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Every now and then in the northern province of the Kingdom of Dalanor, a dragon would soar down from its home, high in the impassable Northern Mountains, to plague villages and settlements. It would only happen once or twice every couple of years, and only in the spring and summer when they awoke from their winter hibernation. It was believed that food was scarce up in the mountains because when one came it generally sated itself on livestock. They avoided larger cities and castles, and seemed to have little interest in attacking people and burning villages—unless provoked—and so the beasts were not considered a real threat, but many of these farming villages relied on their livestock for food and labor; he northern soil was poor for any but the hardiest of crops. Whenever a dragon appeared large bounties were posted and calls went out all over the lands for experienced Hunters, specialists in killing monsters too dangerous for the average person to deal with, to come and deal with the “pest.”
It was midsummer when a large red-scaled appeared in the northern province of the Kingdom of Dalanor. The Lord of the Province hired a group of mercenaries to find its lair and destroy it but they never returned, and the next time the dragon appeared a week later it burned down half a village and turned three people who could not flee to ash. After that, the Lord had sent out a call for a Hunter.

An official courier arrived at Beneron’s Hope, a small village fifty miles southwest of the destroyed village in the afternoon the day after the attack. When he went into the tavern to speak with the alderman, he’d found the village elder handing a small jingling bag of coins to a dangerous and rugged-looking man with dark hair, wearing black leather armor and a dark green cloak which, the courier was relieved to see, was fastened with small silver brooch bearing the crest of the Order of the Hunt. He was even more relieved to find out that the man was Kellan Althur, who was well-known as one of the most venerated Hunter in the Northlands. It was rumored that many years before he had lost a fellow Hunter and lover to a titanic black dragon that breathed black fire, and that killing dragons had become more than business for him. It was also rumored that the Hunter possessed a magic sword with a flaming blade that could cut through a dragon’s iron-hard scales like they were butter.
Though no one knew any of this for certain, what was known was that Kellan Althur was a dragon-slaying Hunter, and that was good enough for the harried messenger. He handed the Hunter a parchment bearing the an official seal and watched as the man read it silently. When Althur finished he folded the parchment, slipped it into a pocket, and looked at the courier. “Tell them I’m coming.” The courier nodded thanks, bowed quickly then hurried out of the tavern. Barely ten minutes had passed before he was riding back north on a fresh horse.
After the courier left Kellan Althur had an ale, courtesy of the alderman, then he used some of the reward he’d just earned on a job to buy food and water for himself and his horse. Then he followed in the courier’s wake, riding away from the town on the northern road, off to kill another monster.

Kellan rode at a comfortable pace, feeling no great need for haste. The dragon had already taken its revenge and wouldn’t kill anyone else—unless the idiots hired more mercenaries. Damn fools, Kellan thought. In the meantime it might kill more of the villagers' precious livestock, but the he wasn’t going to waste either his own strength or Karthon’s for a few cows and goats.
Even so, a comfortable pace for a Hunting horse was still significantly faster than any normal steed, and Karthon was in his prime. The nature of a Hunter’s work called for stronger, swifter, and braver mounts than a normal horse. Generations of breeding and a little magic-induced mutation had made Hunting horses far superior to any other breed. They ran faster, lived longer, endured the harshest environments, and could travel incredible distances without stopping. Most importantly, in Kellan’s opinion, they were one of the only land-walking creatures that could match a dragon in full flight. Centuries past there had been Hunters who rode griffins and hippogriffs, but no one had been able to tame one of those beauties in a long time; at least not that he’d heard. At any rate dragons could fly like nothing Kellan had ever seen, maneuvering through the air with terrifying agility that seemed impossible considering their size, so it probably wouldn’t matter whether where the fight took place; a dragon was a tough bastard even on the ground. Besides, Karthon had proved himself in more than a few dragon-hunts over the years, and Kellan was glad to have him as a friend—even though he could be a damned stubborn fool. Hunting horses were nothing if not tempermental.
It was the warmest time of the summer in Dalanor, but it only rarely got hot in the high-altitude north; the nights were always cool, if not cold. The sky was growing darker and Kellan felt tired—though he knew that Karthon could probably keep going for another ten miles without complaint—so he looked for a place to camp. Beneron’s Hope had been at the edge of a large pine forest, but there were few trees around him now and the land was becoming hilly and rocky. As the sun began to set and the sky turned from pale blue to purple Kellan found a small rock-filled clearing in a grove off the path. He dismounted, removed Karthon’s saddle and bridle, setting his few saddlebags on the ground. He gathered a small pile of sticks and ignited them with a bright spark shot from his fingers. Many people looked down on using magic for menial tasks as lighting simple campfires, but there was no one around to judge except Karthon, who looked at Kellan with big eyes which seemed to say, Really? “Shut up,” the Hunter said. The horse snorted and turned away to chew on a nearby patch of green grass.
Kellan used telekinesis to move a large, flat-topped rock ten feet and dropped it by the fire, and then sat on it. He took an apple and a loaf of bread from one bag and ate them, washing his small meal down with a swig of water from a metal canteen. Then from another bag he produced a whetstone and blade oil. He inspected his weapons one by one; when the blades of his dagger, short sword, and small axe were all oiled and sharpened and his elven bow was restrung, he set them aside and picked up his longsword, drew it from its black scabbard and gently lay it in his lap, as though it was a delicate piece of art and not the ancient and powerful weapon it actually was.
Kellan didn’t know the history of the sword, where it was forged or by whom, or how it had ended up in the small hoard of a bridge-troll that he’d killed five years back. He’d half expected the blade to be dull and rusted, or missing entirely, when he’d pulled the weapon from beneath the foul-smelling heap of trinkets and bones. The sword had been good and stuck in its battered and dusty scabbard, but when it suddenly came free he’d blinked and almost gasped as the mirror-like blade glimmered in the shadows under the bridge. The metal was a strange, twisting blend of steel, silver, and a dark, glassy material similar to obsidian, and required no maintenance; it never rusted, and the edge never dulled or chipped. The strange weapon was heavy compared to other swords of its size but it was perfectly balanced, and the black hilt fit his hands like it’d been specially-crafted just for him. He’d sensed the magic in the weapon as soon as he’d touched it, but he didn’t learn its true power until he’d faced his next dragon. When he’d approached the beast the dark pommel-stone glowed—the closer the dragon came, the brighter the stone’s inner fire shone. Then blade began to glow a deep, molten-metal red and became immensely hot—as hot as the dragon’s vicious fire—and it sliced through the monster’s dark scales and its diamond-hard bones with ease. Every ancient, magic weapon had a name and a story to match its power, but Kellan could find no mention of anything like it in any histories, legends or songs, and no scholar or mage he knew could translate the strange runes inscribed on the sword’s hilt and crossguard, so Kellan had come up with one himself: Dragonbane. And though it only blazed in the presence of a dragon (in the presence of a wyvern it only became somewhat warm, as thought it had been sitting out in the sun for a while), it was still the finest sword he’d ever possessed.
