The letter contained a series of scrap notes in an increasingly frantic hand. The early pages were full with flowing script, but as the narrative continued there were scribblings in the margins, small drawings, unintelligible symbols, and eventual nonsense. The innkeep had offered a free room to the “Triumphant Troupe” as she had taken to calling them, though most of the performing was really just done by Siegyrd.
A collection was taken from those who had witnessed, and they were now much better for their next steps and journey, and with the promise of Mayoral patronage for the next show, they had all they needed to repair gear (still somewhat singed and sizzled from their previous fight), gather provisions and make some inquiries into their next steps.
There were only two beds in the upper room, so Aerendir rolled his bed out into the center of the room. Mareth and Seigyrd only lightly protested, but Aerendir wouldn’t have any of it. Now the three sat on their respective beds and as Siegyrd finished one page of the letter, he passed it to Aerendir, who passed to Mareth when he was complete.
Siegyrd read quickly, but Aerendir had collected quite an extensive middle pile and Mareth had only a couple of the first pages in his hand which he had already read three times each before he received the next. Mareth’s patience eroded like the silt on a fast-rushing river bed.
Soon Siegyrd had no papers, and the stack in Aerendir’s hands was somewhat awkward and Mareth stood up and ripped them from the larger man, tearing one page.
Aerendir looked sheepish, then looked up and boomed in his low voice, “Sorry, wizard. Should have just given them to you.”
Siegyrd chuckled, but Mareth was wide-eyed like a crazy person. He jumped back onto his bed and began speed reading through the pages, turning them in his had to read the marginalia and then rapidly threw each page back to Aerendir who took them back up and picked up where he had left off.
It took a while longer of silence. Siegyrd pulled out a small pouch filled with small whitish stones and tucked one into his lower lip. He did not chew it, but a slight fog began to fill his mouth which he would puff and let fall to the ground at intervals. A light scent of snow lily accompanied the fog that was pleasant in the close night of the warm, by the candle light under which they read.
Eventually Aerendir set down the papers, and sat somberly.
“Well.” Mareth’s voice was almost shrill.
“Earlier stages than we have seen, little brother” Aerendir said.
Siegyrd puffed again, the curl of fog around his chin, then spoke, “Or a different cause.”
“Stages of what? What is this last script? It’s draconic but, not.” Mareth was frustrated and intrigued.
Aerendir stood next to his bedroll. His broad bare chest was ghosted with grayish silver scales that Mareth had often been confused about.
Siegyrd turned his body so he was facing the center of the room, feet dropped to the floor. “He may speak to us.”
Aerendir stroked his jaw with a hand. “He may.”
“What are you two talking about? Care to fill me in? I know I am new to this little troupe, but you hired me. What is this treasure this man is talking about? And what is the language? You seem to have understood something more than I managed.”
Aerendir and Siegyrd locked eyes for a moment, and Aerendir nodded.
His deep voice filled the space as he turned to face Mareth, “You know we have been slaying dragons throughout the realms for some time.”
Mareth nodded and raised an eyebrow.
“That has been the sad consequence of our true quest. We are seeking the kin, any kin who have no lost their minds.”
Mareth interrupted, “Dragons are devilishly smart creatures, to say they’ve lost their minds seems odd.”
Aerendir nodded again, “perhaps mind is the wrong word, but let me continue. The kin once, we believe, were part of great communities of dragons, powerful gatherings filled with joy and song. Siegyrd has seen this in visions in many places. Most forcefully in our last engagement.”
Mareth looked at Siegyrd whose gaze was distant but intense.
Aerendir continued, “We don’t know truly, but something changed the kin. By nature, by madness, by disease, by magic. We don’t yet know, but you saw the dragon we fought. Your first, but our ninth. Each was more corrupted than the one before it. She was barely even dragon anymore.”
“She?” Mareth questioned.
Siegyrd interrupted now, “Yes, she. Most humans don’t well tell the distinctions between male and female kin, but the erasure is dangerous. They respond differently in life and combat and existence. The one we slew a fort night past was a woman. Beauty marred by some wretched brokenness.”
“You two seem to think dragons are somehow good, or once were. They are monsters, bred for destruction and powerful beyond measure. Fascinating and brilliant but forces of natural disaster. I study them, have studied long. There has not been a dragon who cared for beauty in any age known.”
Siegyrd’s eyes were very sad, but it was Aerendir who spoke, “It is often humorous how little the most well-read really know. You have studied, but we have seen. You have read, but we have lived in their midst.”
Mareth’s eyes went wide, “How many dragons have you known, spoken with? Would invite you to dine with them and not be dined upon?”
