back corner, a lone point of still silence amid the disorder. At first, Jeren had suspected him of being the origin of the prickle, but his presence would have been too obvious. Besides, the man's attention seemed turned inward as he nursed something in a dented wooden cup. Truth be told, he appeared far more savory than many of the characters around him. Perhaps that was why it was equally as odd that, and Jeren was sure of this now, there was an actual ring of space around the man in this room where patrons were nearly shoulder to shoulder.

Perhaps it was the ugly scars visible above the collar of his shirt?

The man drained his cup and stood, dropping three coins on the table before pushing his way to the door.

Jeren was getting the same idea. His own drink was down to the dregs, the inn was full up tonight, and, even if they had had a room, he did not have coin enough to cover even the communal loft with its flea-infested pallets. Besides, the back of his neck still prickled, and trouble was the last thing he wanted to find tonight. He tried in vain to wave down a waitress to beg a few stale rice crackers for the road and, failing that, slunk out into the night.

The silence of the empty stable yard after the tumult of the inn was enough to make Jeren dizzy. That, or it was the cheap ale on an empty stomach. He stumbled on a loose stone invisible in the darkness, and the old flea-bitten nag drowsing at the tie rail raised its head. Its ears swiveled towards him, and Jeren whistled his usual hello. And as usual, the animal lost interest and fell to cropping the sparse tufts of brown grass pushing their way up between cracks in the cobblestones.

"Ungrateful beast," Jeren sighed as he tugged at the dangling ends of the reins to unslip the knot, then tugged again to tear the old horse away from its scrounging. "If it weren't for me, you'd be glue for some leather maker now."

The animal seemed unmoved and echoed his master's sigh as Jeren tried to steel himself for the effort it would take to hoist his weary limbs into the saddle.

Pain in his side, bright and blinding, doubled him over, and he had to cling to the saddle to keep his feet. But the old horse was suddenly all motion and noise, and Jeren lost his grip as the animal bolted. A second blow glanced off his shoulder as he stumbled, lost his footing. He rolled as he hit the ground and came up to see the rapidly disappearing backside of his horse as it galloped into the darkness of the street beyond the inn's courtyard.

But his horse's panic had transferred to the others tied to the hitching rail. Jeren darted close to the roiling, whinnying mass and cut what lines weren't made of good leather with the knife he kept up his sleeve as he passed. A string of curses accompanied the explosion of horseflesh as the panicked animals darted in all directions.

The crash of dancing hooves slowly faded as he sprinted down one narrow, winding street to another and another. But no matter his pace, the running footfalls of his attacker did not disappear, and he couldn't keep up the speed for much longer. The first blow had knocked the air out of him, and the deep pain in his side did not help. One street looked much like the next, and he was soon lost in the unknown town. He turned down another side street, hoping to find some doorway to duck into.

Only to find an unfortunately familiar hulking figure coming at him from the opposite direction gripping the cudgel no doubt used to initiate the attack at the inn. Jeren skidded to a halt and turned to run back up the street, but the first figure was waiting. Fists twisted into his collar and slammed him up against the wall.

"Thought you could disappear, didn't you?" The familiar voice was so deep and gravely that Jeren felt it as a rumble in his chest.

Jeren strained to get away from the man's acrid breath as much as to get away from him. "I'm looking for work, Celo, to get you your money. I just need time."

"You promised me money in Parsi, and Forna, and Leren. Your time is up," the man, Celo, growled.

"I couldn't find work there," Jeren protested, then yelped as the grip on his collar tightened painfully. "I swear! They say there is work in Sona. I'm on the road to Sona. When I find work—"

The clap to his temple sent sparks dancing across his vision.

"No more chances," Celo spit. "Your money now, or I'll drag you to—"

The words ended in a cry of pain as Jeren plunged the small wrist knife into the other man's side. The hold on Jeren's collar released, and he sprang away without a second's hesitation.

Only to be knocked on his back by the second attacker. The hulking figure fell on him, bringing down a meaty fist to Jeren's face again and again until his vision tinged black.

"Enough, Gen!"

The blows stopped. Through a haze, Jeren saw Celo come to stand over them, the small knife held in his hand. His wild stab had failed to hit anything vital, a mistake that the debt collector would not make with the role now reversed.

"Move over, Gen," Celo hissed, taking a firmer grip on the knife haft.

Though the blows had rendered Jeren's thoughts muddled, he recognized the growing urgency to escape and thrashed against the weight pinning him down. A smack bounced his head back against the cobbles and put an end to that.

"Won't get our money if he's dead," the big man grunted at Celo.

