The Stone of Mists

The Stone of Mist

There weren't always dragons in the Valley.

Gilbrieth could barely hear the words of the distant song in the silent hours just before dawn. But this would be the first morning in many months that Gilbrieth could recall feeling a true sense of hope. How could he not? His father had found his way home.

"The king has returned!" He happily proclaimed, allowing his thoughts to overflow, but then immediately regretted how loudly his voice echoed among the bare trees.

"What is that singing?" His father asked in a low voice from behind him. The ground was swampy, and it would have made for challenging terrain even without the weeklong rain they had just endured.

"You don't remember, father?" Gilbrieth asked with a wry grin. "Those were the last words you said before you left." He turned toward him. It was strange to see a beard on his father's face, only having seen him with smooth skin for most of his life. It may have made him look older and more tired, but to Gilbrieth, it was just a visual reminder that his father had gone into the darkest place in the kingdom and returned with his life. "Those were your last words before you left for Shadowhelde. You said, 'Gilbrieth, I know it seems like this land is doomed. But there weren't always dragons in the Valley. Just remember that. We can still find a way to be free of them.' After that, it became a rallying cry of sorts. A daily prayer to start each new day."

His father did not respond, and they continued onward in renewed silence, each listening to the haunting words together.

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Our rivers have not yet run dry.

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. For our land still gives...our sun still shines...the darkness has not had its dawn.

There weren't always dragons in the Valley, and one day they will be gone.

"You still have it, right?" Gilbrieth asked.

"Yes," he replied rather curtly. "How many times must you ask? Do you think I would drop such a treasure?" Silence again, save for the increased crunching of their boots as they transitioned to more solid ground. "My apologies, dear boy," he whispered hoarsely. He removed a small block of gray stone from his cloak pocket. It had a translucent quality to it, almost like there was a hazy gray smoke within its small borders. "Look here and ease your doubts. The Stone of Mists. Our key to defeating the dragons."

"I never doubted you," Gilbrieth said. "But you taught me that the key to living a good life was always to seek certainty in an uncertain world. I suppose I just needed to see it before I believed such a thing could be true."

"And what do you hope to see by looking behind you constantly? Your eyes have been fixed on the path behind us instead of the way forward."

"I'm just making sure that we aren't being followed."

He snorted. "If there were a dragon following us, you wouldn't need to look behind you to know."

"Then how did you escape? Did they just let you out?”

"Of course not. I overstayed my welcome, and I let myself out. But that's not important. How long have I been gone?"

"Three months," Gilbrieth replied. "Most of the others thought you dead."

"They may not be far off," he replied.

"How could you say that? Could a dead man outwit the dragons and escape the dungeons of Shadowhelde with the Stone of Mist? You've always survived, father. I never doubted you would return."

"What gives you so much faith? So much trust?"

"Because you've been winning the battle against the dragons for a long time."

"If you saw the things I just saw, boy...you might start to think differently."

"That may be true, but ever since Mother died," he paused, waiting for his father to say something. But no response came, and he continued. "Since then, you've been waging a secret war against them. I mean, who found us all after the dragons destroyed the castle? You never let any of us fall apart. Instead, you helped us heal so that we could stand together against these vile beasts when the time was right. You risked everything going in there, and if we ever see victory, it will be because of you."

"I got what I went there for, and for now, that's all that matters."

They neared a tall gray stone tower where the others were making camp. The sound of their song faded into chatter, and the light from a bonfire began to hum with an orange glow through the early morning chill.

"How many of you are left?" His father asked.

"Fifteen," Gilbrieth paused. "For now."

"For now?"

"Three have taken ill with Dragonsick, they can't keep down food, so I don't see them living through the night. We are staying at the Seven Strings Tavern, and it's not like they are going to feed dead men. Nobody has that luxury right now. You don't understand how important it is that you've returned. We barely have enough food to last another month."

"And what then?"

"I think you know," he replied after a few moments, then said, “we're here." They had arrived in the clearing where the gray tower climbed into the sky in front of them. He looked up, and for a quick instant, he thought he saw something from the roof of the tower. He couldn't be certain, but it almost looked like someone was standing up there holding one of his bows. Not just one of his bows, but the one that his father had given him for safekeeping prior to departing for Shadowhelde. It didn’t seem possible, yet even from this distance, he could have sworn he saw the familiar runes etched into the bow's wood, shining with golden light from afar. He looked again, but it was gone.

Just as he turned to check for the bow, however, his father stepped in front of him and removed the Stone of Mist proclaiming, “No time to waste, so let’s begin. We will wipe this land of every last vermin that feeds upon on it.”

The next thing Gilbrieth knew, he back in a dark room on the second floor of the Seven Strings Tavern. His head was in a wooden bucket and he was vomiting. His skin was wet with sweat and he was shaking.

