The Tale of Drekarg

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. For dragons were not always real, or so the legends say. There was a time when the world was bereft of magic, a time of war known as the Age of Man. And there was a time even before man when magic did not live either. It was only with the fall of man, in the days that followed the Great Firestorms that magic was brought forth unto the world. Ironically, by that which man created, or so the Dwarves say. The Elves claim it was the greatest of men that heralded the firestorms and resowed the earth with fresh life and new laws, the laws of magic. And the men, well, they do not believe in magic, not for the most part for they have long been removed of its mystery and the company of Dwarf and Elf alike. But alas, it has long since been a time of magic and there were now dragons in the Valley. The trouble was, no one remembered.

Drekarg carefully pulled the string to his ear as he raised his bow in one smooth movement. With deliberate clarity he aligned the blunt cedar tip of the arrow with his quarry, allowing the raven fletchings to tickle his cheek. Suddenly he exhaled as the sheep sinew sprang from his fingers. Alerted by the sudden sound the bronzewings burst into flight as their friend was hurled into the underbrush by the arrow. Drekarg rose from behind an overturned, moss-covered birch tree and crunched through the Autumn fall, the forest was alive with the fervent chirping of birds and insects. The breeze carried frigid air from the glass like surface of the lake down below. Wispy white clouds streaked between the staggering teeth of the mountains above. This was the Valley, thought Drekarg, the unmistakable smell of pine and evergreen had forever been a part of his life. Nowhere else in all the North were the pastures greener or the trees more laden with fruit, nor the livestock fatter. With the great Serpent Spine Mountains curving from the north-west to the north-east and the roiling Clay Hills buffeting up from the South, the Valley was held aloft in a realm of utter tranquillity that possessed a magic all its own. A tranquillity that had never been disturbed in all the years that man had toiled its fertile soil.

Like most Northmen, Drekarg was considered a giant of a man by the reckonings of Southerners. His shoulders were broad from a life of farming and his hands thick with callouses. His forearms where braided with muscle and set with great blue veins. Each was adorned with a simple black bracelet tattooed about the wrist, denoting his adolescence. Though they would soon be festooned with intricate workings depicting all manner of creatures and constellations, just as his forbear’s had. He had short hazel hair and stark blue eyes set deep within a pale complexion that was otherwise adorned with a smattering of freckles. Most unusual for one of his kin, he completely lacked facial hair, even in late adolescence. A fact that often chaffed at him, especially when taken advantage of by his fellow kinsfolk at the village alehouse. He was draped heavily in a weathered, granite-grey long coat of sheep’s wool, and wore a simple black scarf knitted by his mother about his neck.

Drekarg paused amidst a clearing in the canopy, taking a moment to relish the vast beauty of the rugged landscape before winter tolled and made such sojourns to the mountains impossible. Breathing deep through his nose and closing his eyes he embraced the sensation of nostalgia and euphoria that came to him.

He was torn from his blissful reverie as he felt the hairs on his neck stand up and something inexplicable clench his stomach. He froze. Instinctually he came to the preternatural conclusion that he was not alone in these woods, there was something else among the trees. Stringing another arrow, he strained his ears. All he could hear was the stiff breeze stirring the rusty yellow leaves and the last spasming flaps of the unfortunate bronzewing. All around him shadows danced in the sway of the insistent breeze as old oaks groaned in salute to their ancient enemy.

“Show yourself!” he shouted in challenge to the forest, which replied only with the chatter of robins and the distant knocks of a woodpecker. Fanned with fear, the fires of speculation began to rise in Drekarg’s core. Many predators dwelt within the Valley, lured by the promise of slow livestock and lonely settlements. Giant cave bears and mountain lions, the great maned wolves or even an ancient maw-crawler, but to name a few. All had been subject to artistic impression and rendered on the skin of many a Northman for horrifying effect.