Kellan was all too aware of the rumors surrounding his special sword, and of his vendetta against dragonkind. Though the black dragon he was famous for killing did not breathe special black fire and was not “titanic”—it was actually one of the smaller ones he’d hunted, for Dragonbane’s three-foot blade was almost long enough to slice through the monster’s whole neck—it had killed a close friend of his, another Hunter named Hale. Though they’d grown very close they were not lovers, and whatever might have happened between them ended when they’d taken on the black dragon together. She’d lost her focus, hesitating for one second when Kellan was nearly engulfed in dragonfire, and that second had cost her life. In that one second the dragon’s tail had lashed out, dark bony spikes tearing through her armor like parchment. Before Kellan had blinked Hale’s corpse hit the ground thirty feet away.
Kellan knew it hadn’t been his fault, and never blamed himself as another man might—all Hunters knew the risks, especially when it came to dragons, and Hale had made a mistake. She’d been thinking of his safety and not the Hunt. She’d let her feelings rule her, and had died a Hunter’s death. But, even so, ever since then Kellan’s hatred of dragons had harbored a special place in the corner of his mind, and he had come to enjoy killing them more than any other monster—even vampires, which had killed many more of his friends and fellow Hunters.
Kellan was running one hand over Dragonbane’s cool blade when he sensed a presence approaching, and he looked up. The sky was a deep blue, almost black, and the light of the sun was barely visible over the western horizon. He heard light footsteps on the grass; Karthon also heard and he raised his big grey head and twitched one ear in the direction the noise came from, and snorted. The newcomer wasn’t being very discreet so Kellan decided it probably was just another traveler on the road; probably saw the light and was coming to ask to share the campfire. Still, as a Hunter always did, he prepared himself for anything, standing and taking his sword in his right hand, reading his left for magic sign-casting.
Then a voice came from the dark. “Peace, Hunter. I come as a friend.” The voice was rich and deep, with an accent Kellan couldn’t quite place, though it was definitely northern. He could see directly ahead of him a human-shaped figure in the shadows, not ten feet away from the edge of the campsite.
“Come—into the light,” Kellan replied.
The figure stepped into the light and approached the fire. The man was in his middle years, with greying blonde hair and a short golden-orange beard. He was a little taller than average, with a strong build. His eyes were bright, with golden irises which seemed to glow in the light of the fire. He wore plain grey robes, heavy boots, and had a ratty-looking brown leather satchel. He smiled warmly, then raised one hand and his fingers glowed slightly. “Do you mind if I—”
“Use magic?” Kellan motioned toward another flat-topped rock a few feet away, sheathing his sword and sitting down again. “If it pleases you.” He kept his eyes on the stranger, and his guard up.
“Thank you,” the stranger said. Just as Kellan had done, the man levitated the rock and placed it by the fire across from the Hunter. Then he sat. “Two rocks that make decent benches, and in such a good spot for a campsite, too. Fortunate, wouldn’t you say?”
Kellan nodded. “I suppose it is so.”
“Fortunate, too, that I should meet a Hunter on this road. A Hunter who is, I presume, going north?” Kellan didn’t respond. “I think we may have similar purpose.”
“How did you know I was a Hunter? You weren’t close enough to see the brooch.”
“A lucky guess.”
“Right.” Kellan’s eyes narrowed, only just. “A mage, but not a battlemage… you’re a healer?”
The stranger nodded.
“And does this healer have a name?”
“Marius.”
“Just ‘Marius?’”
“Right now it’s Marius, though yesterday it was something different, and tomorrow it may be different again.”
“Go plough yourself.”
Marius laughed heartily and said, “Marius Golden-Head. My family is long gone, along with my family’s name. ‘Golden-Head’ is fitting enough, eh?” The man inclined his head, his eyes bright and sparkling, his smile white and wide.
“And where are you from, Marius Golden-Head?”
“North originally, but I haven’t been home in a terrible long time. But where I came from matters little now. Where I am going now is what matters now, and where you are going, Kellan Althur, is what matters more.”
Kellan sat up straighter. “You passed through Beneron’s Hope?”
“No, that was another guess, but an educated rather than a lucky one. As I said, we have a similar purpose.”
“The dragon.”
Marius nodded. “I am, as you guessed, a healer, and I specialize in treating victims of dragonfire.”
“I’ve never needed a healer, and you’re probably too late to help anyone the dragon’s already injured.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I go where I feel I’m needed, but I—like you, I hear—always tend to go where the dragons go.”
“I could’ve been any Hunter. How’d you know who I was?”
“Your sword.”
“You know it?”
“I do. Better than you do, probably—in some ways, at least.”
“Really?” Kellan asked. The stories surrounding his weapon were largely exaggerated. Only a few had ever seen him actually use it against a dragon.
“That sword is far older than any of the other more famous ‘legendary’ weapons. Its power is great, but limited—as you well know, I think.”
“Aye, to dragons.”
“To killing dragons,” Marius said matter-of-factly. He still smiled, but there was a darkness in his golden eyes that made Kellan wary.
Kellan frowned. “How do you know about Dragonbane? I could never find out anything about it anywhere; not in any tomes, no matter how damn large and dusty, or from any useless scholars.” He grunted. “Ploughing idiots.”
Marius chuckled and smiled again. “That doesn’t surprise me. Not much real dragonlore exists anymore, only songs and legends—but still, even in the old tales there is some truth.” He paused, then. “Dragonbane… very strange indeed…” He trailed off, frowning slightly.
“What?” Kellan asked. “Do you know its real name?”
“I do. It’s inscribed on the blade, as you’ve probably guessed, but the language is a forgotten one—long lost to time. You won’t find it anywhere else, I’d wager. The words are difficult to pronounce, even for me these days. The language is not of men, elves, or dwarves.” He shook his head in wonder. “But the interesting thing, Master Althur, is that, despite not being able to read the inscription, you guessed the sword’s name correctly—more or less.” He sat up straight and said, “Roughly translated, it is called ‘The Bane of Dragonkind.’” Marius looked at the sword with an intensity Kellan had often seen in scholars’ eyes. “Dragonbane… Very interesting...”
“What do you mean that it can’t be pronounced? What kind of language is it? Who spoke it?”
“Dragons,” Marius said, flatly, and looked the Hunter in the eye.
Kellan stared blankly at the other man for a moment before speaking. “Go plough yourself.”
