Vanguard

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Not always, but clearly now. And not just a handful; an entire flight seemed to have settled, coming down from their usual lairs in the mountains to the north. Against all expectations, there they were – lying in the sun, though they would be quick to rouse if they were disturbed.

Gavrian watched from a nearby peak, taking in the scene before him. The fact that the dragons – strictly speaking they were drakes, and small ones at that, rather than full dragons – had returned was not surprising. It was the timing of this return that was the greater mystery. The drakes always returned, sometimes in small numbers, and sometimes in large, but it usually took several generations. Their presence moved in a largely predictable pattern – they congregated in the Valley, the Vanguard rode out to drive them off or even wipe them out, hopefully, though not always, before the drakes grew numerous enough to cause a threat to nearby villages and towns. Eventually they returned, and the cycle repeated.

This time, it hadn’t even been ten years. The Vanguard weren’t ready for a new influx of dragons, or even drakes, yet. There was always a high level of attrition when fighting dragons, and it took the usual delay between migrations to train a new group of hunters to protect the people from the sudden, and always terrifying, threat from the Valley. Gavrian himself was a veteran of the last cycle and had fought dragons before – he could count the others like him on one hand.

Sighing, he pulled himself to his feet, feeling the creak that wasn’t only in his armour that told more stories of his long years of training and fighting than a bard would. For a moment, and only a moment, a childish thought ran through his mind – it wasn’t fair; he should have been dead by the time they returned. He’d survived where dozens of his companions had not. He’d done his duty, and had settled into the less dangerous, but just as important, role of a teacher, passing on the traditions and skills of the hunters to a new generation.

That generation was numerous, but not yet skilled. The first batch of hunters hoping to join the Vanguard was always large – many would flock to the training yards seeking skills and the privilege that came with them, able to give little thought to the potential danger, which, in all fairness, would most likely never come. The more time that passed before Dragons returned, the greater the chance that trainees would actually have to live up to that training and battle dragons themselves, so as time went on between migrations, the numbers in each successive generation of trainees lessened.

He wasn’t even out here on Vanguard business - he was on his way to meet his new granddaughter for the first time, and yet, it seemed it was not to be. He sighed again. A part of Gavrian wanted to head into the mountains and see for himself what had driven the drakes south so soon. But then, he wondered, would he even recognise a change if he saw it – what did normal even look like there? Nobody went there – even accomplished and experienced hunters like himself avoided the mountain lairs of the eldest dragons. It simply wasn’t worth the risk; although those dragons generally kept themselves to themselves, not troubling anybody until they came to the Valley, they were terrifying when provoked. But if something had changed to force the drakes to move so early, the Vanguard needed know.

No - in spite of his curiosity, his duty was clear. As far as Gavrian knew, he was the only person aware of the early return and even the minimal information he had was more important than risking his life to find out more. He needed to get messages to the Vanguard, and ideally deliver them himself. If a random villager walked into Forefront Citadel and spoke of dragons so soon, they would be laughed out, even if they cited his name. Once the rest of the Vanguard knew, a decision could be reached. The most recent Dragon incursion was still painfully recent, and recruiting numbers were at their peak. Perhaps with their numbers, even with a lack of training, the drakes could be killed swiftly, before they became old enough to hunt people rather than deer and wild cattle. Many would still die… but it might be fewer than if they waited.

Either way, attacking or waiting was not his decision to make, or at least not his alone. Checking his sword in its scabbard and ensuring his shield could be quickly moved from back to arm, he headed down to where he had left Valiant, his horse. So much for his visit – this knowledge was urgent, and there could be no detours until his discovery had been shared – even with all of his experience, anybody could fall from the saddle and break their neck if luck wasn’t with them. And he had used up a great deal of luck in his life.

When he heard Valiant neighing and snorting in anger, Gavrian picked up his pace, forcing his legs to a run. Valiant would not allow himself to be taken by anybody that he didn’t know, but the horse could still be harmed in any attempt. As Gavrian passed a small rise and came to the tree where he had left Valiant tethered, he took in the situation instantly, and moved his shield to his arm.

