The King of Scales

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.” My father’s voice is ancient in my memory. I had sat on my haunches in rapt attention. The whole village seemed to fall quiet. I like to imagine even the birds paused their singing for a while. “We were a peaceful folk. We’d not yet desecrated our hands. We’d not yet damned our souls.”

As he spoke, he cracked a rock against a chunk of obsidian as long as my forearm. The blows broke off pieces of dark glass. He brushed each one off the rawhide draped over his knee. The shards fell to the dirt like rotten fruit. 

“I was young, then. Younger than you are now.” He had gazed at each of us in turn, as if we held parts of him that had long since fallen away. Carn’s shoulders, strong as an ox. Lynnith’s hands, lithe and dextrous. And my eyes, golden and burning. 

“My mother was a seer. She foretold the harvest’s yield and warned of the coming winter’s bite. My father was chieftain, proud and caring. No one went hungry under his leadership.” 

My father told this story only once and many winters ago, but every word still resounds in my mind as clearly as breaking stone. I recite each one like a prayer as I cleave shards of dark glass on my own knee.

My home is squat, dark. Clay walls and a clay roof are held up by wooden beams and trusses. Sunlight bleeds in through small windows, but most of the light comes from a fire in the center of the single room. I work by the flickering light, but it is not necessary. My father taught me to work by feel alone. 

“I was taught to hunt. By my twelfth winter, I could track a stag through a dozen leagues of dense forest. When my sixteenth winter had passed, the ground began to shake. Without warning, the earth would tremble for a few moments before falling still again. The village was worried.” 

He had worn two notches into the base of the sharpened obsidian. A drum beat, slow and plodding, signaled noon. The village really did grow quiet, then. Adults stopped their work. Children were ushered inside. 

“My mother had a vision. A great beast would come into the Valley. Its breath spells destruction and its footfalls shake the ground. The King of Scales had risen, and it chose our home for its hunting ground. She saw me, as well. She saw my veins filled with burning blood and in my hands a broken spear. To my father, this vision was irrefutable. It was my fate to hunt and kill this god of terror.”

I examine the obsidian blade I’ve knapped. Crude, but it will do for the ceremony. I take an antler, yellowed and brittle. I rub pitch on the end of the bone and the base of the obsidian blade. I press them together and set it aside while the pitch hardens.

“I was sent off without delay. For two days I tracked the beast. All the while I wondered how I would kill it. Then, like a gift from fate itself, I found an old man in a cave. He taught me the secrets of dark magic. He taught me the power of blood.”

My father had grown quiet then. His hands stopped their work. His eyes closed. Across his weathered face was writ the pain of remembrance. 

“A new peak had risen amongst the mountains. I approached with caution. The ground rumbled, and as I came closer I realized why: the great shadow obscuring the horizon was breathing.”

I take up my unfinished blade. I wrap a length of twine around the notch and antler over and over, working pitch into the lashing as I go. My throat burns from the stink of tar and smoke. I breathe deep. 

Light spears into the room and the fire seems to dim by contrast. Lynnith has thrown aside the deerskin covering and steps through the doorway. The robes she wears are handspun from foreign silk, dyed in the colors of flames. Her face is angular, her head clean-shaven. I scratch at the stubble on my cheeks.  

“You’re ready?” Lynnith asks.

The knife is unfinished in my hands. She takes it from me. 

“The village waits for you.” She wraps the twine with ease and efficiency.

“They will wait a little longer.” I stir the pitch. It sticks beneath my fingers. I drop the bowl into the fire. 

Lynnith tightens a final knot on the blade. I inspect it in the shaft of sunlight breaching through the door. It is the work of an expert. She crouches at my feet and sifts through the broken obsidian. She chooses one that tapers to a fine point.

“There’s no reason to delay,” she says. I nod. She scratches the bone handle with the glass shard. “Yet here you are.”

“I cannot escape him.” I stare at my hands. Calloused. Scarred. 

“You never could.”

“He taught us to survive. He taught us to endure.”

“He taught us to kill.” 

To that, I say nothing. Our silence is punctuated by the fire’s cracks. The knife is thrust back into my hands. Lynnith has carved sigils into the bone. Runes, waiting to be woken by warm blood.