The golden-haired man smiled. “Roughly translated, as I said, the inscription on the blade reads: ‘I am the Bane of Dragonkind. May they evermore know despair as I drown them in their own fire and blood.’” He laughed quietly, but without mirth. “A rather dark sort of joke, to write that in the dragons’ own tongue.” He paused, leaned forward and looked into Kellan’s eyes, unblinking. Kellan hadn’t been able to tell Marius’s age, but suddenly the man looked very old. His face was seemed lined, his skin ashen, and his shoulders sagged with the weight of his years. But his eyes—his eyes seemed to actually glow brighter than before, shining in the light of the orange flames between the two men. Kellan was not alarmed—he’d seen plenty of mages who’d looked far stranger than this man—but something about Marius still unnerved him. Marius continued, “I do not know who forged that sword, who carved that inscription in its indestructible metal, but I know this: that sword was forged with the blood and fire of a dying dragon, and that dragon’s soul was trapped in the stone set in the pommel.” He nodded slowly at the sword, and Kellan looked at it, too. “That sword is a curse on all dragonkind—a fitting weapon for a dragon-slayer, wouldn’t you agree?”
Kellan found that his hand was hovering over stone pommel. He looked at it, his mind blank for a moment. Then he shook his head and withdrew his hand before looking back at Marius. “How… do you know all this?” he asked, almost dumbly.
“I’m—well, something of an expert when it comes to dragons.”
“You’re really not joking, are you?”
Marius shook his head slowly, then he cocked his head slightly. “How much do you know about dragons, Master Althur? I mean, besides the things a Hunter would know—their behavior, how to hunt and kill them, and all that. Do you know any of the old legends about them?”
“I can remember some.”
“Tell me.”
“Well,” the Hunter paused, feeling suddenly like a young student again. “There are a few poems and songs about princes and heroes saving beautiful maidens from dragons, but I never much cared for those.”
“Neither have I.”
“The only other story I’ve ever heard is the story of the Dragon War.”
“Ah,” Marius said, leaning back, looking at the sky. “Please go on.”
“According to the story, many thousands of years ago there was an army of dragons so vast their wings darkened they sky, and they were led by a black-scaled one the size of a mountain. Dragonkind threatened to engulf the entire world in fire and block out the sun with ash, and so the three races had to unite to fight against them…” he paused when he saw that Marius’s eyes were closed.
“And?” the mage said calmly.
“The war lasted for a hundred years until finally the black dragon—I don’t remember its name—was killed, and dragonkind fled back to the northern mountains from whence they came, and they turned against each other and fought until there were only a few left.”
Marius’ fingers were laced together. He nodded slowly, then opened his golden eyes. “And do you believe that story?”
Kellan hesitated. “You’re going to tell me it’s all true, aren’t you.”
“Did you never wonder who made Dragonbane, Master Althur?—Or more importantly, why it was made?”
“I just figured some mage made an enchanted sword for killing dragons. Never gave it too much thought.”
“That’s more or less it, though I believe that it was made to kill a dragon—one.”
“The giant black one, I’m guessing.”
“You guess correctly. His name,” Marius hesitated. “…well, he was commonly known as the Black One. His true name doesn’t matter now. What does is that he’s dead, and it was that sword by your side—which you found gathering dust in a troll-hoard under a bridge—pierced his heart and consumed his soul.”
Kellan frowned. “What?”
“When it was forged, the dying dragon’s soul was absorbed by it—consumed, eaten. That’s what it does, you see; it consumes the essence of each dragon it kills, and with each kill its its hunger grows—and its hatred. No doubt you’ve felt that, Master Althur.”
Kellan nodded despite himself; whenever he faced down a dragon, and the blade burned red and hot, he felt his hate burning with it. Hunting monsters was a profession, a business, but when he hunted dragons, he realized, the anger he felt to kill the beast was not just his own desire to avenge Hale, but the sword’s anger—its desire to cut it down and drink its fiery blood… Kellan felt his hand on the pommel of the sword. It was warm.
“I thought so.” Marius looked up at the sky. “It’s getting late, and we should be setting off early tomorrow. For now, let me ask you something—something for you to ponder over tonight: do you think that which is evil began that way, and that it will always be evil?”
Kellan wasn’t prepared for any questions of morality or philosophy. He shook his head and ran a hand through his short dark hair. “I don’t—” he began, but Marius raised a hand.
“Sleep on it, Hunter,” he said with a smile. He stood and used magic to move his stone bench away from the fire. Then he lay down on the cold, hard ground and put his hands behind his head. “Goodnight to you.”
Kellan watched him, utterly puzzled, then he looked over at Karthon. The horse looked back at his master in mutual bewilderment. The Hunter shook his head again and stood, unrolling a wool blanket. He lay on it, putting his own hands behind his head. In a few moments, both Hunter and healer were asleep and snoring beside the small, warm fire. The fearless warhorse looked first at the gold-haired stranger, then at his master, snorted, and promptly went back to munching on dry grass.

Everything was bright. The sun warmed his wings as he sailed above the clouds, soaring on the open air. The sun blazed above him, hot and pure. The wind rushed passed his head and into his open mouth and his nostrils. It swished against his golden wings, carrying him higher and faster than he could believe. This was true freedom; he was so high he couldn’t even see the world below. Only the open sky all around, and nothing filling his ears but the roar of the wind, and the roar from his own great throat.
Then he was on the ground again, but still very high. It was night and it was cool in the mountains, but the flame in his soul kept him warm. The moon was full and golden—like his own eyes, he though with wonder—and it was almost as bright as the sun. All around him there was sound… it was singing, like the haunting cries of the whales in the ocean depths. The music was carried by the winds all around the snowy mountain peaks—loud and soft, rich and beautiful, full of the unbound joy of an entire race. He looked around and could see that on almost every rocky outcropping his brothers and sisters perched, their wings spread and their heads held high, and they sang. He saw the little ones, some only just learning to fly; they gathered around their mothers and fathers, stretching their small necks and singing in their high, untested voices. Bright, shining tears welled in his great, golden eyes. And then, as the music peaked in a glorious crescendo, geysers of bright flames shot into the sky. The cold air became suddenly warm all around, and the mountains lit up like a southern summer’s day. He spread his own wings, his golden scales glittering, and poured out his soul in a stream of pure orange flame which joined with those of his kin in an inferno of a thousand different colors; it spiraled into the sky, breaking through the clouds, filling his vision—

Kellan woke suddenly and found that he was standing, with both hands clasped tightly around Dragonbane’s smooth hilt. The pommel-stone was lit with the fires of a thousand dragons’ souls, and the blade was burning hot like a river of lava. He was sweating, his heart was pounding in his chest—he could still hear the song of the dragons, still see their brilliant fires filling his eyes, which were blurry from hot tears. He dropped the burning, humming blade and stumbled over to the stone bench and sat. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. His hands were shaking.
