Marc Rivers, Author

657 Galtic Age

Roderic had nearly forgotten just how arduous the Landis Mountains could be. He and Hathus had set out from Rookwatch on horseback three days ago and still hadn’t come into the high plains of Varland. It was only just yesterday the Highroad had even started to go downhill. He suspected that had they gone one more day in ascent, their horses would have quit out of protest.

The last time he had made the journey into the homeland of the Eyldrmen, he was a boy with nary a whisker on his face. Now he was a man, still physically in his prime, and taking every advantage of it. He had gotten wealthy, at least by the standards of his own family. He did not come from any noble stock; none of his forebears had ever owned a horse or even a breastplate, for that matter. And while he knew that someday he would retire to a plot of land he could call his own and till the earth for his own fulfillment, for now he was making plenty of coin as a savage-game hunter.

It was a young man’s game, with rare exceptions. Hathus was one such exception, a man approaching his fiftieth winter – grizzled, scarred, with scarcely a speck of color left in his hair. He rarely spoke during a hunt, never finding much use for idle conversation, even during travel. Some people were quickly put off by his cool, distant nature, but Roderic had realized a valuable truth very quickly: when you’re in a profession that kills young men with regularity, you find the old man and listen to what he says. Hathus recognized this eagerness and the two struck up a professional bond that had lasted these six years now.

This journey had the potential to be the greatest test of that bond. They had risked life and limb thinning packs of wolves, chasing ferocious bears deeper into the woods so that loggers could come in and claim much-needed timber, even come face-to-face with trolls that had wandered too far out of the hills in eastern Norgraedland. Once, someone had even offered a staggeringly large sum to clear out a pack of ghouls said to inhabit the far side of the Black Lake, in Idlian. Roderic would have been easily swayed, but the older Hathus didn’t even flinch before flatly refusing the man’s offer. “The man must be mad,” he groused sometime later, “to think I’d ever set one foot over those cursed borders.” Youthful vigor and confidence be damned; if venturing into Idlian wasn’t worth it to Hathus, no matter the price, then Roderic knew well enough to steer clear of it, too.

And so it was that two years ago, when everything seemed to change overnight, Roderic knew to whom to look. Bears, wolves, and trolls had proven challenging enough over the years, but nothing could prepare him for his first encounter with a creature seemingly borne from a nightmare. A great, scaly lizard it was, with a body as long as the height of a man sitting on another man’s shoulders, leathery wings where forelegs ought to be, a barbed tail, teeth as sharp as the finest sword edge, and able to emit a burst of fire with its breath! “Wyvern,” he heard it named later. Its growls sent shivers up his spine like no feral animal’s could. Ferocious it was … but Roderic was fiercer.

If he had been wearing armor any heavier that day, he would surely have met his end in the foothills of the Landis Mountains, clawed or burnt or both. It took every reflex he had to stay one step ahead of the beast. At the last, a well-placed strike with his spear pierced its scaled hide (though not without remarkable difficulty) and stopped its heart. He had never felt so alive, so precipitously close to death. It would have made for the story of a lifetime, had it not happened again barely a fortnight later, nor even a third time after that, and more until he found himself losing count.

It wasn’t just wyverns, either, but a four-legged variety called “drakes,” slimmer of body, but no less wily and vicious. Where they had come from, none could say. Their ilk had never before been seen by any Galtic people, though the Adrir had passed on legends of the beasts through their tales. That’s all they had been, though – legends, stories, fables. Now, though, they were as real as the beard on his chin. Where had they come from?

And what, in all the gods’ creation, were the Eyldrmen talking about? Roderic had seen these creatures with his own eyes. Hathus, too, had gone toe-to-toe with them. He dared to say to himself that they were becoming quite adept at slaying the beasts. He had shared a few tricks with other fellow hunters who lived long enough to express gratitude for the insight, so he was confident he knew a thing or two about these new monsters.

The Eyldrmen, though… Perhaps they had stumbled upon some new brand of particularly strong ale, or had collectively eaten some rotten berries that afflicted them with waking visions. Most likely they had finally decided to dabble in the southern spice trade and some of them had overindulged in Empress Moon leaves for the first time. Whatever the case, the tales coming from that land were beyond comprehension.

