The Valley of Our Kings

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Once the Arcane Scrolls held in the libraries of Lessard were translated from their ancient and lost tongues, few of the stories were allowed to be officially released. Still, locked cabinets, guarded doors, and sacred oaths couldn't keep excited whispers from traveling through crowded pubs on dismal winter nights. Tales grew in demand of eye witness accounts of sea merchants from far away nations coming under attack by winged beasts on moonless nights. Soon the whole city learned of these cursed sea farers washing ashore long enough to share of flying leviathans conjuring storms to announce their vengeance on those daring to cross their pilgrimage. Many vessels were found months after their expected arrival, charred black with ash. The crew members lost to the sea, or worse.

In the time of the second Great Winter a series of peculiar fog banks rolled from the angry waters, across the Western Shores, and settled in the Valley. Six days were drenched in silence. On the seventh an unholy host soared from the depths of the fog to find their rest in the rocky mountain sides overlooking the pastures below.

Why this valley? Why not the lush forests of Coldune? Surely the foliage offered better cover. Or the deserted cites of Mitier and North Hashel. No one there but war criminals left to their own devices. Might they provide game for a bored dragon? But no. For reasons unknown to men the dragons found their home. At least for the time being.

°°°

Lash ran as fast as he could through the vacant, snow laden alleys of Somer. His large village, nestled in the forests of the western valley, had spent weeks preparing for the Winter Solstice celebration. And now that the moon was full, the village square was alive with fires, dancing, and feasting. Lash himself should have been there hours ago but his little sister, Rosey, thought it funny to hide his newly pressed tunic earlier in the afternoon. Lash's mother, Ruth, wasn't around to help him as she was away with the other women preparing for the nights festivities. He couldn't just wear any old thing if he was to impress Laurilyn. Of course she was a few years older and the daughter of one of the elders but hey, anything can happen on a Winter Solstice.

The square was a sight to see. Banners of blue and white shimmered as the massive central fire bounced its light off their specially woven cloth. Tables were set all around with the prepared feasts renowned across the western lands. In the middle, minstrels harmonized, causing their audience to dance and clap. It was a time of rejoicing as the fall had been blessed and the season ahead held much hope for the village. A new elder council had been finally decided and peace returned after months of infighting and territorial claims.

Lash brushed aside his brown hair as he eyed the crowd for Laurilyn.

"Well looky here! Lash cleans up after all!" came a voice across one of the tables. It was Thom who was apparently enjoying this years cider a bit too much.

"Ha! Look at yourself Thom!" exclaimed Lash. "Your tunic doesn't quite fit like it did last year now does it!"

Thoms tunic bulged at his midsection. His apprenticeship with the bakers was a little too good to him.

"I regret nuttin Lash," Thom said patting his belly like a proud mother 7 months along. "By the way, Laurilyn went to gather the elders."

Lash grabbed a nearby fruit pie and shoved it in his mouth. "Frwhat? Wha youme...I don't car..I mean."

Rosey jumped out from a table behind them. Her messy red hair running wild despite their mothers best attempt to tie it back.

"Oooo what's her name, what's her name, what's her name?!"

Lash tried grabbing her by her already dirty smock but Rosey smacked his hand away, stuffed some fruit pies into her pockets and ran back under the tables. An underground tunnel system for the village children sneaking sweets away from their parents disapproving gazes.

"Well just keep the crumbs off that nice tunic of yours, ok?" said Thom laughing.

Across the courtyard seven men and women in flowing purple robes emerged from the village hall. In silent procession they made their way to the central fire and sat down in a row. Their heads bowed and covered by matching deep purple hoods. The music stopped as a hush came over the crowd. Seeing the elders, everyone rushed to their seats trying to get their view of the main event. Before every winter solstice celebration the elders would deliberate on what tale to share with the people. It was to be a tale according to the season, meant to edify and build up the people for the coming days. The villagers had spent the previous weeks excitedly guessing which story would be chosen for this season. Would it be the Great War of Vladess? Maybe the Tribes of Ackerran and their siege of the last Dark Regiment. Caravans from the neighboring lands carried news of unrest in the capital city. The residents of Somer did their best to pretend distant politics and rumors of upheaval would never make their way to their families and farms. They chose to put their faith in the stories and tales of their own heritage. And whichever tale the elders chose for tonight would be sure to delight.

Lash bumped his way up front leaving Thom behind with his new love, an untapped keg of peach cider that was hidden under one of the tables. As Lash took his seat his eyes met hers. How had he not seen her before? Laurilyn was right there seated closest to one of the elders on the left. From behind her pale blue ceremonial veil she looked at him unimpressed and turned her eyes away. Lash imagined there was a semblance of a smile but decided not to get ahead of himself. The festival was long and he was patient to win her heart or at least a dance.

The elder sitting in the center stood and took a step forward. Pulling back his hood revealing himself to be Francis of Durncott. It was said that as a man ages 30 years Francis aged 1. For as long as anyone living in Somer knew, Francis sat at the head chair of the Council. For years the people took confidence in Francis's leadership, for his rulings were fair and his judgements sound. Standing before his audience he surveyed them with kindness and knowing. His eyes were light gray as an overcast morning and his hair, white as the snow on the surrounding roofs. The audience leaned in wordless, waiting for the familiar first line to their favorite tales. Francis raised his arms and spoke.