“Here.” Kellan looked up and saw his canteen glinting in Marius’ hand. He took it and nodded thanks, drinking long and deep of the cool, pure water. He looked up at the mage, and saw that the sunlight made his golden-blonde hair shine like a halo.
“I’m surprised that you’ve never had a dream like that, considering how long you’ve had that sword, with all those souls trapped in the dragonstone set in the pommel.” Marius used magic to move his bench back where it was the night before and sat. Before Kellan could say anything, he said, “I know what it is you saw.”
“It felt… it seemed—”
“Real? I know. Memories are powerful things, especially a dragon’s memories.”
“That music…”
“The dragons used to sing, all the time. It was the most beautiful music ever made. They sang in the hills and mountains, and the dragons of the sea sang—what’s why the whales do it. They remember how beautiful the dragonsongs were, how joyous and proud… and how sad, sometimes.” Marius’s golden eyes seemed unfocused. He stared off at nothing, and his voice was quiet, and longing.
Kellan was the first to break the silence that followed. “That question you asked me last night…”
“They weren’t always as they are now: vicious, wild, full of hunger and rage.” Marius paused for a moment but then said boisterously, “Ah! I am hungry. We slept too long, I think. Let has have breakfast and be on our way. ”
So they did, eating a quick cold breakfast. Kellan guessed that it was nearly ten o’clock by the time he had everything strapped onto Karthon’s saddle. Then they left the campsite behind and set off north. Kellan, holding Karthon’s reins, walked beside Marius, the golden-haired mage talked.
He told the Hunter long-forgotten truths. He spoke of how the dragons were the first creatures to think and speak and learn. They used their fire not for battle but for light and warmth; they didn’t destroy, they created, using their magic and might to carve out massive halls in the rock of the mountains. They taught the first animals—the birds of the air, the beasts of the land, and the whales of the water—to sing. And when the first People—the elves of the forests, the dwarves of the earth, and the humans of the middle lands—appeared, the dragons taught them to sing as well. Because People could learn and speak, the dragons gave to them the gift of fire, and taught them to use it as they did. They acted not as lords or gods—though they were nearly as mighty as the gods—but as guides and guardians. They taught the People of the world to use language and magic, and gave them their ancient wisdom and watched as the first civilizations of the Three Races lived together in peace with each other and with Nature.
Kellan looked at his companion with some incredulity—though he did not interrupt—when Marius told him how some of the most powerful dragons used their magic to take smaller, more human-like forms, so they could walk amongst the People of the world, and how some dragons, both he- and she-dragons, loved the younger People so, and in human, elven, or dwarven shapes, took lovers and sired ‘dragon-born,’ who lived to be great heroes of the Three Races.
Marius stopped talking for what seemed like an hour, and Kellan, trying to absorb all he was hearing, managed not break the silence. Then, when Marius continued, his tone was dark. “And then, he came.” Apparently, not all dragons were content with living in peace and harmony with these younger beings. They wanted not to guide, but to rule, thinking themselves to be gods among lesser mortals. The Black One, one of oldest dragons and a true monster, swayed many of his kin. His true name became a curse to everyone of the Three Races, and even other dragons shuddered at the sound of it.
Thus began the Dragon War—the Time of Ash, the Hundred Years of Fire. This was when dragons became greedy, as the Black One and his followers filled their dark halls with mountains of gold and jewels. The Three Races united as they never had before to stop the unstoppable tide.
Marius’s anger turned to a deep regret. Although many dragons despised the Black One and fought against him alongside the Three Races, because of the atrocities committed by the Black One, hatred for all dragonkind arose in the hearts of every man, elf, and dwarf. When the Black One finally fell, all dragons—even those wise and good dragons who were for thousands of generations friends to the Three Races—were driven back to their ancestral homelands, the high northern mountains.
Infighting caused the survivors to descend into savagery, butchering and even eating each other when food became scarce in the mountains, which it soon did. They devolved, and forgot their ancient pride and joy—they forgot how to sing and speak, and knew only the cries of sorrow and roars of fury. Their intelligence and wisdom disappeared and was replaced by mindless hunger and greed—some still guarded their hoards, even though they no longer knew why.
“And when the dragons were gone, the Three Races forgot the wisdom the dragons gave them—how to live in peace with nature and each other,” Marius said. “They kept the dragons’ gift of music and creation, but they began to grow apart. Elfkind remained connected with Nature, but as they retreated further and further into their great forests they became self-centered, even arrogant. Dwarfkind did likewise, retreating to their underground kingdoms and, like the Black One and his ilk, hoarded gold and precious jewels and cared for little else. And mankind… well, man cared only for power. They wanted to rule everything, to dominate everything under the sky—but I suppose you know your own history.” He shook his head, and there was only a touch of anger, though Kellan sensed that his anger was directed at something he had not spoken of, but he said nothing of it.

The sun was low in the orange sky, and Kellan could smell ash in the air. He’d been so absorbed in Marius’ story that he hadn’t realized how much time had passed and how far they’d walked. He felt a strange but familiar sensation, and gripped Dragonbane’s hilt—the sword was humming. At the sound of a roar far off in the distance, the dragonstone set in the pommel glowed. The two men and the horse stopped and listened, and Kellan felt his muscles tighten and his heart beat slightly faster. But the sound was different somehow—whenever he’d heard a dragon’s call before, he had thought of it only as an animal’s call, wild and frightening. But now, after hearing Marius’s story, the dragon’s voice sounded just as wild and angry as any others’, but also full of pain.
The monster’s painful howl stirred him, and he was surprised that he actually felt for it. He felt real pity—something he’d never felt in his life, at least for any monster, mindless or not—and knew, suddenly and clearly, that everything Marius had said was true.
Kellan looked at the other man. Marius had walked a few feet ahead of him, then stopped and turned to face him. His eyes were full of golden fire—and something else Kellan couldn’t name. Dragonbane began to burn by his side.
“She’s lost, Kellan,” Marius said. “She’s all alone out there, hungry and frightened.” Kellan then saw that the ‘something’ in the man’s eyes was a kind of longing, like a father who heard his long-lost daughter’s name on the wind, who saw her face everywhere he went.
Dragonbane burned in its scabbard—its hate was worming its way through the Hunter’s veins, twisting his confusion into a mounting rage. Then, he remembered the dream—golden wings, golden eyes… and he knew.
Kellan drew his sword. “Those were your memories, not the ones in the sword.”
Marius nodded. “I wanted you to see,” he said. “Would you have believed any of it otherwise?”
“I should’ve known when you said that dragons would take human forms.”