They spoke of “dragons” that made drakes and wyverns sound as harmless as a mouser cat. These dragons were of the height of a building, even a palace, with wings that could block out the sun, great claws like scythes at the end of four powerful legs, breathing jets of flame that could cook a man before he hit the ground. They claimed these dragons were impervious to even the finest steel, that no man had yet laid one low, yea, not even ten men! And most absurd of all, they preposterously claimed that the dragons of Eyldrland could speak!

Hathus was not one easily given to laughter, but even he could not help himself when Roderic related these tales to him. He did not believe that such creatures could exist, nor that they had wasted the great capital of Herensk, burning and tearing it to the ground in a single day. Doubtless the city had fallen to some rebellious jarl and the notoriously prideful Eyldrmen could not bear for the city’s reputation for never having its walls breached to fall with it.

Such an explanation made sense to Roderic, too. There was, however, one thing he could not shake. Whenever he heard these stories from the Eyldr people – all of them refugees, which he never imagined he would see coming from Eyldrland – they always spoke of dragons with a singular quality in their voice: fear. Roderic was a Farman, a son of the White Plains of Veitsfar. He had grown up his whole life living next to and among Eyldrmen and if there was one thing they never seemed to lack, it was confidence, bravery, and above all, pride. For something to make them all this frightened – this truly cowed – it must be a threat like no other. Even so, the tales they brought with them had to be exaggerated, surely.

At long last, the Highroad left the narrow mountain pass and began to ease into the much more forgiving foothills. From here, he could see the high plains of Varland stretching off into the gray distance to the northeast. Closer to their present position was a settlement along the road, small and otherwise unassuming, except that it had the appearance of having transformed overnight. As he and Hathus rode closer, he could see that many of the buildings were new; the freshly cleared trees half a mile from town (and the teams of men busily at work actively clearing more of them at that moment) were a testament to that.

Stranger than the spate of new buildings, though, were the fields of tents sprawling haphazardly around the edges of town. Men, women, and children moved about, all of them keeping busy in some form or another. Cooking fires dotted the fields, while makeshift workbenches, tanning racks, forges, and anvils could be spotted in every direction, nearly all of them in use. Cramped sheepfolds fenced with green wood mingled with the human habitations. Roderic understood right away – this was not the result of some population boom; this was a refugee camp.

“Akselbygd,” Hathus declared. “Though I daresay it’s undergone some changes since last I heard news of it. We’ll stay here for a night or two. Rest our horses, gather our strength, get some proper food in our bellies, and learn whatever we can about these mythical wyrms everyone’s going on about.”

“Aye, a good warm meal and mug of strong ale always gives me the courage I need,” Roderic replied with a laugh. In truth, the looks of this place made him nervous. Not only was the prospect that Eyldrmen were scared of something a warning bell to him, but he worried that this town’s resources (particularly where food, ale, and beds were concerned) might already be stretched too thin.

It took three tries for them to find an inn that had a room for them. It wasn’t even a proper inn so much as it was a tavern belonging to someone whose family had been larger until recently and they now had a couple of rooms to spare for lodgers. While waiting on their food, Hathus posed a question to his younger cohort. “So, what do you make of this place?”

Roderic mulled on it for a few seconds before giving his honest answer. “I’m keen not to stay here any longer than we have to.” He realized as the words came out that when he said “here,” he wasn’t just referring to Akselbygd. There was a knot in his stomach, a feeling of worry – if not dread – that he hadn’t known since the first time he’d been on a monster hunt. Of course, that time had ended with success, as had every one after that. Though he never lost respect for the beasts he faced, he had long since learned to hunt without fear. Was this time different? Different in that I’m hunting a new game for the first time, yes, he thought. Different in that we won’t outsmart it, like any other prey? I hope not, gods be willing.

After enjoying an underwhelming and frankly lean meal, with clearly watered-down ale as a chaser, the two men set about gathering information. Roderic had trouble keeping his patience, for everyone gave much the same answers as the tall tales he’d heard before he got there. The dragons were as big as a longhouse, with great wings that could block out the sun. They could breathe fire. They could crush a man in one hand, assuming they didn’t just cleave him with their claws instead. Their scales were impenetrable to even the finest steel. And they could speak with a voice that could shake the very mountains to dust.

