There weren't always dragons in the Valley

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Locals called it the Valley as if it was the only one, but the palisaded village port down below was one of hundreds scattered about the Emden Islands. The larger islands, draped in lianas and saw-tooth palms, all had countless verdant, steep-walled valleys of their own. Most with a sleepy little port just like this one where land met the Azure Sea. Antu already knew that; they had been to nearly ten such places already in their search.

The locals in this port, Serime they called it when asked, were tight-lipped as only a history of piracy and stubborn independence would instill. They spoke Mantagish with a nasal grunt that made it hard to understand and only a few even professed to speak common. As with the other such towns, Antu felt tiny in comparison to these tall, darker skinned Mantaten locals.

After disembarking from the local Vavall trader, it had taken Antu hours, sweating, burning under Solaris riding high, and silently cursing the breezeless heat, to even find someone who would do more than wave them off or just stare wordlessly when they spoke. Clearly Burdue weren’t common – they were the only one they’d seen since setting sail for the first island from Lyonir a ten day ago – but this rectitude was the most pronounced they had yet encountered and quite unsettling.

These silences seemed odd to Antu, since the Emden Islands had been a haven for Dalmask and his rebels; at least part of what he’d fought for was freedom for all peoples. Even Burdue. So perhaps it wasn’t their marble-white skin and round moon face that precluded conversation.

The old woman who finally spoke with Antu had been leathered by Solaris and her years. She wore a shapeless dark tunic, and the tan cotton skirt that was common amongst all the islanders. She sat in the scant shade of a small shrine to Braccius, doing nothing more than smoking Taba and watching her neighbors go about their day. The shrine was almost unrecognizable due to its lack of adornment, but still identified by its small stage where priests and bards and locals could perform under its thatch awning on holy days and holidays. A glint of silver Medallions and a mid-day drink had enticed the elder to join Antu at what passed for a local watering hole, and, gods be thanked, she spoke passable common.

It was a short walk, but the woman moved stiffly and slowly, her movements rigid and seemingly painful.

The massive black stones that made up the walls of the little tavern spoke of their much older origin, but Antu simply offered a silent prayer of thanks to Ehthos for the coolness and shade they provided. The wooden roof, clearly from a much more recent millennia, a clutch of wooden plank benches a worn tables, and a simple stall, provided the necessities: a place to sit and drink cheap watered Onuin red and flat, tepid, Denlorian ale. The single room was surprisingly dark after Solaris’ mid-day glare, and other than the disinterested owner completely empty at this hour. It held a curious mixture of scents; sweet berry clematis from the vine at the door, brine and ancient mildew from the scavenged boards, and a tang from the sweat of countless patrons over the years.

After a few mugs of wine the old woman had flashed a brief, broken toothed smile and decided it was now time to start answering the questions that she rightly assumed were the payment for her beverages. Antu asked a range of questions. Yes, the woman knew the stories of old Dwarven mines up the Valley. No, no one had seen a local dwarf or heard Baeg spoken in her lifetime. No, privateers hadn’t been seen in these waters in years, but that didn’t mean the local pirates weren’t known to still extract fees for safe passage. Yes, she was old enough to remember the Magedom’s sea battles in the straits offshore with the Venellese fleet. For a few Medallions she offered to let Antu know where some of the wrecks were. Some, she said, had not been fully consumed by dragons’ breath or the waters.

Ah, thought Antu, here is the door.

“So,” Antu said, “you saw the dragons? How many were there?”

The old woman took a moment to take another long drink of her wine, but her eyes seemed to sparkle with an odd mixture of excitement and pain as she cast back to what was clearly a vivid memory. “There were five,” she said, “two green, a black one, a very big red one, and an even bigger gold one. Like Braccios it gleamed in the light.”

She took another gulp, “the red and the black fought the gold one, while the green ones made clouds of death over the Lysturge fleet.” She paused to make the sign of the Seven, and Antu noted she didn’t call the fleet Venellese, but rather by the lands of Lysturge’s primacy. Then she went on. “Many sailors just died, but some ships had mages that made winds or kept the poison away. It looked like Lysturge would fail against his Ionshe children, but the gold fought on. Then, in a flash it climbed and then dove onto the black. It held the black in its claws and tore off its head.”

There was a long pause, and Antu signaled for more wine.

The old woman continued after her mug was filled. “Without the black one, the red moved back closer to the Magedom ships. The green ones saw the gold alone above them and quickly flew back too.” Antu wasn’t sure, but they thought there was a hint of a smile, or a grimace, on their guest’s face as this hasty retreat was recollected. “There were still more Magedom ships, but the winds had shifted in the battle and in the breeze. The winds began to blow towards our island, so the empty ships were driven onshore and wrecked. The rest of the ships sailed north up the strait, being chased by the Magedom fleet.”