“Only the Golden Dragons, the most gifted mages among our kind, could take other forms.” Marius turned to face him fully and gestured at himself with one hand. “I could, at one time, take any form I wished, but my power is not so great anymore. This human form is the most natural. I was barely able to keep my true nature from being sensed by your weapon—its hate is stronger than I had imagined.
But I am tired of hiding in the shadows, Kellan. I have been hiding for more years than I can remember. I have been too afraid to spread my wings, like in the old days, but now—”
Kellan was suddenly blinded by a brilliant white light, like a thousand-thousand stars. He turned away from the light and shielded his eyes with his arm. Then the light was gone, and he heard Karthon crying out in fear. When he looked around again at the place where Marius had been he saw the golden scales glimmering in the light of the setting sun, and enormous wings spread wider than any dragon’s wings the Hunter had ever seen or imagined, blocking the sun from his view. It, and its enormity, stupefied him completely—and then man, Marius Golden-Head, stood before him again, wearing his plain robes and his heavy boots with his brown leather satchel over one shoulder. But his eyes were full of brilliant fire.
In Kellan’s hands Dragonbane’s blade was like burning blood, and its hate was overpowering, but the Hunter stayed his hand—though only just. He’d never felt such unbridled rage. “Why show yourself now?” he said. “Why show yourself to a Hunter, to me? You knew who I was, you knew about this sword—why?”
“I told you, Kellan. I’m tired of hiding. I’m tired of living in fear and shame, but more than anything, I’m tired of my own inaction.” Marius said. His voice was deep and serious, but not menacing. “There are no weapons in the world that can kill me, even in this shape—except for that sword.” He gestured to the volcanic blade. “The truth is, Kellan, I do not blame you—humans, or the other races, for any of it. I do not blame you for driving all of us away.” The she-dragon far off in the distance howled again. Marius turned his head to the sound. “You may have driven us away, but it was all our fault. You were not ready for the gifts we gave you. You were not ready to accept our guidance, and we were too blinded by pride and love to see what was happening, to you and to ourselves.” He looked back at Kellan. “We failed you, all of us—especially me. I was always aware of my brother’s vanity, his lust for power and dominance—I was the elder brother, and I failed him. I let him become the monster that destroyed our family and our people, and who nearly destroyed yours.”
Kellan frowned. “Your brother… the Black One?”
Marius nodded. “I loved your kind more than my own family, and he knew it.” He stepped towards Kellan and stopped when Dragonbane’s tip was only a few inches from his chest. Suddenly, the blood-red blade was engulfed in a crimson fire. The man—the dragon—didn’t flinch, and didn’t take his eyes away from Kellan’s. “If anyone, if any dragon, deserves the blame for what was done to the world, to Nature itself, it is me. If anyone deserves to die, it isn’t her,” he gestured in the direction of the she-dragon’s calls. “It is only me.”
The sword’s desire to kill the man—the monster, a voice in his head corrected him, a voice that wasn’t entirely his own—was extremely powerful. “Why—” Kellan struggled to speak, his voice was strangled by weapon’s hate, “Why tell me this. What… are you asking of me?” He broke into a cold sweat, and his heart was pounding painfully in his chest. The she-dragon roared again, far away.
“You have a choice before you, Hunter: will you carry out the sentence that should’ve been placed on my head alone, the punishment I should never have escaped; will you let that sword do that which it was made to do, what it wants to do?” The sword raged and thrummed in agreement. “Or do you choose something else?” The dragon paused then spoke slowly, “Do you choose mercy?”
“You said you deserve… death,” Kellan yelled. “Why… ask for mercy?”
“It wouldn’t be for me—” the dragon said. Then he looked to the north, towards the painful cries of his kind, “—it would be for her, for all my kind.” He looked back at Kellan, and the Hunter saw the greatest sadness he had ever seen in the dragon’s eyes. “I am the last, Kellan. The last true dragon. I failed my brother, my sons and daughters, and I’ve lived with my shame for millennia—but no longer. I believe they can regain what they lost, and I believe I can help them do it.” His fiery eyes were rimmed with shining tears. “I can teach them to sing again.”
Kellan thought of Hale, her broken body in a pool of her own blood. He thought of all the destruction he’d seen, wrought by dragonkind—the bodies of children clutched to their mothers’ chests, frozen and blackened and crumbling into ash. He saw dead eyes brought to false life by the light of dragonfire… and he also heard the singing over the mountain tops, the infant dragons huddled with their parents, singing beautiful fire to the heavens. He remembered the joy he felt—no, not him, the Hunter Kellan Althur, but the Golden Dragon. He remembered the love, and how powerful it was.
The burning blade wavered in the air as Kellan’s body shook from uncontrolled sobs—he hadn’t cried for decades, he thought, strangely embarrassed, since he was a boy. A voice in his mind screamed for justice, for revenge, for death and fire and blood, and Dragonbane filled his veins with fire.
Marius closed his eyes and tilted his head back to the sky; his arms hung loosely by his sides, his fingers open and relaxed. “The choice is yours, Hunter.”
Kellan took the sword’s hilt in both hands and lifted it above his head, ready to strike, to cleave the dragon’s head—but he forced his hands down. His muscles screamed in protest, and he screamed back. Then he advanced on the dragon, taking him by the neck with his free hand and pointing the tip of the hungry blade at the dragon’s heart. Every fiber of his being urged him on—the sword screamed for vengeance: for all the Black One did, for what happened to Hale, for everything...
Then he heard the she-dragon again, and he heard the cries of a lost child, hunted in the dark for reasons she couldn’t understand; and he heard the singing from the dream. He lowered the blade and staggered back. Gathering what will he had left, he spun and flung the burning, evil sword as hard as he could. It clanged off a distant rock and landed in the grass, its fire dying almost instantly. As soon as it left his hand, the sword’s screaming voice vanished from his thoughts, and he felt suddenly very tired. He fell to his knees, sweating profusely and breathing heavily.
Neither Hunter nor dragon spoke for several long minutes—even the warhorse seemed stunned into silence. Then again the blinding light—and Marius was gone, and in his place the Golden Dragon towered above the Hunter once more. His voice filled the air and shook the earth. “You will be remembered for this, Kellan Althur.”
“Just go,” the Hunter said, tiredly.
With what sounded like the a laugh from the golden-haired man, only a thousand times louder, the dragon bowed its giant head, and with an overpowering blast of wind and a thunderous beat of great golden wings, the Golden Dragon was gone.
Just before Kellan’s eyes went dark and sleep took him, he heard the stamping and snorting of an irate warhorse, and something else very far away. When he dreamed, he dreamed of giant wings shining wondrously in the sun, and of two great voices singing together—and after a moment, they were joined by a hundred more.