“What do you make of it?” Hathus asked Roderic that night after they had retired to their room.

“I’m not sure how much I believe.”

“People I talk to said they’d seen one with their own eyes.”

“Same for me. Said they’d heard it, too.”

Hathus retorted, “Well, I don’t doubt if these creatures are half as big as they say – and it’s my opinion that that’s really the case – their hide might be thicker than most beasts. But I’ve yet to meet anything that can stand up to a firm, well-placed strike from a finely honed weapon.”

“Most trouble I’ve had was with mountain trolls,” Roderic offered. “Unusually tough skin for the most part, but there’s a few soft spots in there, if you know what you’re doing.”

“Could be that we’ll have to be the ones to find those soft spots on these dragons. Are you prepared for that?”

Roderic only lied a little when he answered, “I learned to stop being scared of the unknown years ago. Yeah, I’m prepared.”

“Good. On the morrow, we’ll learn where we can find one of these dragons and then the hunt will be on!”

The next day brought no less frustration than the one before. If it was difficult to get reasonable answers from the Eyldrmen about the nature of dragons, it was even harder to learn where one was making its lair. A few of the people they spoke to wouldn’t so much answer as give them looks that were long on desire, but short on hope, begging for these two men to somehow succeed where their strongest and bravest warriors had failed. The rest merely implored them not to pursue their course, to turn back, leave Eyldrland if they must, but whatever they did, do not chase a dragon only to get themselves killed.

At last, they met a fellow named Mórus, whose wife, Heida, made the same plea as everyone else. Mórus was willing to share what he knew, but he offered a firm caveat first. “I tell you this so you can learn what you need to know and then leave. Do not stay and fight it. Reason with it, whatever you need to do to walk away. You can’t kill them – no one can. If you raise steel against it, know this – your blood will not be on my hands.”

And so it was that they learned of a dragon who lived in the mountains nearby, perhaps half a day’s journey from town. Every few weeks, he’d swoop in and devour some flocks (or people) or burn some houses (and people). His lair’s location was unknown, but game trails along the way were known to be used by a local cult that had sprung up recently, forsaking the gods of their fathers and worshipping this dragon as a god instead, much like others across the land were said to be doing.

“Could they be talked into giving us an audience with this dragon?” Roderic inquired.

“Oh no,” Mórus replied. “They’d just as soon kill you on sight. They are cruel and vicious, just like their master. If you’re committed to this fool’s errand, you’d be best served avoiding them completely. They do not fight with a warrior’s honor.” Roderic and Hathus made a note to keep on the lookout for other people in the mountains and avoid any encounters with them.

And so, after another night’s rest, the two men set out before dawn in their quest to find and kill a dragon. They traveled in the general direction Mórus had shown them, keeping to the well-worn game trails while simultaneously keeping an eye out for anything in the sky and any signs of humans on the ground. They did spot evidence of some passage, but the dry, dusty trail with its hard-packed dirt and rocks made it difficult to tell to what sort of creature the tracks belonged, much less how many of them there were or how long since they’d last come this way. Nevertheless, they remained on high alert.

They climbed and hiked until it was nearly midday. On this side of the mountains, the cool winds from the Twilight Bay were blunted, and the sunlight was making things warmer than expected. Following the trail, they came over a rise, overlooking a small depression, where they received an unwelcome shock. In the midst of the flat depression was a crude altar made from large stones, on which was an aurochs, apparently slain in some ritualistic fashion. Its blood had been allowed to flow freely down the sides of the altar into a simple trench dug around its base. Strange symbols etched on the ground encircled the base of the altar, with a few more painted on some of the larger rocks surrounding the depression.

Just as they’d feared, there were people present – at least six of them. They were dressed in mismatched robes, all of them in dark or earthy colors, nearly all with some sinister ornamentation on them; it appeared that a few of them had various bones sewn onto them for reasons Roderic didn’t dare to guess. This may very well have been the cult that Mórus had warned them about.

In spite of the monster hunters’ caution, their approach had been noticed, and all of the cultists spotted them immediately. One of them called out, “Zavikfenmo! Diinmo kruul! Diinmo kruul!” Roderic couldn’t make any sense of this bizarre tongue that was neither Common nor any Old Eyldric that he recognized, but it was nevertheless obvious that these strange people had ill intentions for him. The long daggers they immediately produced removed any doubt. In a flash, he and Hathus produced their own weapons and readied for battle.

