The Trials of the Steadfast

Chapter One, The Depths of Misfortune

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. Nor were the foreign creatures ever seen roaming through the secluded farms of Mollager. Not until the dismal morning when cries of terror suddenly arose from the vegetable fields and panic-stricken villagers ran from their homes to the safety of the mountain sanctuary. Hissing shadows plummeted out of the darkening clouds. Word of winged-devils swept through the pandemonium as stampeding citizens were plucked from the ground like ripened fruit and dragged, screaming, out of sight. Many were slain, lying clawed and maimed upon the fresh soil of their land. The rest eventually found temporary refuge amidst the steep, rocky ridges that rose above the valley, leaving behind them their fallen and the dragons’ bellowing snarls.

No one could have known where the strange monsters had come from nor why they had attacked, yet vicious accusations were inevitably thrown in the direction of one particular citizen. Asher, a man accustomed to such misfortune that would lead to Mollager’s devastation. It would not have been the first time he had proven himself to be a source of miserable luck.

The people of the village had a ritual they were to perform upon the first night of spring to ensure prosperity for their crops. They would collect a handful of soil from their unplanted lands and cast it into the fountain in the heart of the stone sanctuary. In turn their yields would flourish and no one would starve. However, when Asher chose to do his part and tossed his soil into the fountain, everyone’s crops reaped a meager harvest and left people sick and hungry for the succeeding months. The coincidence seemed hardly mysterious to the farmers. Never again was the man allowed to make an offering, nor did anyone wish to associate with him or his wife, Mirna. They were both considered to be untouchable in the eyes of their people. Ever since, they were blamed for all miseries that befell the farms. Whether it be storms, droughts, or buildings collapsing over rotten beams, fingers were pointed in their direction. So it was no great surprise to Mirna when the villagers hurled suspicious glances at them after the dragons had invaded Mollager and the people retreated into the mountain hold.

The conditions only worsened when their resources began to run out and a late chill left their feet and hands numb with a dank cold. Cut off from their supplies, their bellies began to ache with hunger while they cowered on the high ridge. The only passage out of the valley rested in the pass between two mountains on the opposite side, where an escape would have been possible if only it were not in the dragons’ path. But if they did not make it to the pass, they would surely die out in the open after weeks of hiding. In their desperation not to succumb to that hopeless fate, a few of the survivors forged a plan to send a large group of the strongest men back into the valley to fight and kill the beasts. The men brandished both sword and sickle, fanning out across the open fields as they descended into the valley like hunters on the prowl before disappearing out of view.

Hours of eerie silence had stretched into the dusk, the intensity tightening in the villager’s chests as they awaited some sort of sign or sound from the group that had gone below. They had stood frozen at the crest of the ridge to see what, if anything, would happen. Then, at the darkest hour, shouts rang out from the valley. So shrill and distorted that the howls seemed inhuman. Clanking metal and outcries of agony were inevitably drowned out by the prevailing winds but were carried up the slope of the ridge to drone a haunting chorus the survivors would not soon forget. Moments after the chaos had begun, it became deathly quiet once again. For days they waited, but not one of the men returned.

Their wives, friends, and their children grieved for days with hushed sobs when not a single soul came back. As foreseen, the brutal deaths of the strongest men among them were attributed to Asher and Mirna’s presence among the rest of the weary survivors. They forced the pair to remain beyond the walls of the protected sanctuary, nearly beyond their line of vision but close enough so that their fervent whispers reverberating off of the stone walls could be heard.

Mirna stood impatiently behind the jagged line that the village leader had carved into the mud before ordering her and her husband to remain on their segregated side. For allowing them to be amongst the others would provoke the villagers' fears even further. But the woman knew that no matter how many more perished, or what other catastrophe transpired, that the blame would rain solely on their heads. It was always Asher’s fault. And, by association, her own. She had endured the hostile stares, the faulty rumors being spread, the slamming of doors in her face, and the lack of friendship alongside him for years. But the idea that they were responsible for this bloodshed is where the threat had reached its dreadful peak. Even while she listened, those huddled in tight circles spoke of ridding themselves of the “blunderous afflictions” in order to cleanse the town for good, as if the act of dispatching the pair would somehow eradicate the murderous dragons from Mollager once and for all.

Asher’s sturdy figure and long arms crouched on the edge of his sleeping mat as he tried once again to keep the smoldering fire from vanquishing. He’d light it once and after a short period of time it would dwindle and die, letting the miserable camp be surrounded by the night’s chill. Dust-colored strands drooped over brown, rounded eyes while he vigorously scraped more powder into the nest of dead wood and twigs with a dull knife. He sat there making diligent efforts that were certain to fail, while not thirty paces away their neighbors conspired against them as each hour waned into another.

A hush swept over the sanctuary once the village leader, Cynric, called out to the survivors nestled within the stone boundaries, “People!” His urgent voice brought their fretful eyes and faces twisted with anguish to attention. “We have lost so many friends to the foul monsters already. And I wish not to lose any others. But our supplies are depleted. Our rations are nearly gone. Without sustenance, we will perish on this mountain. Therefore, I say we take this final chance and fight.” Mirna could see the man standing on the edge of the sacred fountain, elevated so that all could hear and see him. “Who among you will put aside your fear and defend each other with what little strength we have left?”

