A Veil of Amethyst

Dalton had a lifelong fascination with the varying uses of fire. It could bestow warmth and life, or its light could shine the way through certain darkness; but the smoldering embers before Dalton told a different story: one of an end. 

The putrid, steaky odor fumigating Dalton’s sinuses was one that could only be created through the scorching of the human body. Dalton gave an involuntary snarl at its stench.

This was the second victim discovered this year. Only two months had passed since they lost Bremmer. 

Clivedale dismounted Josie after following the rising plume of smoke to Dalton. The echo of her last hoof fall was still bouncing off the surrounding treeline as he rushed to Dalton’s side. Clivedale did all he could to maintain his composure at the scene.

“Is it as we feared?” Clivedale asked as the fleshy reek embraced his senses. 

Dalton’s eyes remained fixed on the charred collection of bones. Whatever signs that it once belonged to a human had evaporated into the fog. 

“Aye.” 

Clivedale looked away, shielding his eyes and nose.

“What are we to do?”

Dalton looked up to Clivedale. “We find it, and we kill it.” 

The citizens of Ashenfell and the rest of the High Nine were all too familiar with this level of destruction. Only one thing was capable of this level of thoughtless carnage: a dragon.

“Are you mad?” 

“No more mad than you for thinking we can continue doing nothing.” 

“We can’t best a dragon! What experience do you have with such beasts? Even Bremmer-” 

“Don’t speak of Bremmer,” Dalton spat. Bremmer was the armorer of Ashenfell. He was twice the man of any who entered his shop, but that was not enough to save him. His molten breastplate infused with the bones of his scorched rib cage was discovered by Dalton just two moons prior. 

“And we won’t be alone. Sir Johan Ragnar will join us.”

Sir Johan built the soundest reputation as a Huntsman. He’d slay any beast for the right price, but it had been ages since his last dragon. With seven dragons slain, Johan’s name carried a weight of prestige across the High Nine. He was knighted by King Magnus after he felled the Jade during his first conquest. 

“Johan hasn’t answered a call for a Dragon hunt in five years.” 

“He’ll answer this one,” Dalton held out his hand in response to the unasked question he anticipated from Clivedale: Why?

In it lay a pendant, heavily misshapen after enduring the dragon’s hellfire. But despite its disfiguration, the etching was unmistakable: a howling wolf in flames-  the Ragnar Crest. 

* * *

Johan wasn’t hard to find. His retirement from the Hunt made for a life of predictability. He frequented the same hilltop to dwell and the same forest to forage. He could be found at Ashenfell’s market at the same time each day to purchase what he could not secure on his own. Although he’d occasionally leave Ashenfell for days at a time, anyone who knew where to look could easily find him drinking to his wit’s end each night in the dimly lit corner of the Blackened Mare. 

All to awake the next day and repeat, feeling the effects of the night before. 

The Mare was where Clivedale and Dalton decided to make their play. 

“I’ll follow your lead,” Dalton said as he nudged Clivedale toward Johan’s table. He was easy to pick out in a crowd. The two had seen him many times at a distance, in and out the northern gate of Ashenfell. While most tables were occupied by groups of three or four and full of banter, Johan sat alone. These days, he wasn’t known for keeping close company. 

“Why my lead?” 

“You have more tact.” 

The Blackened Mare lacked its usual excitement- which was not to Clivedale and Dalton’s advantage. Where the chatter was typically so loud that one would have to lean in to hear the words of their neighbor, the air was uncharacteristically somber. The faintly lit tavern experienced momentary blasts of illumination from lightning outside, only to be quickly replaced by the humble fires of its interior lanterns. 

Clivedale approached Johan with the same caution he would a wild horse. 

“Sir Johan?” 

“No.” His eyes darted from Clivedale to Dalton, who stood close behind. The interior lighting of the Blackened Mare revealed a violet hue in the man’s eyes. Few have been close enough to notice their color, but the tales surrounding their origin were plenty. 

Some say they held latent magick absorbed from the last dragon he slew. The boundless imaginations of the children of Ashenfell claim Sir Johan stole the eyes of the Amethyst straight from their sockets during his last Hunt. 