There were three of them – a man and woman wearing rough mail with the look of mercenaries, and not particularly fortunate ones. A man with a cuirass and long robes emerging below it to cover his legs was watching the road, presumably the leader that had hired them – something in his expression gave an impression of nobility. The male mercenary, stubbled and scarred across his brow, was trying to settle Valiant whilst the woman, hair tied tightly in a braid, held his reins. Their armaments, swords and a shield, were simple but close at hand. The man on the road saw Gavrian’s approach and drew a long knife from his belt.

“The horse is mine,” Gavrian said, slowing himself and showing that his hand was clearly on the hilt of his own sword. He thought his chances good in any conflict against these three, but if the mercenaries were well trained, he would be unlikely to escape without any injury. “No harm done yet though – you can go on your way, and we can forget about this.”

In response, the woman dropped Valiant’s reins and drew her two shortswords, approaching Gavrian. Valiant reared, trying to strike the scarred man with his hooves, but he was prepared for it and stepped back, pushing the horse aside with his hastily grabbed shield, and unbalancing the animal.

“Really?” Gavrian asked as the woman got close and took up a fighting stance, one sword held forward and low, the other behind her head and high. “He’s a good horse, but surely he’s not worth your lives.” Able to turn his attention from the horse, the scarred man moved away, out of reach of Valiant’s tether, and approached Gavrian’s other side. The two had clearly worked together before, and Gavrian would have to be careful of their likely well-coordinated attacks.

“You’re probably right,” said the leader, a sly smile on his face, still staying back for the moment, “but it isn’t just about the horse”.

The woman attacked, back sword coming in high, which Gavrian parried with his own quickly drawn blade; the other coming in to strike at his legs, forcing him to step away, his footing uncertain. At the same time, the man launched his attack, and Gavrian raised his shield to block. It was a hard blow; Gavrian was still slightly off-balance, and it left him reeling. The two of them were good, forcing Gavrian to split his focus. He knew that he needed to even the field, and quickly.

He moved back, working to keep both of his assailants in sight, but they moved with him, trying to keep him between them. Now the leader was approaching as well – his long knife looked dark and dirty. It wouldn’t normally be much of a threat but an extra combatant would almost certainly be one too many. Gavrian considered breaking through to take out the leader swiftly – that might end the battle once the mercenaries knew they weren’t being paid. He dismissed the idea – the leader was the least threatening, and Gavrian couldn’t afford to leave himself so open if he made the attempt. He also couldn’t be sure that they actually were mercenaries who would stop. If it wasn’t about Valiant, why this attack?

“Are you going to tell me what it is about then?” Gavrian asked. Noone was pressing the attack for a moment, with everybody trying to manoeuvre into position. “I’d hate to live with the mystery once I kill you all.”

The woman swung her head, using the momentum to move her braid out the way, and the leader laughed as the mercenaries launched their attacks again – Gavrian fended them off. “I like you,” the leader said calmly, continuing his approach, cautiously keeping out of weapons range but staying close enough to add pressure. “Typical Vanguard bravado. It’s a shame we have to kill you, but life is full of disappointments.”

They knew who he was, which came as a surprise to Gavrian. He wore no identifying Vanguard insignia, and his equipment was good quality but not distinctive unless you knew what to look for. That didn’t explain why they wanted to kill him, but it opened up options. Perhaps a friend or relative had joined the Vanguard and not survived, and these people felt the need to avenge them. Perhaps the Vanguard hadn’t moved quickly enough, and a dragon had burned their homes. The possibilities were endless.

Gavrian waited for the next attack, continuing to move, not wanting to get stuck in one place. The man smiled as he attacked, the scar making it look sinister, but Gavrian rolled away from his blow, came up, and leapt for the woman, shield in front of him, knocking one of her twin blades out of the way and plunging his sword through her mail and into her chest. The blade had been forged in dragonfire and had no difficulty piercing such mundane protection. She gasped in shock and her eyes widened, but before the life had even left her eyes, Gavrian felt a burning across the back of his thigh – the man had managed to strike at him whilst his attention was elsewhere, finding a gap in the armour. He tried to turn quickly, lowering his shield again whilst pulling his sword out of her falling corpse.