Roderic was quick as ever with his shortbow. He suffered only a moment’s hesitation lining up his first shot – his profession was concerned with slaying monsters and foul beasts, not other men – but the wild, deranged charge coming toward him and his friend erased any further delay. He loosed an arrow and it found its target high in a cultist’s chest. In short order, another robed figure met the same fate. In that time, four more appeared from a hidden cave nearby. A third arrow, then a fourth, both sunk into one foe’s body, yet that enemy pressed forward with a wild look in his eye. The gap had been closed, and it was now time to receive the charge.

With bow discarded, Roderic drew his sword. Hathus had his trusty poleaxe in hand, spearing enemies as they came close or else hacking at them when they attempted to outflank him. The close-range fighting devolved into a blur, with the Farmen’s steel contesting what looked to Roderic to be scrimshaw daggers for the cultists.

Almost as abruptly as it had begun, it was over. Roderic counted the dead, eleven in all. He had suffered a variety of superficial cuts, but the worst damage was to his spaulder, whose straps had been severed during a grapple with an opponent whose strength belied their sinewy frame.

He was just finishing taking stock of the battle when he saw Hathus’s poleaxe lying on the ground in two pieces. Stunned, he turned and found his friend nursing a wound to his left arm. It looked far more serious than any of the scratches Roderic had taken. “What happened?”

“Bastards sundered my axe!” he lamented. “How did we not hear them?”

“Perhaps their ceremony hadn’t started yet.”

Another grimace and groan of pain from Hathus made Roderic worry. His pain tolerance was normally high enough that even a deep wound didn’t cause him this much distress. As though reading his mind, Hathus said, “Check those daggers.”

Roderic looked for one with the least amount of blood on it. Finding one that was suitable, he looked it over. There was an odd coloration to it, to be sure, something besides simple bone. Lifting it up to his nose, he gave it a sniff and recoiled in horror. Poison! So Mórus had the right of it – these were no warriors, and they fought with no honor. Casting the blade aside in disgust, he turned to his friend, wondering what he would say, though he was certain Hathus already knew.

At that moment, a feeling swept over him as something unseen approached. He had glimpsed nothing, but he just knew, somehow, that a new threat was coming. He should have turned to see what it was, should have whipped his head around to see this new arrival, but somehow he was scared to do so. That was a new feeling, and one altogether unfamiliar – it troubled him that he didn’t even want to see what was coming up from behind.

He discovered right away that it was not from behind that this new adversary came, but above. A massive shadow passed over the depression where he and Hathus were recovering from their fight. A huge gust of wind came next, and only then did Roderic turn to see what new impossible thing this could be.

Immediately – and now far too late – he realized that the Eyldrmen’s tales were not exaggerations. This was nothing like the drakes and wyverns he had faced down in Veitsfar. This creature was massive. It wheeled gracefully in the sky, wings outstretched, four legs tucked underneath its long, graceful, but powerfully built body, fiery red scales dazzling in the noonday sun. It came out of its turn and made straight for Roderic and Hathus, landing deftly but firmly on the rocks above. It towered over the two men; if Roderic had to guess, he would say the wyrm had to be 50 feet at least. Its eyes were like molten bronze, with pupils like slits, and they fixed themselves firmly on the now-cowering humans before them.

The feeling that had first come over him at the dragon’s unseen approach now crashed upon him in waves. An almost tangible force pressed down on him, forcing him to his knees in the presence of this being, such was the indescribable awe and majesty he felt before it. Then it spoke.

“Talvik arnothes!” Its voice shook the sides of the mountains, and Roderic down to his core with them. He could feel his insides turning to liquid, even though he understood nothing the dragon had said. He ventured a look back to his friend. Hathus’s face had gone ashen at the sight of the terrible beast, something heretofore unthinkable.

The dragon surveyed the scene for several seconds before uttering, “So, they thought to propitiate me with an offering of simple cattle. How quaint.” Turning his gaze again toward Roderic, he bellowed, “You there, driifahn. What brings you to my mountain? Surely it is not to contend with the likes of this rabble.” Here the dragon lazily waved his head in the direction of the corpses of his worshippers. He seemed oddly bored with the fact that they were now all dead.