Description
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Every now and then in the northern province of the Kingdom of Dalanor, a dragon would soar down from its home, high in the impassable Northern Mountains, to plague villages and settlements. It would only happen once or twice every couple of years, and only in the spring and summer when they awoke from their winter hibernation. It was believed that food was scarce up in the mountains because when one came it generally sated itself on livestock. They avoided larger cities and castles, and seemed to have little interest in attacking people and burning villages—unless provoked—and so the beasts were not considered a real threat, but many of these farming villages relied on their livestock for food and labor; he northern soil was poor for any but the hardiest of crops. Whenever a dragon appeared large bounties were posted and calls went out all over the lands for experienced Hunters, specialists in killing monsters too dangerous for the average person to deal with, to come and deal with the “pest.”
It was midsummer when a large red-scaled appeared in the northern province of the Kingdom of Dalanor. The Lord of the Province hired a group of mercenaries to find its lair and destroy it but they never returned, and the next time the dragon appeared a week later it burned down half a village and turned three people who could not flee to ash. After that, the Lord had sent out a call for a Hunter.

An official courier arrived at Beneron’s Hope, a small village fifty miles southwest of the destroyed village in the afternoon the day after the attack. When he went into the tavern to speak with the alderman, he’d found the village elder handing a small jingling bag of coins to a dangerous and rugged-looking man with dark hair, wearing black leather armor and a dark green cloak which, the courier was relieved to see, was fastened with small silver brooch bearing the crest of the Order of the Hunt. He was even more relieved to find out that the man was Kellan Althur, who was well-known as one of the most venerated Hunter in the Northlands. It was rumored that many years before he had lost a fellow Hunter and lover to a titanic black dragon that breathed black fire, and that killing dragons had become more than business for him. It was also rumored that the Hunter possessed a magic sword with a flaming blade that could cut through a dragon’s iron-hard scales like they were butter.
Though no one knew any of this for certain, what was known was that Kellan Althur was a dragon-slaying Hunter, and that was good enough for the harried messenger. He handed the Hunter a parchment bearing the an official seal and watched as the man read it silently. When Althur finished he folded the parchment, slipped it into a pocket, and looked at the courier. “Tell them I’m coming.” The courier nodded thanks, bowed quickly then hurried out of the tavern. Barely ten minutes had passed before he was riding back north on a fresh horse.
After the courier left Kellan Althur had an ale, courtesy of the alderman, then he used some of the reward he’d just earned on a job to buy food and water for himself and his horse. Then he followed in the courier’s wake, riding away from the town on the northern road, off to kill another monster.

Kellan rode at a comfortable pace, feeling no great need for haste. The dragon had already taken its revenge and wouldn’t kill anyone else—unless the idiots hired more mercenaries. Damn fools, Kellan thought. In the meantime it might kill more of the villagers' precious livestock, but the he wasn’t going to waste either his own strength or Karthon’s for a few cows and goats.
Even so, a comfortable pace for a Hunting horse was still significantly faster than any normal steed, and Karthon was in his prime. The nature of a Hunter’s work called for stronger, swifter, and braver mounts than a normal horse. Generations of breeding and a little magic-induced mutation had made Hunting horses far superior to any other breed. They ran faster, lived longer, endured the harshest environments, and could travel incredible distances without stopping. Most importantly, in Kellan’s opinion, they were one of the only land-walking creatures that could match a dragon in full flight. Centuries past there had been Hunters who rode griffins and hippogriffs, but no one had been able to tame one of those beauties in a long time; at least not that he’d heard. At any rate dragons could fly like nothing Kellan had ever seen, maneuvering through the air with terrifying agility that seemed impossible considering their size, so it probably wouldn’t matter whether where the fight took place; a dragon was a tough bastard even on the ground. Besides, Karthon had proved himself in more than a few dragon-hunts over the years, and Kellan was glad to have him as a friend—even though he could be a damned stubborn fool. Hunting horses were nothing if not tempermental.
It was the warmest time of the summer in Dalanor, but it only rarely got hot in the high-altitude north; the nights were always cool, if not cold. The sky was growing darker and Kellan felt tired—though he knew that Karthon could probably keep going for another ten miles without complaint—so he looked for a place to camp. Beneron’s Hope had been at the edge of a large pine forest, but there were few trees around him now and the land was becoming hilly and rocky. As the sun began to set and the sky turned from pale blue to purple Kellan found a small rock-filled clearing in a grove off the path. He dismounted, removed Karthon’s saddle and bridle, setting his few saddlebags on the ground. He gathered a small pile of sticks and ignited them with a bright spark shot from his fingers. Many people looked down on using magic for menial tasks as lighting simple campfires, but there was no one around to judge except Karthon, who looked at Kellan with big eyes which seemed to say, Really? “Shut up,” the Hunter said. The horse snorted and turned away to chew on a nearby patch of green grass.
Kellan used telekinesis to move a large, flat-topped rock ten feet and dropped it by the fire, and then sat on it. He took an apple and a loaf of bread from one bag and ate them, washing his small meal down with a swig of water from a metal canteen. Then from another bag he produced a whetstone and blade oil. He inspected his weapons one by one; when the blades of his dagger, short sword, and small axe were all oiled and sharpened and his elven bow was restrung, he set them aside and picked up his longsword, drew it from its black scabbard and gently lay it in his lap, as though it was a delicate piece of art and not the ancient and powerful weapon it actually was.
Kellan didn’t know the history of the sword, where it was forged or by whom, or how it had ended up in the small hoard of a bridge-troll that he’d killed five years back. He’d half expected the blade to be dull and rusted, or missing entirely, when he’d pulled the weapon from beneath the foul-smelling heap of trinkets and bones. The sword had been good and stuck in its battered and dusty scabbard, but when it suddenly came free he’d blinked and almost gasped as the mirror-like blade glimmered in the shadows under the bridge. The metal was a strange, twisting blend of steel, silver, and a dark, glassy material similar to obsidian, and required no maintenance; it never rusted, and the edge never dulled or chipped. The strange weapon was heavy compared to other swords of its size but it was perfectly balanced, and the black hilt fit his hands like it’d been specially-crafted just for him. He’d sensed the magic in the weapon as soon as he’d touched it, but he didn’t learn its true power until he’d faced his next dragon. When he’d approached the beast the dark pommel-stone glowed—the closer the dragon came, the brighter the stone’s inner fire shone. Then blade began to glow a deep, molten-metal red and became immensely hot—as hot as the dragon’s vicious fire—and it sliced through the monster’s dark scales and its diamond-hard bones with ease. Every ancient, magic weapon had a name and a story to match its power, but Kellan could find no mention of anything like it in any histories, legends or songs, and no scholar or mage he knew could translate the strange runes inscribed on the sword’s hilt and crossguard, so Kellan had come up with one himself: Dragonbane. And though it only blazed in the presence of a dragon (in the presence of a wyvern it only became somewhat warm, as thought it had been sitting out in the sun for a while), it was still the finest sword he’d ever possessed.