“You don’t have to escape him. Just to say goodbye.” As she leaves, she drops the skin over the portal again. I am left in darkness, alone with my father’s funeral knife. 

“I was lucky, for the King of Scales slept.” His voice returns, as if speaking through the blade. “His hide was stone. My spear couldn’t pierce it unaided, so I prepared a ritual. I carved a spell into the weapon and sanctified it with hare’s blood. The flowing life sharpened the blade and fortified the shaft. I plunged it into the King’s hide.”

My father then studied his finished blade. It was a dagger, long and tapered. Its blade was crude. It was not meant for slicing. A knot of unease had tightened in my gut. My father stood and led us to the heart of the village.

There was no breeze to whisper over our heads. No bird dared voice its call. None of us spoke. The scratch of our footsteps rang loud as we followed the rhythm of that distant drum. My father’s face was solemn. Carn’s shoulders were hunched, his jaw tight. I took his hand and squeezed, ignoring my own growing fear. Lynnith’s fists were clenched. To this day, I wonder if she knew what awaited us on that dais. 

“The spear broke, as my mother foretold. I drank the molten ichor until my veins ran gold. I fought the King of Scales with fists and fury. After four days and four nights, I felled the burning mountain. But the old man imparted one more piece of wisdom to me: the beast could not die. So, I chained him. I performed a ritual as old as death and sanctified the casting with my own blood.

“When the King realized what I’d done, his shriek of indignation shook the mountains and boiled the rivers. Its end only came when a hundred winged shadows crested over the horizon. The King had called forth his brood, but they did not approach him. I suspect they feared his wrath as much as I.”

The ceremonial dais stood tall to my young eyes. Four legs held a platform of stone wide enough for a wagon. On it, the high priestess, Gavrel, chanted incantations over a bowl carved with runes and sigils. To either side, every adult looked to my father. He did not meet their gaze.

“My blood frightens the dragons. They won’t approach while I yet breathe. The King of Scales is another matter.”

Ordan had ascended the dais and knelt before the priestess. His body was bare, save for a small cloth about his waist. Grey hair clutched at his scalp. His hands raised in prayer. Those hands that once nursed me when I was ill. Those hands that delivered my brothers into the world. Those hands trembled. 

“Every fourth spring, the chains must be sanctified.” My father’s gaze was hard. His eyes were ashen. “The ritual keeps us safe. In turn, we keep it fed.”

The funeral knife is cold in my grip. My knuckles are shot with white. I relax my fingers and suck in the smoke. The pain is sharp. It clears my mind of distraction. For a moment, the voice falls silent. The memories recede. My only companion is the acrid clawing in my throat. 

“I am ready,” I whisper to the embers. “I must be.”

The sunlight stabs my eyes. Carn waits for me. He holds our father’s wrapped body as gingerly as a babe just past its naming. He nods to me. I return the gesture. He leads me towards the heart of the village. There is no drum beat to lend cadence to our steps. The silence is unsteady. 

Each home we pass is empty, the small windows dark. Small gardens are unattended. Cookfires are buried under sand. Tools have been packed. Animals have been shepherded away. Our possessions have been brought to a staging area just South of the village. All that remains is that which cannot burn. 

The people are gathered at the dais. Among them drifts the smells of sweat and dust. Lynnith and Gavrel wait atop the scarred platform. They meet my gaze with solemn understanding. Carn and I pass in silence until we reach the platform. 

Carn climbs the steps and sets our father down. He holds the head with both hands so it doesn’t knock against the wood. I unwrap the body. The flesh is still warm. The face almost looks relaxed. It displays a kind of serenity he had never known in life. The priestess is speaking the funeral rites, but I cannot hear her. My ears ring with the voice of a corpse. 

“Our hands are stained,” he had said. “This is the debt we pay for peace.”

He had ascended the dais. Ordan chewed on a vallah root until his jaw went slack and his hands grew steady. The priestess laid him down as gently as she would a newborn calf. His eyes stared through me, wide and unseeing. I shuddered. 

The priestess tipped the bowl. A dark liquid poured out, thicker than blood. It slid easily over Ordan’s chest and into the stone’s cracks. He seemed not to notice. My father stood above him. The drum had fallen silent.