Try as he might, Roderic could not speak. His terror was too great. The dragon, disinterested in waiting for an answer, continued, “I know why you have come here. Your vanity is obvious. You have sought to face one of the zúrtamo in combat, to slay a god and win for yourself honor and glory. Yet see how you struggle with the likes of your own kind, who beg for scraps at their master’s table! What hope could you have to fell one such as I? I, who am clad in the armor of gods! What folly! Go and try your feeble weapons against me, if you dare. Trust in the strength of your arm, if you have courage.

“Foolish creatures! I am Zahnviingjenrah, and I will let you live, that you may return to your kind and tell them what you have seen today, that they, like you, may know true fear.”

Then, spreading its great, leathery wings, the dragon took flight and disappeared behind the peaks to parts unknown, leaving a grievously wounded Hathus and a permanently shaken Roderic to marvel at what they had seen, but also to bemoan their own folly in disbelieving the tales. They had not trusted that the things they were hearing were possible. Now, to their everlasting sorrow, they knew differently.

The two men returned from the mountains without further incident, though Hathus’s condition was quickly deteriorating. At first, he complained that his arm felt as though it were on fire, but before they had gotten halfway back to town, he reported that the pain was spreading. Roderic feared that he may not be able to find medicine in time, that it may already have been too late.

They didn’t even reach the edge of town before Mórus came to meet them, having spied them coming down the mountain as he watched for their return. “I heard the dragon around mid-day. I figured you were dead, and so did my wife, but I kept looking. So, it let you live, did it?”

Roderic numbly nodded his head. “It let us live … to send a message,” he quietly answered.

Hathus gave another grunt of pain, which drew the Eyldrman’s attention. “Did you fight it? Did it only wound you before leaving?”

“No. We met that cult you mentioned,” Roderic explained. “They used a poison dagger.”

“Jovín’s mercy, the cowards!” Mórus exclaimed. “No true sons of Eyldrland would stoop to that.”

“Please, you have to help him. Is there medicine?”

Mórus looked at Hathus, who met his gaze right back. The two men exchanged a long, knowing look between one another. At last, the Eyldrman broke the silence. “You don’t deserve this. You deserve a warrior’s death. Wait here.” With that, he turned and headed back toward town.

“You can’t save him?!” Roderic was in shock. Hathus couldn’t die, not here, not today. The man was everything to him; he admired everything about his mentor and didn’t believe that the older man would ever meet his end in a hunt unless he had gone in knowing the odds were truly impossible. The idea that Hathus could fatally underestimate his quarry was unthinkable.

Trying to stay his younger friend’s anger, Hathus put his hand on Roderic’s arm. It surprised and terrified Roderic how much strength had already gone out of the older man’s body. It only got worse when Hathus spoke with a voice that was severely labored. “I’m too far gone, friend. That … damn poison did me in. But I won’t … let it finish me. I’ll die standing, like I was meant to.”

In short order, Mórus returned, battle-axe in one hand and two shovels in the other. Roderic didn’t want it to end like this. He wished he could think of something, anything, that would give Hathus another tomorrow. In his heart, though, he knew that wouldn’t happen. His friend had gone on his last hunt. The man he thought could never be laid low was dying by the minute as a fellow human’s poison coursed through his veins. And so he conceded that Hathus was right: this was the best course now. It would be swift and merciful – and deserved. He was a warrior, and he would receive a proper warrior’s death.

“You don’t have to watch,” Mórus offered.

“I will,” Roderic replied.

“Well, I won’t,” Hathus joked. “Let me close my eyes … first. Then it can be a surprise.”

“We can’t send your bones back to Veitsfar,” the Eyldrman said with a note of apology. “We don’t have the means anymore.”

“Just find me … a nice, quiet patch of earth somewhere. I’ll be fine.” Mórus nodded in acknowledgement.

Taking one last look to make sure they were out of sight of the villagers, particularly the youngest children, Mórus took his axe in hand and took his position behind the grizzled Farman. Hathus stood peacefully, eyes closed, seemingly beginning his repose already. Roderic, true to his word, stood a few paces off, watching. Mórus quietly measured his strike against the older man’s neck, carefully lining up his aim, then unleashed a quick, decisive blow. Hathus’s body fell painlessly to the ground, his head mere inches beside it. The Eyldrman had given him the merciful death he deserved.