"We were not first in this Valley."

Francis paused for the usual resounding applause. Instead he was met with inquisitive looks and whispers. This wasn't a story many remembered. The only scattered applause came from the elderly. Even then, they stopped short to focus their attention. Francis opened his mouth to continue when a hooded figure caught his eye moving slowly behind his audience. Refocusing he continued.

"We have always been a proud people. You know it. I know it. And our children will too in time. Our land is as much our identity as is the family names we have inherited. Honorable names. Names going back to our forefathers and mothers; the original families who were the first to fight and the last to resist against King Marcelle and his armies of night. In time this rag tag band of men and women made their way to this Valley with one goal. They were to harness dragon fire."

Francis lifted a cup of plum wine to his lips letting the crackling fire fill the silence. Setting his cup down he turned his head toward the hooded figure weaving in and out of the crowd unnoticed. Sewn into the border of their cloak was a thin strip of gold that glowed by the firelight making the figure more a specter. A soft breeze carrying a softer melody he hadn't heard for hundreds of years began travelling through the crowd, eventually wrapping itself around Francis.

The audience began to murmur as they looked for the source of the beautiful music. The minstrels set their instruments down as confessions of innocence. Francis's usual pleasant demeanor changed. His overcast eyes, swelling with tears, no longer looked at the crowd but a thousand miles through them.

"So many. So very many for the one. For she wasn't to return."

The hooded figure stepped forward and pulled back their hood. Long red and gray curls flowed out with fragrance of spring. Though her face was aged she held a unique beauty that captivated the audience. Many villagers stumbled to make room for her as she stared at Francis with piercing light green eyes.

Lash looked at her and back at the elder. His eyes widened in unbelief. As Francis's tears streamed down his face his light grey eyes began to darken to a deep blue. His weathered and wrinkled face began to smooth and his white hair began changing to a sandy blonde.

"Legends keep us warm. They comfort us yet touch upon something deep within. But legends become fantasy when we fail to believe in them," spoke the woman with a warm and sure voice. The villagers stood in amazement, not at the comforting nature of her voice but as she too began to change. As she continued speaking the grey in her hair was replaced with red and her aged and drawn face began to be washed over with youth.

"The dragons knew of it. Long before us. They traveled to guard it," her voice began to grow in intensity, "and our fathers lied to our mothers when they went to take it from them. Unholy fires for mortal men."

Francis looked up with now equally piercing blue eyes and with a voice of a man decades younger he spoke. "To vanquish a dynasty grown calloused and cold it took men willing to do what only they would do."

She stepped forward a pace. "They did what desperation bred in their hearts."

Francis took a step forward. "To build a legacy."

"At the expense of their children."

"Yet, did we not succeed Grace?" said Francis, his eyes deepening.

Lash looked down to see that the woman named Grace had let a slender blade descend from her cloak sleeve. He looked nervously for Rosey. She had found their mom and was hiding in the back.

"And our families carry a debt generations in the making because of it," said grace raising her voice. "Now the eastern winds bring change through the land and you must awake from your centuries old slumber. For among these families lie sleeping giants who carry the names of old! The names of the true heirs are being called again!"

"Who calls?" questioned Francis with indignation. "I am the last and that is why there is peace."

Grace paused then looked at Lash. She slowly moved her blade resting it just before his chest. Lash began to tremble uncontrollably. Grace gazed into this eyes. Lash was overcome with the feeling of love. She turned back to Francis. Her voice calm once more.

"Look at him and tell me you didn't know."

Francis looked upon Lash still trembling and back at Grace. His head lowered in resignation.

"Tell me you hear them too," Grace spoke softly, almost pleading.

Winds began picking up, blowing out the torches around them. Francis's fists clenched as his breathing became heavy.

"Why have you come Grace?"

"Tell me Francis..."

"Why have you come back here Grace...why..."

"Tell me what they say Francis!"

Lash stared at Francis as he was the one now shaking uncontrollably. Was it fear? Grief? Tears rolled again down the elders face as he slowly lifted his head exposing a fury that caused Lash to hold his breath. Grace stared back unmoved. Francis's eyes became ice as he opened his mouth to speak words not his own.

"The sins of the father will be the sins of the sons. And I will do it again."

Graces eyes widened and she let out a small gasp only heard by Lash. A heaviness formed and a dread began filling the air. The villagers were too afraid to move. All eyes were on Francis when Grace looked at Lash. She smiled and put her hand on his head. Lash felt fire flow through his being. The breeze came back and flowed all around him. Then turning to Francis she stepped forward until they were face to face. In a unknown tongue she spoke barely louder than a whisper. Then in a known tongue she spoke.

"You were right husband. We were not first in this valley."

Under the starlight an echo came rolling across the valley. It grew louder into a scream raging down the mountains. Like winter waves it crashed over the shores of the village. Before panic could fully set in the main village fire was extinguished, plunging Somer into black silence.