Kellan was all too aware of the rumors surrounding his special sword, and of his vendetta against dragonkind. Though the black dragon he was famous for killing did not breathe special black fire and was not “titanic”—it was actually one of the smaller ones he’d hunted, for Dragonbane’s three-foot blade was almost long enough to slice through the monster’s whole neck—it had killed a close friend of his, another Hunter named Hale. Though they’d grown very close they were not lovers, and whatever might have happened between them ended when they’d taken on the black dragon together. She’d lost her focus, hesitating for one second when Kellan was nearly engulfed in dragonfire, and that second had cost her life. In that one second the dragon’s tail had lashed out, dark bony spikes tearing through her armor like parchment. Before Kellan had blinked Hale’s corpse hit the ground thirty feet away.
Kellan knew it hadn’t been his fault, and never blamed himself as another man might—all Hunters knew the risks, especially when it came to dragons, and Hale had made a mistake. She’d been thinking of his safety and not the Hunt. She’d let her feelings rule her, and had died a Hunter’s death. But, even so, ever since then Kellan’s hatred of dragons had harbored a special place in the corner of his mind, and he had come to enjoy killing them more than any other monster—even vampires, which had killed many more of his friends and fellow Hunters.
Kellan was running one hand over Dragonbane’s cool blade when he sensed a presence approaching, and he looked up. The sky was a deep blue, almost black, and the light of the sun was barely visible over the western horizon. He heard light footsteps on the grass; Karthon also heard and he raised his big grey head and twitched one ear in the direction the noise came from, and snorted. The newcomer wasn’t being very discreet so Kellan decided it probably was just another traveler on the road; probably saw the light and was coming to ask to share the campfire. Still, as a Hunter always did, he prepared himself for anything, standing and taking his sword in his right hand, reading his left for magic sign-casting.
Then a voice came from the dark. “Peace, Hunter. I come as a friend.” The voice was rich and deep, with an accent Kellan couldn’t quite place, though it was definitely northern. He could see directly ahead of him a human-shaped figure in the shadows, not ten feet away from the edge of the campsite.
“Come—into the light,” Kellan replied.
The figure stepped into the light and approached the fire. The man was in his middle years, with greying blonde hair and a short golden-orange beard. He was a little taller than average, with a strong build. His eyes were bright, with golden irises which seemed to glow in the light of the fire. He wore plain grey robes, heavy boots, and had a ratty-looking brown leather satchel. He smiled warmly, then raised one hand and his fingers glowed slightly. “Do you mind if I—”
“Use magic?” Kellan motioned toward another flat-topped rock a few feet away, sheathing his sword and sitting down again. “If it pleases you.” He kept his eyes on the stranger, and his guard up.
“Thank you,” the stranger said. Just as Kellan had done, the man levitated the rock and placed it by the fire across from the Hunter. Then he sat. “Two rocks that make decent benches, and in such a good spot for a campsite, too. Fortunate, wouldn’t you say?”
Kellan nodded. “I suppose it is so.”
“Fortunate, too, that I should meet a Hunter on this road. A Hunter who is, I presume, going north?” Kellan didn’t respond. “I think we may have similar purpose.”
“How did you know I was a Hunter? You weren’t close enough to see the brooch.”
“A lucky guess.”
“Right.” Kellan’s eyes narrowed, only just. “A mage, but not a battlemage… you’re a healer?”
The stranger nodded.
“And does this healer have a name?”
“Marius.”
“Just ‘Marius?’”
“Right now it’s Marius, though yesterday it was something different, and tomorrow it may be different again.”
“Go plough yourself.”
Marius laughed heartily and said, “Marius Golden-Head. My family is long gone, along with my family’s name. ‘Golden-Head’ is fitting enough, eh?” The man inclined his head, his eyes bright and sparkling, his smile white and wide.
“And where are you from, Marius Golden-Head?”
“North originally, but I haven’t been home in a terrible long time. But where I came from matters little now. Where I am going now is what matters now, and where you are going, Kellan Althur, is what matters more.”
Kellan sat up straighter. “You passed through Beneron’s Hope?”
“No, that was another guess, but an educated rather than a lucky one. As I said, we have a similar purpose.”
“The dragon.”
Marius nodded. “I am, as you guessed, a healer, and I specialize in treating victims of dragonfire.”
“I’ve never needed a healer, and you’re probably too late to help anyone the dragon’s already injured.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I go where I feel I’m needed, but I—like you, I hear—always tend to go where the dragons go.”
“I could’ve been any Hunter. How’d you know who I was?”
“Your sword.”
“You know it?”
“I do. Better than you do, probably—in some ways, at least.”
“Really?” Kellan asked. The stories surrounding his weapon were largely exaggerated. Only a few had ever seen him actually use it against a dragon.
“That sword is far older than any of the other more famous ‘legendary’ weapons. Its power is great, but limited—as you well know, I think.”
“Aye, to dragons.”
“To killing dragons,” Marius said matter-of-factly. He still smiled, but there was a darkness in his golden eyes that made Kellan wary.
Kellan frowned. “How do you know about Dragonbane? I could never find out anything about it anywhere; not in any tomes, no matter how damn large and dusty, or from any useless scholars.” He grunted. “Ploughing idiots.”
Marius chuckled and smiled again. “That doesn’t surprise me. Not much real dragonlore exists anymore, only songs and legends—but still, even in the old tales there is some truth.” He paused, then. “Dragonbane… very strange indeed…” He trailed off, frowning slightly.
“What?” Kellan asked. “Do you know its real name?”
“I do. It’s inscribed on the blade, as you’ve probably guessed, but the language is a forgotten one—long lost to time. You won’t find it anywhere else, I’d wager. The words are difficult to pronounce, even for me these days. The language is not of men, elves, or dwarves.” He shook his head in wonder. “But the interesting thing, Master Althur, is that, despite not being able to read the inscription, you guessed the sword’s name correctly—more or less.” He sat up straight and said, “Roughly translated, it is called ‘The Bane of Dragonkind.’” Marius looked at the sword with an intensity Kellan had often seen in scholars’ eyes. “Dragonbane… Very interesting...”
“What do you mean that it can’t be pronounced? What kind of language is it? Who spoke it?”
“Dragons,” Marius said, flatly, and looked the Hunter in the eye.
Kellan stared blankly at the other man for a moment before speaking. “Go plough yourself.”