One of the other men of the village had earlier spotted Mórus heading toward the foothills with an axe and shovels and correctly divined his errand. He arrived with a shovel of his own while the other two men were digging Hathus’s grave and lent his hand in the effort. No words were spoken while the three of them buried one of the most accomplished monster hunters of the Galtic Age.

After erecting an exceedingly modest pile of stones for a marker, Roderic offered a prayer over the grave, bidding Hathus a successful journey through the afterlife. When it was over, he turned to Mórus and said, “I’m sorry. I should have listened.”

“You’re not the first,” he said ruefully. “I hate it, but I think it’s best to do what the dragon said: tell everyone else. The bravest in Eyldrland have tried to slay even one of the beasts and all failed.”

“But you must do something!”

“Are you daft? We’ve tried! Herensk is fallen, the king is in flight, and dragons rule the land now. All that’s left is to put our trust in the gods and look for the day when they strengthen Eyldrland’s arm against the wyrms. But it’s not today.”

As Roderic reflected on the day’s events and on this man’s words, his mind hearkened back to all the stories he heard over the last two years, since the time that dragonkind had made their first appearance. He had willfully dismissed the Eyldrmen’s accounts then, despite the evidence that had accompanied them. He had already heard the fear in their voices, seen firsthand the flight from Varland. A dragon lived close enough to Akselbygd that it was literally moments away at any given time from destroying crops, livestock, homes, and lives. And yet masses of people had fled to this place for safety. How much worse was it farther north?

He empathized with their plight. Eyldrland was always a hard land, with hard people to match. The genteel comforts of the south were a different world from the cold, rugged land of the northern peninsula. It was the last place in Estéa to eradicate giants. The Adrir had fought tooth and nail to defend their land from Galtic migration until scarcely any remained. Its forests were home to direwolves and direbears. In all this, Eyldrmen persevered. They loved their home as proudly and fiercely as anyone. But now dragons had come and taken all that pride and ferocity away. It amounted to nothing against them. None could stand up to them. The thought left Roderic feeling empty and powerless.

“I will go back to Veitsfar,” he announced.

“Perhaps for the best,” Mórus offered. “What will you do there?”

“What I know best. Hunting savage game is my life. I will need to find a new partner, though. It’s best not to go on a hunt alone, you know.”

Though Roderic hadn’t meant any implication by his answer, Mórus chipped in, “Against dragons, I know better. But trolls and direbears, I could handle.”

He was taken aback at first, but thought better of rejecting the man’s offer outright. “Are you certain? It’s dangerous work, you know, and you’ve got a wife to think about.”

“Aye, a wife, and two little ones, plus more someday, Torva be willing. And hardly any food here to feed them.”

That part was true enough, Roderic reckoned. Akselbygd was not meant to have this many people and was clearly straining under the weight of such an influx. And this Mórus certainly looked like he could fit the part of savage-game hunter. He was handy enough with an axe, but then again, what Eyldrman wasn’t? He was pretty sure every one of them was given one out of the womb.

“I will stay in Rookwatch for a while, a fortnight at least. If you still have a mind to do this, seek me out there.”

“Heida will have something to say, no doubt. But if I know her, you’ll see me again before the fortnight is through. Count on it.”

The two men shook hands as they prepared to part. Before they did, Roderic offered a few final words. “Thank you again, for what you did for my friend.”

“Those cultists…” Mórus began. He seemed to search for several seconds before finding what to say next. “I didn’t want any of this for you. I wanted you to see one and then leave. A dragon, that is. I hoped you could avoid his followers. I half-wonder sometimes if they’re not worse than the wyrms are. But I didn’t want your friend to die by poison. No one deserves that. He’ll rest in peace now.”

With a nod, Roderic headed back for the tavern where his room was. Hopefully the tavern master hadn’t already let it out to someone else in the meantime. His death today had been a foregone conclusion, after all.

Before the sun came up again, he hoped to be on his way over the Landis Mountains, back to Veitsfar. It had been a long journey here; it stood to be an even longer one back with no one to keep him company. He decided to entertain himself with thoughts of Mórus fighting by his side while he counted the many miles to Rookwatch.