Drekarg cursed himself for being so full hardy in coming this far up the mountain. Everyone in the Valley knew better than to do such a foolish thing, but his curiosity ever worked to his peril, and now it looked to make a point of doing so. The breeze kept up as he crouched motionless among the leaf litter, his eyes flickering between the shadows of every tree and bush whilst sweat glistened on his brow. After counting some one hundred silent breaths his feeling of paranoia began to replace itself with embarrassment, when suddenly, with utmost reluctance, a shadow stepped out from behind an old birch. Drekarg raised his bow with pale hands that he tried vainly to steady as the incredibly tall figure glided daintily towards him, eliciting not a single sound from the underbrush. The silhouette ventured forth into the light of the clearing and he sighed in audible relief as he saw that it was a woman, but not like any he had ever seen. She was taller than even he, and her skin was black as ebony, her frame was thin but muscular and her amber eyes seemed slightly too large and surreal. Her ears were tucked tightly against her skull and ended in knife like points, whilst her hair was slate black and intricately braided all the way down to her waist. She was adorned in a moss-green cloak atop darker undercoats, along with black cotton leggings crisscrossed by numerous leather straps and pouches of ochre quality.

“Who are you?” Managed Drekarg as he fought not to choke on a tongue that had deigned to abandon him. Like any Northman his voice was a deep baritone, though he was yet to develop the same pitch or gravelly quality as his older counterparts. Nonetheless he posed an intimidating figure with his great frame and sonorous tone. Despite this the figure smiled in amusement.

“My name, little peasant boy, is Nimeria.” Her voice reminded him of melt water running over river stones.

“What are you?” Stammered Drekarg, completely missing her jibe as he continued to gawp at her. She was unlike anything he had ever seen, seeming both unnatural and jarring to the world around her, but also possessing a sublime aura of regalness that was slightly infatuating.

Nimeria smiled wryly and raised a delicate eyebrow, “I am an Eternal, though you may know my kind as Elves.”

“By all that grows in the Valley.” Cursed Drekarg, before returning his arrow and restringing his bow. “Uhh, my name is Drekarg, I come from the Valley. I’ve never seen an elf before.”

“Really?” Nimeria continued to smile, “I hadn’t guessed.”

Drekarg slowly registered her humour as he listened desperately to her deep, melodious voice. Realisation dawned on him and his jaw clicked shut with an audible pop as his pale freckled complexion turned bright as a poppy. A moment of silence passed between the two strangers as the wind tugged at their garments. The elf woman continued to smile in merriment at the Northman’s expense.

Drekarg cleared his throat, “I’m actually nine and ten years of age,” he stated proudly.

Nimeria’s smile widened, “very impressive,” she replied before continuing, “more importantly, how did you know I was behind that tree?”

“I sensed it, on a fundamental level, I felt my hairs stand on end with fear.” He answered proudly, for like any hunter, he relished the art of instinct.

“Interesting,” said the elf, reassessing him with what might have been suspicion or simply the piercing effect of her focus. “I suppose you should get that bronzewing before winter claims it,” she gestured to its now prone corpse.

“Ah yes, right.” Drekarg turned between the bird and the elf indecisively before making up his mind and turning back towards the elf and extending his hand, “nice to meet you Nimeria,” he announced as professionally as he could manage.

“Likewise,” supplied the elf, smiling faintly as she gripped his hand firmly. Her skin felt smooth and cool, like polished basalt.

“I don’t suppose you could spare a spot at your fire tonight?” she asked casually

“It would be my honour Nimeria,” replied Drekarg without hesitation, for it was always wise to keep company when making camp in the mountains, and common courtesy to boot. Additionally, pondered Drekarg a little guiltily, an elf was sure to make for fantastical company, such a rare occurrence could only be considered a fortuitous omen, or so most would think. Turning away he made for the soon-to-be venison. As he stooped to collect his prize from beneath a juniper bush a worrying query crossed his mind. Cautiously, he scrutinized the elf as he strung the bird with the others of its ilk along his belt.

“Nimeria, what were you doing behind the tree?” He presented his question in a completely neutral manner so as not to alert the elf to his doubt.

