There, and Not There

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Now there were at least two.

And she needed to find them. Actually she would have to accomplish much more than that: not to steal away any weapon or treasure, but to return one.

*

Nelm swept thick stinging brush from her path, her studded leather gloves and sleeves useful in that. Her wolf-dog companion sniffed and scanned, finding some narrow access nearer soggy ground. Lately, under many circumstances, Bow had been proving himself more than helpful. She was quite glad to have him alongside.

From its mouth the only route into the deep pit of the Valley and up to the winding cliffs was this slog through the swamp thickets. Once she was able to ascend a bit, the ground cover would shift to much less dense forest. There they would press on through the timbers and over the mountain rocks. But then, next, locating Their dens among the cracks and caves of the heights would be another burden.

They pressed against other forces as well. Once distant pursuers were certainly ever nearing, as they sped along open roads and plains. Despite the branches she clearly perceived clouds now gathering, like hammers to anvils, while the air chilled. Her time to task tightened: every moment hacking at vegetation or seeking toeholds delayed the goal. And once the storm broke, those winged beasts would only burrow deeper, hoarding their warmth.

*

In prehistory the Valley must have been only swamp river, fledgling wood, sharp peaks. Then the land evolved, and creatures with it. The river’s spread brought blooms and insects eager for pollen, as deeper waters spawned fish. Once the lesser creatures were established then phoenixes, manticores, a basilisk or two arrived to reside up in the high cliffsides. Eventually a mated dragon pair appeared, one day suddenly dropping from the sky like burning sun and moon–then soon enough, the rougher beasts retreated, or disappeared.

So legend says.

Humans developed also. Farming flourished, then trade. Villages became towns, cities emerged, fiefdoms were duly founded. Many came together in alliances, formed kingdoms. Some sought Empire.

There existed some intimate connection between the Valley and the human spaces, it became believed. Historical records suggested that as one waxed or waned, flowered or went fallow, so did the other in parallel. The varied Peoples prospered when the Valley teemed; suffered whenever the Valley was torn. Tyrants died right along with manticores.

Over the flow of years the Cities began to determine means to confirm or disprove this strong belief. Ceremonies and theological studies, scientific experiments and expeditions, followed. To seek to fathom the possible connection—if not control it—rulers and councils at times declared official quests towards fuller knowledge, any success at which they might match with material rewards. These could include, in exceptional instances, even the granting of lands or title. Other organizations, unofficial, more obscure but with sufficient resources, might also choose to sponsor a promising campaign.

The Broken Ships Society centered in the inland city of Pinnacles were such a group. Neither the old capital’s longest inhabitants nor its official organs would admit to more than a superficial awareness of the Ships' nature or origins. Its members apparently, according to scribes and Sayers, belonged to a range of guilds and classes, perhaps extending beyond Pinnacles. Their doings were murky; their name was nonsensical. No one could say where they even gathered.

*

On the Pinnacles West Road a half-coach with strong retinue marched from the frontier side. Guarded by several pikes and swords wielded by exceptionally fit and agile looking men and women, it was met by a squad sent out from the Pinnacles’ main road constabulary.

Nilm went forward to parley as First Guard. He rode a gray horse, was half-armored in steel and leather, weaponed with lance, crossbow, saber. Nilm’s beard was starting to fade, but his frame held firm.

He approached the retinue with appropriate courtesy.

“Brothers-sisters, how goes the spring journey?”

“Well. We are City-bound.” This, from the lithe young man leading the pack, atop a chestnut war-pony.

“We, City-exited.”

“Indeed.”

“Tell me, friends, what you bring into our City. What finds, and losses?”

The war-pony pawed a little at the earth road. His rider smoothly adjusted and replied, “Dusty bodies, hopes of steam baths and fresh meats. Report that the West is firm.”

Nilm's pale eyes squinted in the nooning sun of the shadeless road. He stared again at the two-horse coach, its tough defenders. “You’d not object to proper inspection?"

“Of course,” said the younger man, waving rather ambiguously.