“Thank you, Ordan. Your blood feeds the chains of our salvation.” He raised the dagger. Sunlight flickered across the obsidian’s edge like a cold flame. The people put a hand to their chests, fingers clutched at an unseen weight. They raised their palms, as if to offer their own heart to the sky. 

My father buried the dagger in Ordan’s chest. The old man twitched a little as it punched through his heart. Thick blood bubbled from the wound to mix with the oil. A faint glow suffused the obsidian. Smoke curled where stone met flesh. The stink of sulfur filled the air. My father bent his head. He whispered something that could have been a prayer. 

The oil ignited. 

A column of white fire erupted into the sky. A wave of heat knocked the breath from my lungs. Carn’s grip tightened. Lynnith staggered. I grabbed her shoulder and held her steady. I felt the crowd recoil, but my gaze never left the blinding pillar consuming Ordan. His body burned slowly, as though the flames savored his taste. His skin withered. His blood boiled. His bones cracked. He stared through me, unseeing, unfeeling, until his eyes melted and they too succumbed to a fire that dimmed the sun.

My father’s shadow had loomed above, untouched by the ritual’s avarice. 

“You kept the chains fed,” I now whisper to his pallid corpse. “That will be your legacy.”

I stand. Gavrel pours out the ceremonial oil. The same oil used four springs ago. And four more before that. Her robes are spun from wool, dyed in the colors of ash.

“The wagons are ready?” I ask.

“Supplies are packed. Animals are yoked. When we’ve finished here, all we need do is leave.” 

I see now the wrinkles on her face. The hard lines worn by a lifetime of grief. As I look out at the gathered people, I see the same hollow look in their eyes. Devra, my mother’s brother. Toshra, who taught me to cook. Almor, whose child is yet unnamed. Their eyes look to me with fear. 

I see now why my father could not meet their eyes. Why he bent his head over Ordan’s body. It was not prayer. It was shame. 

I touch a hand to my chest. The people do the same. Together, we raise our hearts to the sky.

The knife is cold. I run my fingers along Lynnith’s runework. It is without flaw. I reverse my grip and dig the knife into his chest. Dark blood oozes out. The knife grows warm. The familiar smell of sulfur burns my nostrils. I breathe deep. 

A flame sputters to life. The oil catches quickly and the wrapping soon after. I step away. Within moments, the fire engulfs the body. It takes the familiar shades of ochre and red. If one ignores the sweet scent of burning flesh, one could almost mistake it for a hearthfire. 

As the body burns, a tremor rolls over the Valley. The ground shakes for a few moments before falling still. I see no shadows over the horizon, but that means little. The King has felt my father’s death. His brood has nothing to fear from us now.

“How long until the chains break?” I ask Gavrel.

“Ten nights.”

“Can we reach the King of Scales in that time?”

“That depends on you, Chieftain.” She names me with no lack of irony. 

My people file through the central road towards our staging area. I wait with my brother and sister until the fire has gone out, and all that remains of our father is ash and bones.

“You’re sure this is wise?” Lynnith asks. Her expression is not worried, but cynical.

“The killers in the sky seek only death. With the King, I hope to bargain.” 

She nods, but her expression is unchanged. Carn takes my shoulder. He squints down the road. The sun is nearing the peaks to the west, flooding the Valley with golden light. At the other end of the village, I alone can see that preparations are almost complete. Twenty wagons are covered in thick canvas, their axels bent under far too much weight. 

My feet carry me down the steps, as if of their own will. My mind is elsewhere. 

When the blinding flame had died, my father stood alone on the dais. His voice was no louder than a whisper, but it rings in my mind all the same.

“We weren’t always like this.”

I turn these words over as we walk through the abandoned village. They resound, louder with every step. When we reach the staging area, my thoughts are a whirlwind of echoes. 

A hand steadies me, pulls me from my reverie. Carn tilts his head. A silent question. I nod.

The baggage train is ready. Gavrel is mounted. Devra rests his bad leg on the edge of a wagon bed. Almor nurses her son. The people wait for my word. I swallow the grit in my mouth and let the knot in my gut unravel. 

“We ride.”