Skeptics of his credibility stand by the assertion that the color was always there, but went unnoticed. 

“No?” Clivedale repeated. 

“I am not Johan.” 

Confused, Clivedale was at a loss as to how to proceed. 

“Well,” he began, “Not-Johan, we need your help.” 

“‘Help?’” 

“Yes, sir. We discovered another body- erm, what was left of it. It’s the second victim of a dragon in the span of a few months. You’re the only one in the High Nine to have slain such beasts.”

“That sounds like a request better made to this ‘Sir Johan’ you’re looking for,” the man smirked. “And even so, I doubt you’d have much luck persuading him. I hear he doesn’t hunt dragons anymore.” 

“We found Cassia,” Dalton interjected, tossing the Ragnar pendant dead-center of the table. The relic of Johan’s daughter stared at him, and he stared back. A silence of consideration ensued. 

“Where?” Johan didn’t look up. 

“Why do you care, Not-Johan?” Dalton leaned in. 

“Where?” Johan raised his head, the violet fires of his eyes burning holes into Dalton. 

Clivedale jumped in. “The edge of the Forest of Black. Ten leagues west of Ashenfell. We needn’t go more than a thousand feet in to find her. ” 

Johan took a sustained drink before slumping back in his chair and let out a slight chuckle. 

“Stupid girl.” 

“Have you no heart?” Clivedale said, bewildered. 

“More than she had a head,” Johan retorted. “Did you ever think to ask what she was doing ten leagues from Ashenfell at the Forest of Black?” 

Clivedale’s thoughts stumbled on their way to his mouth. 

Johan continued, “She went looking for trouble and she found it.” Johan paused before finally looking back up to Dalton and Clivedale. 

“I’ll help find you your dragon, but I have three conditions. The first: leave your weapons. Small arms only. Nothing bigger than a dagger. The second: one of you must land the killing blow.” 

Clivedale’s eyes widened. “But that’s why we need you. You’re the only one to have ever returned alive, more than once. I can’t.” 

“Then get your friend to do it,” Johan gestured to Dalton. “I’ll tell you all you need to know. Five years ago, I swore to never slay another dragon, and I don’t intend to go back on my word now. Understand?”

Dalton nodded. “What’s the third condition?” 

“We leave tonight.”

* * *

Clivedale and Dalton were surprised to learn the trek would require less than a day of travel. After securing horses from the stable outside the northern gate of Ashenfell, the trio headed westward into the blackness of night, specked only by the flames of their torches. 

“Our dragon has already revealed its nest,” Johan shouted over the galloping hooves of their mounts. “Once at the edge of the Forest of Black, we rest until sunrise and continue on foot.” 

“Black is massive.” Dalton called out. “How will we find its nest?” 

“You need only know where to look.” 

They arrived at the forest’s edge in three hours’ time. The depths of Black remained shrouded by the mystery of night. ‘The Forest of Black’ was more than a clever name. Its canopy was too dense for most sunlight to permeate. High noon could feel like dusk when traversing its depths; but the band would need all the sunlight they could get to navigate through. 

Dalton and Clivedale sat by their makeshift fire pit, unable to steady their nerves enough to catch a moment’s rest. Meanwhile, Johan laid his cloak down on the dirt and stared at the night sky above, watching moonlit clouds escape over the Black canopy. 

Clivedale broke the silence. 

“Small arms only? We’re to slay a dragon with daggers?” 

“Do you know how dragons kill their prey?” Johan asked.

Dalton was the one who answered.

“Reducing everything to ash,” he said. 

“Like Cassia,” Dalton added, observing Johan’s face for an adverse reaction, which was not offered. 

Johan’s eyes returned upward, the amethyst of his irises shining with the crackling fire. 

“Dragons hunt as much with their minds as they do their talons, maw, or breath.” Interpreting the silence that followed as confusion, Johan continued, “Once a dragon conquers your mind, the body soon follows. Under their grip, you’re no longer Dalton, or Clivedale. You’re the Jade or the Ruby. They snuff you out of your own body, like sand over a fire, and do with you as they please.”