“I was watching you,” she replied flippantly.

“Oh, right,” said Drekarg, somewhat wrongfooted by her complete openness on the questionable activity.

After a brief but somewhat tense moment she elaborated, “because you intrigue me, Northman, the way you ‘hunt’, and I was not expecting to find a human so deep in the wilds.” She said the word ‘hunt’ in such a patronising manner Drekarg felt himself bristle.

“What is the matter with the way I hunt,” he retorted in a clipped fashion

The elf smirked “nothing, you are a great hunter, and your ‘bow’ is fine of quality.” Her tone indicated that this was far from genuine and Drekarg reflexively stroked his humble ash bow defensively before stopping himself.

“Where is your bow then? If you are so well acquainted with such things,” challenged Drekarg, a little more vigorously then intended

“I removed it so as not to frighten you little peasant boy,” retorted the elf indifferently as she made for the old birch behind which she had hid.

Taken aback by her aloofness, Drekarg paused before snorting derisively and following the elf.

“Here is my bow, boy,” she announced casually, though even Drekarg could detect the poorly hidden reverence with which she addressed the subject.

His eyes widened in amazement as he beheld the ivory-wooden long bow presented to him. Catching his breath Drekarg reached out a tentative hand to feel the wondrous craftsmen ship, when something occurred to him. His feeling of dread had not passed, he could still feel it on the back of his neck, like a feather being run down his spine. Nimeria saw the realisation on his face and raised a questioning eyebrow, “something wrong with my bow Northman?”

Drekarg peered into her eyes with a whittling gaze, “no, not you,” he realised, and that was when he saw it, as he looked passed and behind the elf’s ear. A great blur leaping through the air. Everything froze in his perception, he could see Nimeria’s eyes slowly widen as her ears began to twitch in response to the great displacement of air behind her. Drekarg saw orange and yellow leaves rise and fall in lazy spirals as they were caught in the draft of the creature’s passage. Without acknowledging what he was doing he grabbed the elf by her shoulders and threw her aside, the shear lightness of her frame for some reason stuck to the forefront of his mind even as his right hand snatched at his knife whilst his left rose to shield him from the great maw gaping not inches from his face. And then everything crashed back into a craze of blurs and vivid sensations. Drekarg felt a fetid stench pore over him as a deafening roar sundered his ears, and a massive, matted bulk crushed him to the ground. The air was torn from his lungs with the impact, and he saw naught but a black haze. His left hand closed around its throat and he pushed up with all his strength as the gnashing teeth sent a frenzy of spittle cascading over his face. He felt its great paws scrabble maddeningly, like iron rakes over his thick coat as it sought to expose his innards. Gripping for dear life to the oaken hilt of his knife, he summoned his strength in a momentous surge and plunged it into the side of its neck, just above where his left hand held its throat. The thing let out a horrendous peal as it pressed down on him, and he answered back with a deafening bellow of his own that saw all his fear and pain channelled into it. He pulled his knife out at struck again and again until the creature’s whimpers went quiet and its mass turned limp. He lay there, sucking in the freezing air with fresh appreciation as the great corpse pressed him to the ground. He could still feel its warmth as it seeped out through the vital fluid that was now soaking into his right arm and torso. Gathering his thoughts Drekarg prepared to heave the corpse off him when he heard a loud grown and felt it begin to shift seemingly of its own accord. With a shared grunt Drekarg and Nimeria managed to shift the thing off him. She then stood over him panting with her hands on her hips.

“You okay peasant boy?” she asked with an uneasy smile.

“I’m fine,” he croaked, though his quivering muscles and stark pallor suggested otherwise.

Apparently satisfied with his response Nimeria extended a hand which Drekarg gladly accepted and hauled him to his feet. She then circled him, brushing down his back and pulling the twigs and leaves from his hair as he stared dumbly at the carcass. A mountain lion, a young male by the looks, probably having just left its pride. It almost looked diminutive removed of its energy.