Nilm quickly scanned his Guard. Few showed any field scars, and they were a mixed crew, if fully trained. Trying to get a better sense of the armadillo-like coach at rest amidst the iron-clawed humans, he eased his own horse more off to the right. Through the retinue, on closer view the main door looked bashed in and bloodied.

“Friends, encounter some trouble?”

“Trouble indeed,” snarled the young man.

The coach retinue immediately charged.

*

The true magic and business about a dragon is that its heart never dies.

Potentially, tough scales can be pierced, and heat-breath doused. Magnificent wings and limbs hacked, subdued.

But a dragon's heart, no. It contains essence of magic and life. It must beat on.

*

Nilm was hardly concerned for dragons' hearts, only for his and those of his men, especially as the fight ensued. The coach squad proved as fierce as it appeared, and while Nilm’s detachment was more numerous, the guards struggled. The first few went down rather too quickly, but did help to tire and encumber their opponents. Nilm himself furiously engaged the young front rider, as horses and swords meleed about. Spearheads jabbed, iron edges nicked arteries, boots kicked at bones. The carriage horses were terrified. Both sides of the stalled half-coach became indistinguishably bloodied.

It cost him six dead and several seriously injured fellows, with he himself scraped and battered, yet First Guard Nilm had managed a victory–of sorts. There were no opponents left alive to take prisoner, or to question. Behind stained doors and portals the half-coach’s interior proved empty. Still, he would need to find some larger justification for the massacre.

Nilm ordered a thorough search of the cart and all its retinue on the spot. Besides the weapons fallen beside them or still grasped tightly, the enemy corpses held some motley trinkets, or were decorated with scarves and rings. Their varied clothing, skin markings and hair-bindings suggested little natural connection. On the surface there seemed nothing to explain their true affiliation or purpose.

But Nilm stubbornly kept to the scene, ordered his few able-bodied remaining Guard to strip the bodies completely and next take apart the vehicle. The search of corpses yielded nothing of further interest or value. After much more an effort, the coach too was at last stripped completely down. In the end two inexplicable items were discovered niched beneath the central seat. One he took to be a small section of a horn or an antler, oddly cracked and chiseled, as though deliberately. The second was a long strip of blue cloth-like patterned material wrapped around the center of the horn. The First Guard had no idea what either was or signified, but possibly his superiors in the City might find in them cause enough for his actions. He fingered each neatly then found a spot for them in his saddlebag.

*

When the slight packaged bundle arrived by Guard courier at the Guildshead in Pinnacles it received no particular treatment. The first clerk in reception simply attached a handwritten date, noted so in the log, then set it with the rest of the day’s arrivals into a slot on the divider table. The clerk in question wasn't impressed, shocked or concerned by such a nondescript pouch that weighed so very little. Weighty matters, such as embodied in profound books or precious metals or great artifacts, always have some physical heft, he had learned.

Days passed before higher level clerks retrieved and opened the package. They too were unexcited by the bag and its immediate contents, at first. But the parchment folded inside altered their perspective. The pouch’s contents, after cursory measurement and further tagging, were to be directed to the Court Research Board, securely and post-haste: so the official document commanded. These two responsible for the next delivery stage—plain men a little proud of their white frocks, and bunned hair—promptly hurried the incongruous items to the upper floors.

*

Guildshead perhaps should have been a plural word. Every guild was represented there, except the Sayers (as the Sayers gathered in the streets, only). And though they made up common councils, and decisions sometimes were surely shared, most of the resident guild parties zealously operated almost independently, distrusting each other, whenever possible.

The Broken Ships Society could, and did, treat this fractured situation as an endless opportunity. Since they held no guild status, were amorphous in purpose and membership, the Ships might deal and plan with any one or any number of the officially represented guilds. Or, with none at all. The Ships could even do so under the guise of the others—since many of its members held dual status. In the bureaucratic realm of access and intrigue, the Ships were free to act like pirates.

They decided to intercept the package…