"I don't give a gods' f-"

At first, Jeren thought the small plink that echoed dully against the narrow ally walls a symptom of his disorientation. But the second plink tumbled to the ground beside him as a pebble. Celo stopped mid-curse, his gaze fixed on a point at the entrance to the ally. Gen didn't get up, but the giant atop him found something of interest in the same spot, and the pressure with which he held Jeren down eased slightly.

Good sense muddled by desperation, fear, and a strong sense of self-preservation goaded Jeren into clutching a displaced cobble onto which his flailing hand had fallen. He smashed it against Gen's temple with what strength he had left.

The big man fell forward with nary a sound, pinning Jeren even more effectively than before. He reflected that his situation was not much improved as Celo cursed again. Jeren expected the knife to find its mark at any moment as he kicked and thrashed, trying to squirm out from under Gen's stifling dead weight.

Instead, Celo's shout fell away as two distinct blows followed shuffling feet. The debt collector hit the ground beside him and did not move.

Bootsteps, and a pair of dusty boots stopped beside Jeren's head before the newcomer to their tableau knelt. A muffled grunt and the body pinning him to the ground shifted slightly, but not enough. A tap on Jeren's shoulder, and when the body moved slightly again, he took the hint and added his leverage. It slid off and onto that of the other.

Jeren sucked in a deep breath, then two, as he stared up at the strip of starry night sky visible between the walls of the buildings lining the ally, disoriented and unnerved by the way the tiny pinpoints of light blurred and swirled in his vision. But then a black-gloved hand blocked out the stars, a hand that Jeren contemplated for a moment before taking it to be hauled to his feet.

He wavered as the world spun even more violently, then settled back into the occasional tilt. Another tap on the shoulder and Jeren looked up—and up—into the scarred face of the man he had seen earlier sitting at the inn's table.

The man tilted his head and gestured to Jeren's.

"Fine." His voice was a croak, and he cleared his throat. "I'm sure it'll hurt in the morning, but I'm fine. Thanks for that. Thought I was a dead man."

The stranger nodded, then moved past Jeren and stooped to pick something up. He straightened and held the small knife out, hilt-first.

A man of few words.

Nodding his unvoiced thanks, Jeren took the weapon back, then stared at the blade and the dark smears on its mirror-shiny surface before making a decision. He turned back to the still bodies of the debt collector and his muscle, steadying his grip on the haft of the knife before he bent and held his hand above their mouths.

A faint hint of dampness on his palm told him what he wished to know. Jeren gritted his teeth, inhaled deeply, and found the vein to sever on each man's neck with searching fingers. His knife was poised to make the first slash when a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

Jeren looked back over his shoulder and up. His rescuer shook his head.

A man of very few words.

"It's all right. The world will be better off without them."

But the man shook his head again, his hand still a pressure of restrain on Jeren's shoulder.

"You don't understand. They've been hunting me for weeks. They'll just find me again if I don't do this now."

Still this side of impassive, the man made a gesture and tightened his hold on Jeren's shoulder. The message was clear: don't.

Annoyed, Jeren stood and faced the man—the big man, now that he was right in front of him and not across the room, not simply tall, but broad. The dark and voluminous cloak hid much, but the shoulders were wide, the frame solid, the stance unintentionally imposing.

"Look," he said. "I appreciate what you did for me, but this is an old matter between those two and me you need to stay out of."

The man did not respond in any typical fashion. The dark eyes watched Jeren for a moment before he gripped his shoulder again, shook his head, then pointed to his ears.

Mute?

The question quickly disappeared as the sounds the man had been trying to get Jeren to hear finally reached him.

Faintly, he could hear running footsteps and, further off, a whistle and barking dogs.

The town constables.

Jeren looked back to the stranger who had since released his shoulder. A flash of something might have ghosted across the man's lips, but too fast to be sure. He gestured to the other end of the alley, and Jeren did not need to think twice about what that meant—escape.

His running footfalls echoed off the stone homes rising squat and narrow on either side of the streets through which he pelted, following the dark figure ahead. For someone so big, the mute stranger was surprisingly fast, a dark cloak and movement by the flickering light of the watchfires.

Jeren wasn't even sure why he was following the stranger, save that the man seemed to know where he was going in this town of unfamiliar twists and turns.

The figure darted down a small alley, and Jeren's boots scrabbled in the dusty gravel to find purchase enough to follow. But before he could, a hand snaked out, grabbed his wrist, and dragged him the opposite way.