"I told you that you would get sick," a girl's voice said, low and quiet. "Everybody always gets sick during their first Soulgaze.”

"Why did the vision end there?" He exclaimed. "Did you end it? I need to see more!"

"I can't control exactly how long the vision is, or when it will come to pass,” she replied.

"Davinia, everybody at the castle used to treat you like you're the most talented sage in three generations. Yet when I ask for a Soulgaze, that is what I end up with?"

Her eyes flared angrily. "You were who came to me last night—begging me to look into the Mist and help you try to connect to your future self. You said it was because you've had bad dreams and needed my help. That's a pretty stark contrast for someone who called me a ‘servant to the dark arts’ not three weeks ago."

"I told you I was sorry for that."

She shrugged. "I don't need the Mist to tell me when I'm being lied to,” then took a deep breath to steady herself. "That vision you just saw? That was the message that he - I mean...you...I mean the future version of yourself wanted to share. What did you see?"

"You couldn't see what I saw?" Gilbrieth asked.

"No," Davinia replied. “It doesn’t work quite like that.”

He winced, trying to recall. "I was walking back to the tower with my father. He had just escaped Shadowhelde and I found him on the road. He was nearly dead, Davinia...but he had the Stone of Mist."

Her eyes widened. "Are you certain?"

"Well, it hasn't happened yet...so I suppose I'm as certain as I can be. But there was something else. It was more of a feeling than anything else. Something seemed wrong with him. The way he walked. The sound of his voice. I can't quite place it."

"Wait," she paused. "You're saying that the king was in the vision you just had? That can't be. I may not have been able to see your vision, but I could still feel the energies present within. I felt my energy, of course, and yours and the rest of our group. But I never felt your father's presence there."

"So, what are you trying to say?"

She paused and looked toward the door. "Is that locked?" Gilbrieth hopped toward the door and wiggled the knob, then nodded. "If your father actually did appear in your vision, I would have felt his energy too. If I didn't, that could only mean one thing. The man in your vision wasn't your father."

"Then who was it?" Gilbrieth demanded, but his blood had already gone cold. Dragonmagic. Ancient spells that the dragons had stolen from his people centuries ago before defiling and twisting them for their own vile purposes. They could animate the deceased and bring false life back to their bodies for a short time.

"You're telling me that wasn't my father...it was one of them? "

Davinia's silence was all Gilbrieth needed to hear. "If this vision could come to pass soon, then I must make for Shadowhelde tonight. I need to rescue him before they kill him and wear his skin like some kind of twisted theater."

Just then, a burst of cold air invaded the room and someone began to pound at the door. "Prince Gilbrieth! Are you in there? Sir, we must speak with you!"

"What is it?" Gilbrieth replied through the closed door. "You woke me up, so you may as well speak plainly."

"Your father," the reply was hushed. "He has been found on the road just north of here. We can't wake him, and he's badly injured. So, I came to fetch your horse with your permission. She's the only animal we have left with the strength to carry him."

Gilbrieth's world began to spin. The vision wasn’t going to happen...it was happening now. He felt a deep anger begin to spark and flame within him, and the next words he spoke seemed to come out of his mouth before he realized what they were. "No horses," he said through gritted teeth. "I will go and fetch him myself."

The man on the other side of the door left, and Gilbrieth turned to Davinia. "It's happening today?" He stammered. "Right now?"

She nodded. “But you have to remember, everything you saw in that vision will come to pass. No matter what you do. But your future self has gifted you with this knowledge for a reason. Use what you now know to get the upper hand, Gilbrieth!”

Gilbrieth's eyes felt dry and numb. Then, without thinking, he walked over to a chest in the corner of the room. From it, he pulled his father's prized bow, made from the wood of the Ancient Trees and imbued with their magic. He ran his hand over the etched runes and felt an old magic thrumming from within. Then he handed it to Davinia. There were tears in his eyes, and his arm quivered slightly until she finally placed her hand on the bow and the runes began to glow with golden light.

"I'm not going to take your bow," she said.

"It's not mine," Gilbrieth whispered, "It was my father's and now it’s yours. Consider it thanks for what you’ve done for me, and something tells me that you’re going to end up with it today anyway.” His eye caught hers, and they shared an unspoken knowing. He motioned for her to follow him downstairs before stopping. "We shouldn't be seen leaving the tavern together," he said. "Wait until I'm clear and then make for the tower. Go to the top. That will give you the best vantage point. When the dragon reveals himself, shoot for his eyes."

"What are you going to do?" She asked.

His eyes focused on hers, and they burned with a hatred they had not yet known in this life. “I’m going to bring that dragon to our camp,” he said. “And you are going to kill it.”

“And after that?”

“After that we're going to wipe this land of every last vermin that feeds upon it."