Now he could focus on the man – a more even bout, despite his injury. He risked a glance towards the leader, still standing just out of reach, knife poised, but now he was holding something else in his other hand. It glittered in the sun and was attached to a thong around his neck; it looked like a dragon scale. Gavrian turned his attention back to the surviving mercenary, trying to manoeuvre him between Gavrian and the leader, and keep them both in sight. The robed man raised his hand; a wave of heat and pressure rolled over Gavrian, and Dragon-honed instincts kicked in. He dove for a small clump of rocks, the only cover he could find. Fire burst into the area, emanating from the object in the leader’s hand. From his prone position, Gavrian risked a glance around the rocks. The mercenary, clearly expecting the inferno, had raised his shield and crouched behind it; the flames seemed to slide off it in a way that should be impossible, leaving him safe.

I guess I was wrong about who the greatest threat was, Gavrian thought in a panic, pulling himself back to his feet. He had no idea how this man was creating dragonfire; that was a question for another time. The flames had lasted only seconds, but the heat had been intense and carried with it some of the supernatural terror that came with battling dragons, that knowledge when they acknowledged you that they were far more powerful than you were. He couldn’t focus on the leader without leaving himself open to attack from the mercenary again. That made the scarred man Gavrian’s next target, and he would need to hope that he had time, before the final assailant could bring more fire to the skirmish, to say nothing of simply being stabbed.

Gavrian pressed the attack, feeling his leg throb with each step, blood running down. It was already starting to slow him - maybe it was more serious than he thought. He picked up momentum as he swung his sword, using his shield to block the other man’s attempts to counterattack. Able to focus one on one, Gavrian quickly got the measure of him – the mercenary was not his equal, and if time hadn’t been a concern, he could have carefully defeated this man easily, but he had to keep him positioned to try and keep the robed man in line of sight, with one eye on the surrounding terrain, to find cover in case of the growing likelihood of fire. He had to end this quickly.

Gavrian varied his attacks, trying to confuse the mercenary’s defence, glad that he hadn’t let his fitness slip even as the Dragons had been driven off and he had turned to tutoring the young. He ignored the pain in his leg – it was a matter to deal with later. The mercenary was starting to look panicked, knowing his end was coming, and Gavian smiled at the man, seeking to unnerve him further. He kept up his attack, moving more swiftly, raining blows down on the mercenary, who was focussing only on his own defence, unable to take the time or effort to attack back. It was working – Gavrian pressed his attack, driving the mercenary back. He could hear the man’s breath starting to gasp, see his arms slow just a fraction as he brought up his shield and sword to block and block again.

Gavrian felt a stinging slash run down his sword arm, seemingly somehow beneath his armour – could this man have a weapon forged in dragonfire, just as Gavrian’s own was? As Gavrian focussed on the mercenary, the leader had taken advantage of Gavrian’s distraction, and used the opportunity to attack. The new wound in his arm burned, but like the one on his leg, it could be ignored for now. Despite the opening, the mercenary hesitated to attack, so Gavrian used the moment to turn quickly, slashing out with his own blade in a wide arc. He took the leader just below the cuirass, leaving him bleeding on the floor.

“You know it’s over,” he said to the remaining enemy, hiding his growing exhaustion through bravado. “You can tell me what this is all about, and I will spare you.”

“Never!” the man screamed, fanaticism and fear giving him a final burst of energy. He launched a furious flurry of attacks from both sword and shield, which Gavrian blocked and parried with ease, awaiting the opening which he knew was coming from such an assault. When it came, he plunged his sword into the man, his mail parting as easily as his companion’s had. As the mercenary fell, Gavrian sank to one knee, catching his breath. For all of his experience, he was still an old man, and the adrenaline of battle could only take him so far.

Again, instinct saved him, a faint rush of air the only indication of an incoming attack. A spectral dragon foot with sharp claws swept in to strike him from above, and Gavrion raised his shield above his head. Although he could see the outline of clouds through them, the claws were solid enough to be deflected and Gavrion breathed a thankful prayer as they dissipated into the air again. He turned to see the leader, lying in a growing pool of his own blood, still clutching his odd talisman, and staring at him almost mockingly.

Gavrian didn’t take the time for words – he simply slashed out with his blade, taking the man’s hand off at the wrist, and sending the necklace, its thong cut in the same attack, flying.