His heart beat a frantic tattoo, Jeren struggled to get away from this new threat. But someone put a large, steadying hand on his shoulder, and he realized it was his rescuer. The big man pointed forward urgently, conveying the very real need to continue running—the constable's whistles were growing closer even as he listened.

But for a long moment, Jeren could only stare. Hadn't he just seen the man running the opposite way?

He had been sure the stranger had turned down the other alley—so sure he'd followed.

But it had to have been a trick of the light or someone else abroad in a dark cloak. Save that, he hadn't seen anyone else, certainly not running ahead of him, and he'd never lost sight of the other man. Or perhaps his mind, still fuzzy with the sour ale and knocks to the head, had been seeing things.

It couldn't have been an illusion because illusions meant magic, and magic meant demons.

No, it had to have been a trick of the light.

The alternative was too frightening to consider.

A thump on the shoulder, and the stranger cocked his head in a clear question.

"Yes, I'm coming," Jeren gasped, and they started off again.

But not before he caught a glimpse of the first constables running in the direction he had nearly gone.

Another minute, and the narrow alley opened into a roundel of houses. The moldering old stones echoed their running footsteps and the whistles of the constables growing too close for comfort.

With a wave, the stranger suddenly slipped between two houses into an alley barely worthy of the name. The stones were so close, Jeren could feel them through the sleeves of his shirt, heard the rend as a particularly sharp rock tore the thin fabric, and he wondered how the much larger man before him was managing to move so quickly.

They burst from between the houses and into an open area before thick forest began, to see a dragon standing in the middle of the small field. It turned its head at their approach, and Jeren slid to a halt.

The beast wasn't large—it was one of the messenger breeds, or perhaps the lighter cavalry—but it was still twice as large as the biggest draft horse he'd seen. It rustled its wings, the end of its tail twitching restlessly, and even though it was dark, he could see the glow of the eye it fixed on him as it angled its head.

Jeren might have frozen, closer to a dragon than he'd ever been before—or ever wished to be—but the mute stranger didn't have such compunctions. The big man had nearly reached the beast but turned at the last moment and beckoned.

"No, I think not." Jeren waved away the agitated invitation. "Thank you for your help, but I'll be on my way."

He turned towards the alleyway, only to hear shouts from the constables who had reached the roundel, their dogs' barks echoing sharply.

"You're free to stay here, but I would accept the invitation if I were you."

His mind still on the constables and how to escape, Jeren jerked his head around in surprise at the new voice—a woman's. He looked closer and saw what he'd missed upon first glance, a figure barely visible between the dragon wings, still rustling in agitation.

Jeren's head swiveled between the two as he scrambled to decide upon the lesser of two evils. Did he want to chance a ride on a beast with a possibly damned stranger? Or did he want to take his chances with the town constables, a surly, unhappy, and often brutish lot, no matter into which town you wandered?

"Navaa won't bite, but those dogs might," the voice called again, an amused lilt dancing over the words.

A moment's more hesitation, and Jeren darted for the dragon, swallowing his terror as the beast loomed large in the dark. The stranger, already seated on the back, pointed to an apparatus that wasn't unlike a rope ladder. Jeren scrambled up, the scent of strong musk and leather filling his nostrils.

He settled into the open spot between the female dragon rider and the stranger just as the first constables surged out into the field. Their curse-laced shouts and threats bounced across the long grasses along with the wildly dancing shadows of their lanterns and torches.

"Unfriendly lot, aren't they?" The dragon rider noted off-handedly, but her following words were far more stern. "Hold on to me as tightly as you can, or you will fall off."

Frantically, Jeren clutched at the woman a moment before she gave a command in another language. Beneath them, the beast's muscles bunched before, with a neck-snapping jerk, it leaped into the air. The first flare of its wings beat down in a powerful stroke, flattening the grasses. The constables, nearly upon them, covered their heads and faces to ward off the flying dust and debris as their dogs broke away, running yelping back towards the town.

Jeren couldn't enjoy the scene, however. He was too busy trying not to scream, lose the sour beer sloshing around his stomach, or both, his arms clasped convulsively around the dragon rider.

Several more powerful strokes and they were above the trees, then higher. The heights to which they climbed left Jeren as dizzy as the sudden turn his life had taken in the past hour.

He was riding dragon-back, trying not to look down as the lights of the town became small pinpricks, having followed a stranger who may or may not have used demon-borne magic.

As the dragon wheeled and began flying straight, the biting wind whistling past Jeren's ears, he wondered what he'd done in all his previous lives to deserve this? And then he damned the stubborn, shortsighted old man his great-grandfather had been once more for good measure.

Maybe if he hadn't been so set in his ways, Jeren wouldn't be in this mess.