Antu feigned only passing interest, and said, “Did you ever see the dragons again? Did any come to stay? Had you," here Antu paused ever so slightly, "ever seen one before?”

“No,” she said, “there weren't always dragons in the Valley. But I think there are now.”

Antu was sure that their flicker of surprise and interest must have been obvious to even the most casual observer, but their guest hadn’t even looked up from staring at their mug on the stained table. They decided to push just a bit further. With a quick prayer to Ehthos, they said, “what makes you think so?”

The old woman pushed some of her long purple-and-grey hair back, and for the first time since they had met, actually seemed to look directly at Antu.

“Have you ever seen a dragon?” She didn’t seem to expect an answer. “That’s not something you forget. But you can feel it too. It’s like a God’s presence in the temples: it’s in your gut. I think I feel it more than most…”

Antu waited out the long pause.

The old woman took another long pull on her wine.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I don’t talk about it anymore. My family is all gone, and I’m the only one of my friends still alive. When I die, my stories die with me.

So I will tell you something you don’t know. I was a sailor of the ships of Lysturge during the sea battle. The Venellese needed crew, and I was good crew. I saw the dragons up close. Our ship had a mage and we survived to flee north from the Magedom. But the black. The black was above our ship when it died. And nothing could have stopped its blood.” With that, the old woman reached back over her head, grimacing at the stretch, and awkwardly pulled her tunic over her head. And turned her right side to Antu.

In the dim light it took Antu a moment to realize what they were being shown. The woman’s breasts hung flat and long on her chest, but from her right shoulder and down her side and back ran skin that looked like curdled black milk. It was a scar. Flesh healed, but now almost solid and rigid. Antu winced, and inside felt their stomach churn. In their travels they had seen, even caused, wounds and death, but the pain of this injury, and the daily agony it represented, seemed unimaginable.

“They saved my life,” the old woman continued with a sigh, “the Syphide priests did, but there were too many injured they said, not enough healers or spells, to do more than that. And there were always more injured coming. So I was paid. Paid well. And I came home.”

There was another long pause, and they both drank more wine.

Gently, almost cautiously, paying more mind to their guest than their own quest for a moment, Antu asked, “does it still hurt?”

And then instantly felt like a fool, for of course it obviously did.

The old woman shrugged herself back into her tunic, seemingly not for modesty but more to shield her host and the studiously busy-elsewhere proprietor from the searing view of her scarred back. “Yes, every minute. But that’s how I know. I can feel them. Usually far off.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “This one is near. And different. But now I think that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

Antu looked at the owner, his back still turned as he studiously poured rainwater into a barrel that Antu could only assume held wine and glanced once more around the empty room. Caution is deep in our bones, Antu thought. And who can blame us? But Antu remembered their parents’ phrase, you’ll never know unless you try.

Reaching into a pouch, Antu withdrew a gem, a clear blue stone just smaller than her fist, unfaceted but still beautiful and sparkling, and wordlessly handed to their guest.

The old woman let out a sigh, holding the stone in one hand while caressing it with the other. “I’ve seen these before. A sapphire.” It was not a question.

“Yes,” said Antu, “but how do you know that? I don’t think these are found in the Emden Isles.”

In an echo of her earlier statement, the old woman said, “they weren’t always, but they are now. A goatherd was in town last summer, saying they had found pretty stones in the far upper reaches of the Valley. No one believed them until they showed a few. One of the captains knew what they were. Said sapphires were worth gold and bought them from the child. Some have gone looking since, but no one has found anything since. That I know of,” she added.

Antu gently held out their hand, and the old woman gave the stone back. Placing it back into a pouch, Antu said, “This may be one of those same stones. It found its way to me in Samarkand… I… l look for these kinds of things.”

Looking closely into the old woman’s eyes, Antu said, “you have helped me more than you know. I would ask only one small favour. And then, if you’d like, perhaps I can do you a favour in return?”

The old woman had agreed to Antu’s request to keep their conversation a secret between them.

And then, having led Antu back to her simple plank-walled hut, Antu quietly beseeched Ehthos to finish the healing that had been left undone many decades before.

Antu was tired afterwards, and the old woman slept, the combination of heat and wine and wonder at her healing having been enough to call for a nap, but Antu could not linger.

So, hours later as Solaris started to hide behind the peaks at the head of the Valley, Antu found themselves marveling at the beauty of the view down towards Serime and the turquoise waters beyond, and the subtle ways of the gods.

Antu needed a dragon. Not to slay, or for treasure, but as an ally. And while it could well mean their death, Antu knew that if they didn’t find a dragon in the valley where none had been before, then far worse things than their death were sure to follow.