“Final chance,” Gavrian said, looking down at the man. His wounds burned, especially the one in his arm, but he held his sword point to the man’s cuirass. “Tell me what this was about, and I’ll kill you quickly.”

The man smiled up, seemingly unconcerned about the pain he must be in. “It’s too late for that,” he said quietly, as if he lacked the air to give his words force. His eyes closed, and he was gone.

Sighing at the futility of it all, Gavrian took bandages from Valiant’s saddle bags. All Vanguard were taught basic medicine alongside combat - both were essential to survival. He bound his leg to start – it had bled a great deal, but the wound was not as deep as he’d feared. It was refusing to clot though, the blood running clear and liquid. The bandage soaked through quickly but by binding it tightly, he was able to staunch it. Already he was feeling a little light-headed, and he quickly mixed some herbs to help with the blood loss in some water and drank it down, grimacing at the taste.

Removing his pauldron and vambrace, Gavrian peeled back his shirt to try and look at his arm. The wound was hot to the touch, but not bleeding as heavily. The cut sliced along the back of his bicep, and he couldn’t get a good look at it, but the heat concerned him. Gavrian knew, from other fights and other battlefields, what infection felt like, but it never happened this quickly. He looked over at the long knife, lying where the leader had dropped it; up close he could see that the dark coating on the blade wasn’t dirt, but more likely poison. His heart sank.

Again, training took over, moving him to action despite the fear this realisation brought. He didn’t have the means or the learning to deal with poison, but he knew enough to realise that anybody that might be able to help him would want a sample of the substance. Gavrian picked up the long knife carefully, wrapping it in a bandage and stowing it in his saddle bags. The strange necklace, Gavrian saw was, indeed, a dragon scale. An unusual thing to be carrying – most people preferred to believe that dragons weren’t real, rather than carry around reminders of their existence. Could it have been the source of the strange powers that the man had exhibited? Gavrian didn’t know, but perhaps somebody at Forefront Citadel would; it went with the knife.

Taking a deep breath against the burning pain, he mounted Valiant and pointed the horse towards the nearest village. He didn’t know what the poison would do to him, but his best hope lay with civilisation.

Toby sat on the hillside, watching the sheep as they moved over the grassland, eating their fill as they went. The sun was shining, and he was pleased that his work, important as it was, required very little effort on his part. His dog, Ben, was well trained and was generally able to keep the sheep where they should be without much direct intervention, and the long days on the hillside gave him plenty of time to daydream. There was only the occasional wolf to bother the herds and, whilst those encounters were scary, he had sling, spear, and Ben to help with them.

Daydreaming was how he was happiest; his mind far away from his day-to-day life, off having adventures like in the oldest stories. In his mind, he rode a black stallion into battle, defeating dragons and monsters, keeping his people safe. He was lauded by all, and his accomplishments were many, though of course they didn’t impact his humble manner.

Ben’s barking brought him out of his revery, and as looked around he took a stone from his pouch and readied his sling. He was expecting a wolf, but instead, he saw a big horse – a real war horse! - coming over the horizon with a rider slumped over the saddle. Immediately, he was on his feet, and running towards the stranger – the man clearly seemed injured and in need of help. Toby had some medicines with him, and needle and thread in case the sheep should be hurt. Excitement rose in Toby as he ran – this was the kind of thing that happened in the stories he loved.

It was a few minutes before his run took him, Ben by his side, to the horse’s flank. He slowed as he approached and held up his hands calmly to the horse, trying not to spook it or seem threatening. The stories were clear that a well-trained horse could be as dangerous as its rider when it was threatened. The tale of Sir Kaladine and the Behemoth flashed through his mind where the warhorse Intrepid had trampled his master’s enemies, and he tried not to look at the enormous hooves. But the horse didn’t shy away from the young shepherd, and as Toby approached, he saw that the man, clad in armour and with sword and shield slung carefully on his back, was almost unconscious. The skin around a bandage on his arm was fiery and red, and another bandage, this one blood-soaked, was bound around his leg. Still cautious, Toby reached for the reigns. The horse let him take them and Toby led it to a small sheepfold. Ben, sensing no threat, went back to the sheep.