Siegyrd laughed this time, “None, in the way you think, yet some few. If these letters and scraps are to be believed, there is one who has heart enough left to speak to us, though not for much longer.”
Mareth looked even more confused, “some mad wizard or mage or bard wrote those notes.”
“No mad wizard, mage or bard knows the ancient script. What you know as Draconic is a derivative, a twisting of the High Tongue.” Siegyrd said calmly.
Aerendir gave a warning grunt.
Mareth looked back and forth between the two and shook his head in anger. “Fine keep your cryptic secrets. I’ve just enough curiosity left for one last hunt, then I am out.”
Aerendir sighed and continued, “He spoke of a flute with some great reverence, almost clarity.”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Siegyrd spoke, “I noticed that too. Perhaps a cure, or a magic against the corruption?”
Mareth huffed loudly and turned his back to the room, tucking his pillow under his head, but his eyes were wide as he listened.
Aerendir went on, “Perhaps. This is all too disjointed to reveal much, but there is at least hope.”
“A dangerous hope, brother.” Siegyrd said.
“Is there any other kind?”
#
The mayoral manor was spacious and decorated with some of the best of human craftsmanship. The wood frame and internal walls were of a kind not known to the region speaking to the wealth here that could afford to gather materials from other areas. The stonework was most likely dwarven, if Siegyrd’s eyes served him well.
Elven scrollwork was etched into the wooden joins and pillars. This house alone was more valuable than the entire town that sat beneath it. Mayor Mathin Morrow sat in a stretched cushioned frame in front of a low fireplace filled with the ashes of the night before. Bags of dark hung under his eyes and his salt and pepper hair was disheveled as he leaned back against the single armrest. He wore the same clothes that Siegyrd had met him in. He had none of the air of poise and command now that he had held in the inn. In truth, he almost looked as though he had been crying. His face was drawn and thin.
He rose slowly to meet his guests who were guided in by a servant boy of perhaps twelve years old.
“Gentlemen, be welcome.” Mathin extended a weary hand toward Aerendir who led.
Aerendir shook his hand firmly, and felt a weakness there, almost magical. “Are you ill, saer?”
Mathin sighed heavily, and Mareth and Siegyrd looked warily.
“In a manner. Nothing you need worry yourself about at the moment.” The man’s eyes were sunken, but his voice was steady if soft. “Have you read the letters?”
“We have.” Aerendir said.
Siegyrd broke in, “May we inquire where you came upon such writings? They are rarer, perhaps, than you know.”
Mathin chuckled at this and waved his hand toward a couple cushioned chairs, then looked around as if searching for another. “Just a moment. Gideon.”
The servant boy returned to the room and nodded.
Mathin continued, “Be so good as to grab another of the cushioned chairs from my study please.”
The boy nodded again and was out of the room in a flash.
Mathin fussed a bit, but pointed to the couch he was just lounging on and the two chairs and said, “Please, gentlemen, saers all, please sit sit.”
Mareth shrugged and took the nearest chair, but Aerendir and Siegyrd remained standing for the time. After a moment sitting staring up at the other three men, Mareth awkwardly stood back up and crossed his arms.
Mathin looked pleadingly at the lot of them, “Please sit, I insist, the chair will only be a moment and I will sit as well.”
Siegyrd gave a slight bow, glanced at Aerendir, and then stepped smoothly to the couch. He lay back quite at ease. Mareth took his seat again, but Aerendir remained standing a few moments longer, locking eyes with Mathin.
“You look near to collapsing, Mayor. Please, I will take the final chair when it arrives.” Aerendir said and firmly but gently grasped the mayor’s shoulder and guided him to the open seat.
Mathin’s eyes went a little wide, but it was clear he did not have the energy nor strength to resist. Before he knew it he was seated, and, for all his pride as host, he all but collapsed into the chair.
“A boorish kindness,” Mathin mused aloud, but then his voice grew thankful, “but a kindness nonetheless.” He nodded to Aerendir who didn’t have to wait but a few more moments until the small servant boy was dragging a cushioned chair into the room. The chair had small wheels it seemed, but the large rug in the sitting room was resistant to rolling. Aerendir relieved the boy quickly, lifting the whole chair with a single hand and spinning it into place in front of him. He winked at the boy as thanks, and the young man skittered away giggling somewhat frighted.
There was a pause for a time while the four men sat in relative silence as the morning sun shone through slats in the windows. It was a cool morning, but would soon be warm, perhaps warmer than the day before. Siegyrd pulled a small pouch from his belt, drew a smoky white stone, and placed it into his lip. The bit of fog began to roll and snow lily scent filled the room.