“Your chest needs mending,” interrupted Nimeria, rousing Drekarg from his speculations. He looked down and hissed in pain as the body conveyed what the eyes could see. His chest was a mess of deep gouges and torn fabric.

“You are lucky you Northmen grow so big,” she continued, “without so much meat you would be in far dire straits, but as it stands, you will recover.”

Drekarg would’ve plainly liked to disagree but was determined to maintain his composure.

“I’ll need to clean it up by the lake,” he stated stoically.

“Let us first make camp, the hour grows late, and the sun sets early in the valley,” instructed Nimeria as she began to lead the way down the slope without sparing a second glance for the lion. Drekarg was still getting his breath back as he continued to inspect its pale grey form. There was no way he could skin it before dark, and its pelt would attract every other predator in the Valley. But he was damned if he was going to arrive at Dasboon without a souvenir as proof of such an epic encounter. kneeling by its side, he compared his knife, which was still clutched tightly in his hand, to the five prone claws of its right forelimb. Without further ado he set about quickly removing them whilst Nimeria called impatiently from the hastening gloom. After pocketing his bounty, he tenderly closed his arms across his chest and followed her.

On the pebbled shore by the lake, Drekarg lay on a thin strip of sand created by the traveling of all manner of animals. Nimeria had been pragmatic and efficient in lighting a fire after guiding Drekarg down the mountain. Having now prepared the birds and left them to roast over the fire she selected a pouch and produced some bandages and a vial as she knelt by his side. The pain in his chest had become excruciating, even if it was superficial. Untying the fabric of his mangled shirt which he had used as a substitute bandage, he groaned as the cold coiled around his ruined flesh. Nimeria’s skin glistened like polished obsidian in the firelight as she knelt over him, and he noticed small freckles of even darker complexion scattered evenly about her character.

Partially delirious through a combination of pain and the hooch Nimeria had poured down his throat Drekarg raised his hand clumsily and stabbed a finger at her face, “freckles,” he hiccupped, before pointing to his own spotted features in explanation.

Somewhat taken aback by his liveliness Nimeria sat on her haunches and reappraised him, “yes, they are a good omen, a mark of honesty and courage in an individual,” she replied with kindness before stating, “brace yourself Northman,” with that she smeared the contents of her vial over and into his open flesh. Drekarg ground his teeth and flared his nostrils as his eyes bulged from his head. After the unrelenting torment, he lay painting as she threaded new bandages under and over his torso before tying them off. With considerable effort she than helped prop him up against a large boulder so that she could have a spot in the sand beside him as they shared the venison. They sat with their knees drawn to up their chest and were rugged with every available blanket to ward off the cold. Looking up at the ethereal lights of the sky Drekarg sighed contentedly. He was loath to break the silence between himself and the Elf but he was burning with questions and yearned to take his mind from the ferocious pain in his chest.

“So what are you doing in the Valley Nimeria? And why were you watching me?” Despite his best efforts his voice still quavered slightly due to his pain and the numbing cold.

Nimeria’s response came from deep within the cowl of her dark green cloak, but Drekarg felt the piercing effect of her eyes all the same.

“I travel for the town of Dasboon to meet my older sister, Nethalia. I was watching you because you are the first local I have seen, and I wanted to evaluate how well acquainted your people are with elves.”

“Ahh, I see,” replied Drekarg in understanding, “well, you need not fear for we are but simple folk. We might be big and brutish in appearance but ours is a humble life. The current Earl of Dasboon is a reasonable man too, so long as you don’t go flaunting anything… unnatural, you will be greeted with all due hospitality.” He emphasised the pause halfway through his address to ensure she understood his meaning.

If Nimeria was perturbed by this she showed no sign of it “Just as my sister told me,” she mused in a seemingly content manner. “I imagine a local such as yourself would know the way through these meandering mountain paths better than anyone?” She asked with just a hint of hope.