Toby helped the man out of the saddle - though in truth it was more a controlled fall given the man’s armoured weight, lack of control, and Toby’s slight size - and leant him against a wall. He felt the man’s head, finding him feverish, and quickly brought his own waterskin to the injured man’s mouth, letting a little pour in as his mind raced, wondering what battle this man had come from. The man swallowed, and Toby continued to allow dribbles to drip down his throat.

After a few minutes, the man’s eyes fluttered open, but they looked at Toby indistinctly. “Thank you, whoever you are.” The man’s voice was raspy when he spoke, the product of a too dry throat, and every word seemed an effort.

“You’re welcome,” Toby said. “I’m going to look at your wound. Can you tell me your name?”

The man nodded in understanding. “Gavrian. The horse… Valiant.”

Toby started to remove the bandage from Gavrian’s arm. “I’m Toby.” As the bandage came away, Toby had to move one hand to his mouth in shock. The wound was long and the edges of it were black – not with dried blood, but with something he didn’t recognise. He touched it – it was hot and completely solid. Toby pulled his hand back quickly, looking at it to make sure that nothing was on it – what could have caused such a wound?

“There’s no… curing me… Toby,” Gavrian rasped. “The poison… is turning me to stone… from the inside”.

Toby’s eyes widened – he’d never heard of anything like that in the stories. The very idea was horrifying. The excitement of the moment left him when he realised that he couldn’t save Gavrian. Stories didn’t go like this. “What kind of poison can do that?” He offered Gavrian more water.

Gavrian coughed, spitting back some of the water. “Dragon venom…. on knife. Didn’t have… any antidote… with me…”.

Toby sat back on his heels. He had only just met this man, but he still felt close to tears.

“You going… to fulfil… my dying wish… Toby?”

Gavrian’s voice was quiet, and Toby leant in to better hear it.

“Take Valiant… go to the… Vanguard Training Grounds… and tell them… of me…”.

“I’m sorry,” Toby said. “I can’t do that – I have to watch the sheep”.

“Leave the… sheep boy…” Gavrian responded. “You need to… tell them… the dragons have… returned”.

That couldn’t be! Toby remembered the last dragon culling, though he had been too young to be a part of it. His village was one of the nearest to the Valley – and one of the first to be threatened when the Dragons spread. Everybody knew, all of the stories agreed, that the dragons took decades to migrate to the Valley again. But Gavrian was Vanguard, and if anybody knew about dragons, it was them. He couldn’t make such a journey though! Of course, farmboys and shepherd kids ran off for adventures all of the time in the stories, but he couldn’t do that!

“I’m just a shepherd. What can I do?”

Gavrian managed to force a smile. “You can… save the… world. Take the… message. Knife….in saddle bags… care. Money in… saddlebags too. They’ll know… Valiant. Trust… you”.

Toby shook his head. “I’m just a shepherd”.

Gavrian closed his eyes. “Once… so was I”.

Toby reached over and felt at Gavrian’s neck – he couldn’t feel his heartbeat. He sat back on his heels and let the tears flow, no longer bothering to hold them back. He’d faced death before, but he’d been much younger then and hadn’t really understood what was happening. Now, the impact of it shook him and made Gavrian’s request seem even more unreal. How could he, a simple shepherd, make the journey to Forefront Citadel?

He sniffed, wiping his tears away with his sleeve. He looked at Valiant. If the dragons were back, and incredulous as it seemed, he had to believe it was true, then he had to carry that message. Perhaps he could just go to the village and find somebody else who could do it. Yes – that was what he would do. That way, he could stay and look after the sheep, and somebody else could carry the apparently vital missive.

The black stallion, just like the one in his daydreams, looked at him in a way that Toby imagined was reproachful. As good as it might be to send somebody else, he couldn’t do that. Gavrian had entrusted it to him, and he had to try. He dragged the heavy body out of the sheepfold and, taking the sword and shield, he started to pile stones up upon it. He didn’t know how to use the weapons, but he suspected that they would add weight to his story when he arrived at the Forefront Citadel.

Dusk was almost upon him when his task was done, and he brought the sheep into their folds. He would head home. Burying Gavrian had firmed his resolve to make the journey, but he couldn’t just leave without telling anybody. His family had to know, and somebody else would need to tend the sheep. He would need supplies and, hopefully, somebody at home could tell him how to reach Forefront Citadel, or at least point him in the right direction.