Mathin looked perplexed, “What is that? Some sort of pipe smoke? But how does it not burn you? Though what a wonderful idea! We all should have a smoke, relax us in the morning. Apologies its dreadful the state you find me in, and invited you were.” He began to pat his clothes and look around the seat clearly looking for something.
Mareth said, “About the letters. My friend asked where you came by it.”
Mathin was still scrambling, and Siegyrd began to look in the couch he was on and soon found a pipe which he passed to Mathin with a smile.
Mathin said, “Oh bother about the letters in a minute,” to Siegyrd, “thank you, now where’s my tobacco? Could I have some of yours?”
“That isn’t tobacco, Mayor. It’s not made for a pipe.” Aerendir said.
“But the smoke,” Mathin said, watching the fog drift lazily from around Siegyrd’s lips. His face went quizzical, “is falling downward?”
“More a fog than a smoke,” Mareth said, “suppose I have yet to really ask about it.”
Siegyrd was breathing and puffing bits of fog between his teeth, eyes closed, head leaned back, blissful it seemed.
“A habit of a kind, it might work a fraction in a pipe though, with a bit of magical aid.” Siegyrd said as he opened one eye and looked over at Mareth. “Willing?”
Mathin’s eyes looked brighter than they had the whole morning, alive with the curiosity, “Oh please, saer. It is an oddity I do wish to try.”
Aerendir shook his head, “Little brother, we don’t know…”
Siegyrd jumped in, “No we don’t, but what can be the harm?”
“Death.” Aerendir said bluntly.
Mathin and Mareth looked at each other strangely and gulped.
“Don’t be dramatic. It’s not that pure. Let them try it.”
Aerendir sighed deeply, “Oh fine, but if we are doing this, I don’t want to hear you complain that we need to go quickly to the ice floes to get more. It’s a longer journey than I care to take again so soon.”
Siegyrd smiled and jumped up, “Delightful!”
Mareth had no pipe of his own, so one was borrowed from Mathin. After a bit of a to do, another run around from Gideon, and some reorganization of the room, Siegyrd gave the instructions.
“Half a crystal for each of you should be plenty. Careful not to touch it at all. I will place it in the pipe. Then just a drop of water in each should do.” Siegyrd said.
“Why are we wearing winter gloves?” Mareth said.
“Oh don’t ask so many questions,” Mathin said, “he seems to know his business. Before we start though what is it called?”
Siegyrd squeezed his face trying to think. “In the common tongue, I actually don’t know. Come up with one for yourself after you’ve tried it.”
The two men with pipes looked silly holding them in winter gloves as the room grew in warmth, but they did as they were told. Siegyrd pulled a single crystal from his pouch and broke it in two which sent a small wave of chill in to the air around them and expanded the snow lily scent. He dropped half into each man’s pipe and then took his water flask and dropped a single drop into each.
Immediately there was a kind of sizzling and a slow fog began to fill the pipes and then spill over. Mathin was the first to put his lips to his pipe and take a breath. His eyes flared wildly aware, pupils dilating to an insane degree and then he pulled his head away from the pipe and breathed out in a half cough sending fog and condensation into the air.
“Whoa!” Was all he said, and then took another shallower draw from the pipe.
Mareth was more tentative, and so less affected by the initial, but the two men found themselves alert and yet frighteningly calm, as if they could see the future and were ready to respond in the fraction of a moment, but knew it held no fear. Anxiety could not exist in such a state, with perfect knowledge of the next few seconds, and a sense of infinite readiness, they were at a peace upon the knife’s edge of the moment, no grasping for what was next nor behind.
Aerendir laughed as he looked at Siegyrd, “It may be a bit before they are ready to converse now.”
Siegyrd smiled and spoke to Mareth and Mathin, “How do you feel?”
“Astonishing.” Was all Mareth said.
Mathin started to speak, paused, and took another draw instead, closed his eyes and then breathed out the fog and condensation with a sigh of relief, like a great burden had been lifted for the moment, “Brilliant. I feel, brilliant.”
Siegyrd’s smile widened and the fog played around his lips as he responded, “Delighted to hear it. Now about those letters.”
Mathin’s tone changed not at all, “Oh yes, the letters. My wife’s. She’s become quite ill, and as you can see, somewhat mad. You adventuring types know these things, and some of the scrawls are of dragons and dragon kind. Can you help her?”
Aerendir and Siegyrd’s glance at each other was full of a mix of hope and fear and uncovered surprise.
Mareth’s mind was sharp enough under the draught of whatever the non-tobacco was that he noticed it all in that split second and didn’t think it the slightest odd to say what he saw, “Why so surprised, gentlemen? You know more than you let on.”
Aerendir just nodded, “We do, but it’s likely best we show you.” He turned to Mathin and spoke. “Where is your wife now?”