“Like the back of my hand,” agreed Drekarg, “what’s more, you are in luck for I too am headed for Dasboon to inform the Earl of our expected tithe before winter sets in,” he related this as coolly as he could manage though internally he was thrilled with excitement at the prospect of sharing the lonely mountain paths with an elf. This was surely something he would brag about for many years, not to mention the mountain lion. Fondling the claws in his pocket, Drekarg’s head was filled with glorious visions of him bragging to all his old friends over a great mug of beer in the tavern of Dasboon.

“The strands of fate converge,” murmured the elf within her hood. The sincerity in her voice piqued Drekarg’s interest.

“What does that mean?” He asked bluntly, putting aside his fantasies.

“It means a piece of destiny is at play,” answered the Elf as though such a thing were obvious. This confounded Drekarg all the more, so he dropped the matter and turned his attention back to the night sky and his imminent arrival in Dasboon. There was more than one reason for his anticipation, for he had now come of age to earn his first sigil. No longer would his forearms be so bare. The town of Dasboon was resident to one of the greatest ink-weavers in all the Valley, and Drekarg’s father had given him a hefty pouch to afford his service.

Because, as his father always said, “your first sigil is the most important my boy, it defines the beginning of your journey through this world”.

The past seven nights in the mountains had seen Drekarg staring into the heavens trying to decipher what constellation would suite him best. It had to be something that resonated with him, or else he would be subject to bad luck. Until tonight he had been terribly undecided on the matter, though now, as he played the claws across his palm he knew his choice to be made.

Sometime later Drekarg was snoring soundly with his head lolled against the boulder, whilst Nimeria had fallen against him with her head now lying upon his shoulder. The last embers of the fire glowed faintly in spite of the freezing night that pervaded all around, its reflection mirrored perfectly in the total stillness of the ink black lake. The oil-like surface of which began to ripple. Little waves lapped at the pebbles and grit not two metres from the sleeping duo. Deep in her sleep though she was, Nimeria’s acute hearing detected even this and she began to rouse when a deep thunderous toll resounded down the Valley and across the lake. The elf was sprung from her sleep like a cat hit by a pail of water, sending a spray of substrate as she crouched in lieu of the boulder. Brandishing her knife she assessed the surrounding dark with feline canny. Ascertaining no threat was nearby she relaxed. Her cheeks flushed as she realised she had fallen asleep on the Northerner who, abruptly removed of the warmth to his side finally stirred. Swallowing a snore and jolting forward he opened his eyes and rubbed the back of his head. He first noticed that the lake was lively despite an utter lack of wind and secondly, that the elf was looking at him in an unusual, almost accusing manner.

“What in all the-” he began, before being cut off by an apocalyptic roar of such magnitude he felt his innards turn fuzzy and the grains in his sleeves fall loose. The lake started frothing as the waves became more frequent and spasmodic. The pebbles that surrounded them began to clack and vibrate, creating a foreboding rattle all along the lake shore. The thunderous tumult persisted for what felt like an aeon before finally subsiding to echoes through the canyons. Though the ringing in Drekarg’s head took considerably longer to subside, and his heart felt as though it might break free of his ribcage. Nimeria seemed to have been paralysed, her eyes were fixed to the night sky. With a sudden violent tremor, she shook herself off and righted her bearings. Drekarg began working the blood back into his face so that he might subdue the stiffness of his tongue. When a great gust of wind tore through the Valley, viciously ripping at their garments and flattening the lake as debris were blasted across its surface. The smouldering embers of the fire flared to life with a crackle of sparks. But the gale lasted only moments before dissipating as suddenly as it had been summoned. Both the Northman and the elf were rendered speechless as they stared into the surrounding dark, trying desperately to rationalise what had just occurred. Defeated, Nimeria returned to Drekarg’s side and swaddled herself in her cloak. The two of them huddled together, peering furtively into the night as the embers once again began to fade, leaving them in total stillness. They listened as the last ripples in the lake subsided. Evening itself out in a matter of minutes, the lake reverting to its original glass-like pretence as if in denial of what had just occurred.