Not a sound was uttered. The deafening stillness served as a hollow reply to the question that no one dared answer. Though they did not intend to act in defiance, the people did not want to throw their lives away for nothing.

Cynric responded with a solemn, wounded resignation, “None of you will fight to slay the beasts? None of you will rise to protect our village? Our home? If none of you have the courage to face the creatures, then so be it. If none of you will go, then I will go…alone.”

This bold declaration caused an uproar of shouts as villagers bounded to their feet and lifted their voices in protest. None would stand to let one of the elders of their village, their leader, venture into the valley by himself. Though not a feeble man, he would not be strong enough to kill a dragon. One man could not succeed where twenty had failed. Even if he were able to hunt even one, they still had no knowledge of how many monsters were still lurking amongst the dense fields and the timbered farmhouses down below. And they had only seen fragments of sharp fangs and scaly skin darting in and out of the darkness. His act of determined bravery would only be a sentencing to certain death.

In the heat of the growing disorder, Mirna felt a sudden presence arrive beside her at the edge of their exile. Asher’s features were locked in a pensive glare, jaw tight and eyes unblinking. They widened with astonishment when one after another, the survivors refused to join their leader or rebuked him for even considering putting more lives at risk. Though, they must have understood that if they stayed in the mountains any longer, that they would die anyway. Yet, they seemed willingly blind to this. The notion incited a spark that grew with the continued discourse.

“We’ve no chance without Cynric!” cried one woman to another.

“Shall we condemn more to be devoured by those vile creatures?” someone questioned weakly.

“Our fate is sealed as long as we remain oblivious to the true source of our suffering,” a voice crowed above the slithering whispers. They were again quieted by their leader’s hollow speech.

“I will ask nothing more of you,” Cynric continued sorrowfully. “Whether you come or if you stay, there is no other choice for me.”

The shadow over Mirna’s face darkened with every ill-conceived thought. The fearsome dragons had taken more than just the souls of their friends and loved ones, they had drained every last drop of spirit from the frail and depleted townspeople during the weeks filled with monotonous dread. Minute by minute, the village had grown more tired and even more desperate. Meanwhile, Asher’s wearying hope expanded to his own detriment. She could sense it like she sensed the evil lingering in the valley beneath them. He would have gone with the men before, if they had allowed it. However, they were afraid his presence would thwart their efforts or worse. But if he had gone, then he would only have proven nothing to them. And Mirna would be alone. That did not matter anymore, now that the men had fallen. Nor did it matter that the villagers declined to make a final stand beside their beloved leader.

She spoke soberly without turning to face him, “Let the old man go. It will make no difference in the end. Why should you be slaughtered in vain for a bunch of fools?”

At this, the young man was stricken with pain. A pain that drove him to twist on his heel and stride to where he had placed his sleeping mat over the trampled ground. With a drastic sweep of his arms, he lifted the bedroll to reveal where he had hidden an ax for chopping wood. The head of the blade was covered in a dusting of rust and the helve was worn and on the verge of snapping in two. With little effort, he lifted it from the muddy ground and marched onward up the incline of the ridge, carrying the instrument like a lighted torch.

Mirna hesitated to follow, thinking that he had lost his wits all of a sudden. What did he imagine they would say to him? What might they do in this fragile state of mind? But eventually, she crossed over that dividing line as well.

When Asher darted into the heart of the sanctuary, wielding his ax, the villagers recoiled in surprise. Many leaped back from him or dove aside as their paths converged. They were wild with upheaval, pointing and shouting while their eyes rolled and jaws opened like ravenous animals. The crowd split cleanly down the middle like a torn curtain, creating a wide berth between them and the intruder and an open path to the sacred fountain. Their broiling panic undermined Cynric’s look of serene understanding.

“I will go with you!” he proudly announced with the deepest conviction. But it was met with jeering dissent.

“You can’t! He is the cause of all this!” an old woman screeched.

A man stood and roared, “That blight will be your undoing. He may lead you right into the maw of the beast!”

Another contradicted, “If it takes him, then it will be the end of our suffering.”

Asher glanced over the seething crowd, apathetic to their outcries. Then looked behind him as Mirna arrived at the threshold of the sanctuary and waited. “Then I will destroy the dragons myself.”

A squall of horror swelled inside Mirna’s chest, her mind wracked with fear. The idea of Asher descending into the bowels of the valley made her head spin and her vision blurr. The storm kept stirring and stirring until she could not withhold her words any longer. She let them fly past her lips, determined to stop this madness. “And if you are wrong? And he is not the reason the dragons attacked? What will you do then?” she challenged coldly.

Cynric eyed them both with earnest, “I cannot allow this.”

“You must,” Asher replied, the matter settled. Mirna’s blood turned to ice once the village reached a solitary agreement. They were content to condemn a man based on falsehoods and lies. It was deplorable. But even more so was Asher’s acceptance.