Johan chose then to finally give Dalton a glance. “The truth is, Cassia was dead long before she entered the Forest of Black.”

A heavy stillness sat itself between the three. 

Johan continued, “So Clivedale- ‘why small arms’? If our dragon takes hold of one of you, I’d rather you be brandishing a dagger rather than an axe or sword.” 

* * *

The sun peered over the hills to the east, shining its early morning rays on the band of men as they readied themselves to enter the Forest of Black, leaving their horses at its edge, as Johan instructed. 

“Take me to where you found Cassia,” Johan said. “That’s where we’ll start.” 

Even though Clivedale and Dalton had been at the site less than twenty-four hours prior, they struggled to return to it. The adrenaline of chasing the towering plume of smoke stacking itself above the forest canopy shrouded their memory of where exactly they entered Black to get to Cassia. Even so, they knew it couldn’t have been far. The putrid stench from the day before lingered, yet subtly. 

The trees within Black were sparse- a curious mismatch to the dense canopy overhead. On each trunk rested a heavy crown spanning out and upward, interlacing with its neighbors. 

From a distance, Dalton was able to identify the site where they found Cassia. Scattered beams of light shone through to the areas ahead where dragon’s breath had burned through the canopy the day before. Johan sauntered over to Cassia’s remnants and took a deep breath. 

“Sir Johan,” Dalton started. “You never told us- why did you vow to never kill another?” 

“And you never told me, why is it so important for you to kill this one? Who was Cassia to you?” 

Dalton shook his head. “It’s not about Cassia. It’s about the constant fear in which we live. We lost many before Cassia, and I suspect we’ll lose many more if we continue to do nothing. Slaying that which haunts us sends the message to our brothers in Ashenfell, and the rest of the High Nine, that we’re not helpless. It gives us hope that we can fight back.” 

Dalton looked to Clivedale before continuing, “and it seemed as though we achieved that hope. For a time- because of you, Sir Johan. You felled the Jade, and things felt safe. And then the Ruby, and things felt safer still.” 

Clivedale looked down, shuffling the mixture of soot and dirt at his feet. “After you slayed the Onyx, we celebrated at the Blackened Mare until the sun rose. We’d lost many brothers and sisters to the Onyx. Dalton and I had never seen so many people so happy.” 

“But over the last five years,” Dalton started, “that happiness has begun to fade. Ashenfell is losing hope again. And I want to reclaim it.” 

“So Sir Johan,” Dalton emptied his lungs in a deep exhale.  “I implore you: why did you vow to never hunt another dragon?” 

Johan looked up, and began taking small, calculated steps, closing the distance separating himself and Clivedale. “I’m sorry, boy. I’ll repeat to you exactly what I said just yesterday when you approached me at the Blackened Mare: ‘I am not Johan’.” 

Faster than the human eye could register, he plunged his dagger deep into Clivedale’s throat until only the hilt remained exposed. The man’s dispassioned violet eyes only observed as Clivedale fell to the ground, sputtering and drowning in his own blood. 

“I am not Johan,” he repeated. “Though his body has served us well these last five years.” 

Dalton stood paralyzed, hopelessly bearing witness to the life slowly leaving Clivedale’s writhing body. His feet were planted to the ground, and his arms were glued to his sides. Dalton willed himself to unclench his jaw just enough to utter a single word. 

“How?” 

A deep and mighty growl emanated from behind, sending tremors through the earth and up Dalton’s legs, but he could not turn his head to look. His eyes remained locked on his fallen companion. A sliver of serrated amethyst slithered along Dalton’s periphery- a sliver he had not noticed before.  

“After many years, we began losing hope. He felled the Jade, and we grew frightened. He felled the Ruby, and we grew frightened still. But five years ago, the Amethyst grabbed hold of him, and we felt hope once again.” 

Dalton did the last thing his body would allow: he closed his eyes. 

Whether the next blow came from the Amethyst behind him, or from its vessel before him, whatever followed made no difference. 

Just like Cassia the day before, Dalton was dead long before he entered the Forest of Black.