Jeffery Harvey

Dragons and Wyrms

I, as many as those who read my words may hold to the same opinion as I once did. Dragons, are undoubtedly creatures of fiction. How could such beings exist, never mind how could the world permit the abilities that are often granted to them in stories? Indeed there have been tales, some more convincing than others, coming forth from the men of the western edges of our shore. No man I had met in the eastern corners of our land had ever even seen one alive. I had, as many do, presumed them to be either monsters that had once existed and now do not, or pure, myth. Nevertheless, my ears were turned some years ago when a stranger appeared at the door of my local tavern, supporting a heavy limp and horrendous white scars down his right side, he had stumbled through the door, oblivious to the quiet that had descended, and to the eyes that followed him to the bar.

I was surprised when this hulk of a man sat beside me, upon the bar stool and ordered a strong beer. In attempt to be polite I held my own eyes away, he had come to enjoy himself after all, not to put himself on parade and be bombarded with the same questions he had no doubt had to answer numerous times to various strangers that I hoped to put to him. So I waited patiently, quietly observing his heavy breathing and slightly stagnant smell as I wondered ways that I could discover this man's story. The burns were too heavy to be the result of some domestic fire, perhaps, but I had a feeling that there was an extraordinary story to be told.

To my relief, I was spared from opening conversation with this stranger, as he spoke to me first.

'You like the weak stuff then?' He grumbled but with somewhat of a wry smile, or smile of sorts as only a piece of his lips remained.

I remembered my experience of my travels to the east and back, as well as the many rogues that had come my way. Sometimes politeness was more of a provocation to a man of his sorts. 'The weaker, the more I may drink.'

As I hoped, he laughed and punched my shoulder in a brotherly way before taking a heavy swig and grumbled back. 'I like yer' thinking little man.'

I was nearly as tall as him, but not nearly as broad.

'Where are you travelling to?' I asked, as the sweet scent of his brew filled my nose.

'Home, I 'ope so anyway. I've done wit' me travels, not since meetin' that beast in the west'. His words slurred slightly as he proceeded to spit on the floor and he indicated the direction that he thought was west, in the direction of the door.

'Beast?' I asked, guessing now, as anyone may have what he could mean.

'Them dragons, tha' the tribesmen say they keep, they're no' lyin' either. It were tryin' to take some eggs that I got this.' He pointed to his scars and the shadow of a smile returned to his face, 'don' pretend yer didn' want to ask, most 'ave, 'cept the blind'.

'How did it happen?' Seeing that this stranger's glass was now empty I hastily ordered him another and proceeded to listen.

'Well, as I were gettin' away, great big puff of hellfire and smoke, didn' see it comin' I was too confiden', shoul' no' 'ave been so stupid.'

This meeting proved a changing point, it was the spur that drove me to write my book upon the creatures of this world, for what I did next was the very beginning, with my dear friend and assistant Merca. I went looking for the dragon.

I cannot write here the location the stranger, who I later discovered was named Angus of Lothian gave me of the dragon's whereabouts, for I wish to protect the people here and the breeding site I later discovered, but I headed to the western country of Cymru.

It took over a month to reach our destination, the roads being so poor in state and the dangers we faced kept our pace at a frustrating minimum. We faced the threat of bandits, wolves, although of these animals I cannot complain for they are part of the thrill of the wilds, and most threatening of all were the Shadows, their sharp veins of power reaching into the remotest parts now. Upon a hillock topped with ancient stones, soaked in the modest drizzle that fell upon us, was the cavern that Angus had described. Slowly climbing to the summit, slipping in the mud and stumbling over the hidden rocks and burrows in the long damp grass we soon discovered that there was no sign of life ever having lived within, except a few tiny bones hidden in crevices. It seemed that I had been mistaken to trust the words of Angus. Men in taverns often told far fetched stories of their wounds after all.

I fancied that the black mark on the ceiling, where the slight gap between the two stones above us allowed some light to permeate, was a scorch mark. Merca did not agree.

Perhaps unwisely, we decided to make camp here.

There was much to investigate in this land, I spoke the local tongue; I was keen to speak with the local tribe, not to mention have a look at the local geology, see the wildlife. We had come during the spring, sprites, for example. were rumored to sing and dance around trees every spring in their own little festival. I was keen to discover more.

The next morning, we visited the local tribe. Unsurprisingly, it was well defended. We arose early, but found the hillfort where the tribe had settled by mid afternoon. Our guard had to be up; tribes in most parts of Cymru were of course, easily startled and fierce to folk.

This fortress was built upon a hill, the size of a small town, it was a tremendous sight to behold. Streams of smoke rose from pointed thatched roofs, hidden behind the dark, weather-stained and moss coated wooden spikes, hewn from the trunks of a forest-full of trees to form a great curtain wall, surrounded by a muggy ditch, leaving a narrow path to the front gate. We left our horses two miles away; they were too valuable to us to lose.

Slowly we approached, and were hailed by a call, over the wind it was difficult to understand what was being said, but I understood the gist.
'We come as friends!' I called back, and looked to Merca, her long dark hair shining in the wind, eyes radiant, showing no fear, as she dropped the sack she was carrying to show the scarred youth peering at them through the gap in the gate. I was offering salt, for their friendship.

The youth disappeared and we waited, I wished most surely to posses the courage of my companion as my heart thudded in my chest. After some time the gate was opened and a large beast of a man, emerged, half hidden behind black paint and matted hair, wearing fur and thick pockmarked leather. He took out a knife and made to Merca, I flinched but held myself as he stuck it deep into the sack and saw for himself the minute rocks inside. He coughed, and took it without a word, beckoning for us to follow him as he stomped inside the fortress.

I saw the brown eyes of the youth again, squinting at us suspiciously, beneath his thick brown hair, a hand on the pummel of his oversized sword around his belt. The gate was shut with a heavy thud, ringing the sound of no escape should our endevour be unsuccessful. We were led through the smoky and muddy road between squashed in roundhouses and animal pens, toward a large hall, made of wood and stone, the latter coated in lyme, more grander than the other buildings around it, the carvings of knotwork around the door more elaborate.

The salt was presented to a beefy man, clad in leathers, wearing a lambswool tunic loosely over his square shoulders. I have never seen anyone look so pleased at the sight of such of a commodity, but of course, salt in these parts is scarce.

We spoke for some time. I learned more than I thought to have done from the king of this tribe, the name I cannot write down either, but I can say that it is one of the most powerful tribes of this area. There was talk, which was treated as fact of dragons, wyrms, they called them, that took sheep and sometimes people. They lived in fear of an attack or firestorm, so laid offerings out by the birch tree near a white rock. I learned much on the hunting here too, also of a river swollen with fish not far from our camp. We left on high spirits.

Over the next few weeks we found much of interest in the area, some sightings of sprites in the forests, some catchings of song, but no sight of dragons.

It wasn't until our last evening as we were preparing to head home, our cases full of fossils, various sketches and recordings, that we heard a tremendous roar. Birds took flight amidst a fiery glow that had erupted in the distance. I remember the only sight of fear in Merca's dark eyes that I had ever seen that evening, as we scraped our things together and fled the cavern, almost tumbling down the hill in the near dark and hid behind the ruins of an old wall, just as the trees above us were bowed in the force above, another great roar and flash of light before the ground shook as the beast, its scales of scarlet rubies twinkling in the half light, landed where we had been moments before. Peering over the wall, I could see its forked tail waving gently, as its long neck, fortified with algae green spikes which ran almost to the rump, was bowed, I could hear a subtle slither, and hiss. as it entered the cavern.

We were lucky to be alive.
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