The town leader descended the sacred fountain, taking the short sword from his side. It was a crude weapon, not meant for battle, barely larger than a dagger. But Cynric held it out to the younger man as if it were encrusted with gold. “Then take this, son. It will serve you better than that ax.” Perhaps he was right. Though not a powerful blade, the serrated edge was laced with a rare poison that stunned whoever touched the potion. Except for the subtle scent of fresh flowers, it was undetectable. To humans, at least.

Asher took the weapon graciously and went from the enclosure with one final look at Mirna, softening with reassurance. But she did not welcome it. For there was no nobility in dying for those who thought and cared so little for their lives. It left a bitter taste of venom that repelled her from their sight. It was not for the sake of fear that she followed, but the repulsion in the presence of a village that lacked courage more than they lacked sympathy. She turned her back on them swiftly, ignoring the whispers that echoed in her wake and embraced the harsh winds that swept over the rocky ridge.

In moments she caught up with him on the sloping trail and came to his side. “What do you think you are doing? You’re mad if you think this will change things. Even if it could, you will get yourself killed.”

He drew in a breath, “I have always endured their discouragement. But I cannot bear yours.” They were silent for a long time before he said. “Stay put. Hopefully, I will put an end to this.”

She gripped him by the shoulder, bringing him to a halt. If he insisted on playing the hero, then it would serve their chances of survival if they went together. “No. We will put an end to this.”

It was a ghostly hour at dawn, with no sun to pierce through the fog that had settled under the mountains. It sank into the thick of the tall, lush grasses and obscured the view of what lay beyond the dense shroud of mist. Though it acted as a blanket of cover, it also kept them guessing where the creatures may have been wandering. Keeping low to the damp earth, they kept sidelong to the fading footprints of their predecessors that zagged across the stalky fields, peering through the haze to spy any sign of either the beasts or the fallen men. It was quiet. Not a single insect chirped. Nor did the rooster crow. There was only the sound of something large moving somewhere outside the wall of growth towering overhead. As they neared the depths of the valley, they could hear shallow breathing circling them as if the valley itself were heaving an expectant sigh.

Mirna spotted a sickle sticking out of the ground not some paces away. It had been deposited there as if someone had hastily dropped it before running away. She quickly, but soundlessly, tread across the loose dirt and gently pulled the farming tool from the mud. At least, she would not be defenseless. But when she returned to the plotted path, she found that Asher was gone. She dared not call for him, but quickened her pace to find him before they encountered one of the creatures.

The grasses swished suddenly to one side as a slender shadow shifted through them and disappeared. Mirna ducked under the brush, pulse thundering in her ears after having seen the trace of a long, black tale edged with thorny spikes. It sliced through the stalks as it wove through them with such unnatural speed. In the blink of an eye, it vanished from her sight and slipped into the fog. The field ended at a wooden fence, whereupon had been left the jagged marks of a massive claw that had ripped apart a number of sturdy posts. Still no sign of Asher. Mirna searched in every direction for him but only saw doors that had been ripped off of their hinges while tables, chairs, carts, wheelbarrows, and farming tools were gathered from the inside of the farmhouses and piled onto a massive, riffled heap in the village square. In the same way that birds collected bits and twigs to make a nest, the dragons had done so with the village’s supply. The actions seemed deliberate, almost plotted. However, for all the talk of the vile beasts that had attacked weeks before, the unknown number of creatures they feared, she only found one nest in the center of town. And none others. Maybe they were all hiding. Maybe they were waiting.

Finally, she noticed him, creeping along the opposite side of the square. He must have circled behind the houses in hopes to catch one of the dragons from a new angle. Asher had yet to see her coming, so she hurried with measured steps, keeping the outer wall of the barn to her back.

There came a sudden gust of air, so strong and intense that its current knocked Mirna off of her feet. The sickle flew from her hands as she fell to the dirt, the sight she beheld stealing her breath. The monster swooped from its elevated perch atop the barn in an iridescent wave of grayish-black. Groups of spiny veins webbed together spread out in arcs from a snake-like body, forming multiple pairs of gliding wings. Its lizerdine head, covered in pointed scales, aimed straight as it barrelled down from the sky in an unfurling spiral, drops of acidic ichor dripping from its golden fangs. It sailed into the earth with a loud crash, sending up a wall of dirt and rock that obscured it from sight. Mirna watched, helpless as the silhouette inside the cloud spun, swinging wide its deadly tail. She heard a yelp of surprise as it connected with its target. The power of the blow launched Asher backwards, tumbling end over end before landing on his back in a field. A cry of worry escaped from her throat before she had the insight to cover her mouth. But she realized the mistake far too late. It grew still as the cloud began to evaporate, the dust settling.

A hissing voice echoed from deep within, “Bold, you are, to have me wait this long.”

From behind the wall of dirt and fog, emerged the looming face of the dragon. It opened its maw to reveal a void guarded by needle-like fangs and released a tendril of its sweltering breath. Fused into its head, burned a pair of vaporous wisps of white that circled like perpetual whirlwinds. The woman lay frozen as it cast its gaze upon her and sprang forward in a muffled advance.