The golden-haired man smiled. “Roughly translated, as I said, the inscription on the blade reads: ‘I am the Bane of Dragonkind. May they evermore know despair as I drown them in their own fire and blood.’” He laughed quietly, but without mirth. “A rather dark sort of joke, to write that in the dragons’ own tongue.” He paused, leaned forward and looked into Kellan’s eyes, unblinking. Kellan hadn’t been able to tell Marius’s age, but suddenly the man looked very old. His face was seemed lined, his skin ashen, and his shoulders sagged with the weight of his years. But his eyes—his eyes seemed to actually glow brighter than before, shining in the light of the orange flames between the two men. Kellan was not alarmed—he’d seen plenty of mages who’d looked far stranger than this man—but something about Marius still unnerved him. Marius continued, “I do not know who forged that sword, who carved that inscription in its indestructible metal, but I know this: that sword was forged with the blood and fire of a dying dragon, and that dragon’s soul was trapped in the stone set in the pommel.” He nodded slowly at the sword, and Kellan looked at it, too. “That sword is a curse on all dragonkind—a fitting weapon for a dragon-slayer, wouldn’t you agree?”
Kellan found that his hand was hovering over stone pommel. He looked at it, his mind blank for a moment. Then he shook his head and withdrew his hand before looking back at Marius. “How… do you know all this?” he asked, almost dumbly.
“I’m—well, something of an expert when it comes to dragons.”
“You’re really not joking, are you?”
Marius shook his head slowly, then he cocked his head slightly. “How much do you know about dragons, Master Althur? I mean, besides the things a Hunter would know—their behavior, how to hunt and kill them, and all that. Do you know any of the old legends about them?”
“I can remember some.”
“Tell me.”
“Well,” the Hunter paused, feeling suddenly like a young student again. “There are a few poems and songs about princes and heroes saving beautiful maidens from dragons, but I never much cared for those.”
“Neither have I.”
“The only other story I’ve ever heard is the story of the Dragon War.”
“Ah,” Marius said, leaning back, looking at the sky. “Please go on.”
“According to the story, many thousands of years ago there was an army of dragons so vast their wings darkened they sky, and they were led by a black-scaled one the size of a mountain. Dragonkind threatened to engulf the entire world in fire and block out the sun with ash, and so the three races had to unite to fight against them…” he paused when he saw that Marius’s eyes were closed.
“And?” the mage said calmly.
“The war lasted for a hundred years until finally the black dragon—I don’t remember its name—was killed, and dragonkind fled back to the northern mountains from whence they came, and they turned against each other and fought until there were only a few left.”
Marius’ fingers were laced together. He nodded slowly, then opened his golden eyes. “And do you believe that story?”
Kellan hesitated. “You’re going to tell me it’s all true, aren’t you.”
“Did you never wonder who made Dragonbane, Master Althur?—Or more importantly, why it was made?”
“I just figured some mage made an enchanted sword for killing dragons. Never gave it too much thought.”
“That’s more or less it, though I believe that it was made to kill a dragon—one.”
“The giant black one, I’m guessing.”
“You guess correctly. His name,” Marius hesitated. “…well, he was commonly known as the Black One. His true name doesn’t matter now. What does is that he’s dead, and it was that sword by your side—which you found gathering dust in a troll-hoard under a bridge—pierced his heart and consumed his soul.”
Kellan frowned. “What?”
“When it was forged, the dying dragon’s soul was absorbed by it—consumed, eaten. That’s what it does, you see; it consumes the essence of each dragon it kills, and with each kill its its hunger grows—and its hatred. No doubt you’ve felt that, Master Althur.”
Kellan nodded despite himself; whenever he faced down a dragon, and the blade burned red and hot, he felt his hate burning with it. Hunting monsters was a profession, a business, but when he hunted dragons, he realized, the anger he felt to kill the beast was not just his own desire to avenge Hale, but the sword’s anger—its desire to cut it down and drink its fiery blood… Kellan felt his hand on the pommel of the sword. It was warm.
“I thought so.” Marius looked up at the sky. “It’s getting late, and we should be setting off early tomorrow. For now, let me ask you something—something for you to ponder over tonight: do you think that which is evil began that way, and that it will always be evil?”
Kellan wasn’t prepared for any questions of morality or philosophy. He shook his head and ran a hand through his short dark hair. “I don’t—” he began, but Marius raised a hand.
“Sleep on it, Hunter,” he said with a smile. He stood and used magic to move his stone bench away from the fire. Then he lay down on the cold, hard ground and put his hands behind his head. “Goodnight to you.”
Kellan watched him, utterly puzzled, then he looked over at Karthon. The horse looked back at his master in mutual bewilderment. The Hunter shook his head again and stood, unrolling a wool blanket. He lay on it, putting his own hands behind his head. In a few moments, both Hunter and healer were asleep and snoring beside the small, warm fire. The fearless warhorse looked first at the gold-haired stranger, then at his master, snorted, and promptly went back to munching on dry grass.

Everything was bright. The sun warmed his wings as he sailed above the clouds, soaring on the open air. The sun blazed above him, hot and pure. The wind rushed passed his head and into his open mouth and his nostrils. It swished against his golden wings, carrying him higher and faster than he could believe. This was true freedom; he was so high he couldn’t even see the world below. Only the open sky all around, and nothing filling his ears but the roar of the wind, and the roar from his own great throat.
Then he was on the ground again, but still very high. It was night and it was cool in the mountains, but the flame in his soul kept him warm. The moon was full and golden—like his own eyes, he though with wonder—and it was almost as bright as the sun. All around him there was sound… it was singing, like the haunting cries of the whales in the ocean depths. The music was carried by the winds all around the snowy mountain peaks—loud and soft, rich and beautiful, full of the unbound joy of an entire race. He looked around and could see that on almost every rocky outcropping his brothers and sisters perched, their wings spread and their heads held high, and they sang. He saw the little ones, some only just learning to fly; they gathered around their mothers and fathers, stretching their small necks and singing in their high, untested voices. Bright, shining tears welled in his great, golden eyes. And then, as the music peaked in a glorious crescendo, geysers of bright flames shot into the sky. The cold air became suddenly warm all around, and the mountains lit up like a southern summer’s day. He spread his own wings, his golden scales glittering, and poured out his soul in a stream of pure orange flame which joined with those of his kin in an inferno of a thousand different colors; it spiraled into the sky, breaking through the clouds, filling his vision—

Kellan woke suddenly and found that he was standing, with both hands clasped tightly around Dragonbane’s smooth hilt. The pommel-stone was lit with the fires of a thousand dragons’ souls, and the blade was burning hot like a river of lava. He was sweating, his heart was pounding in his chest—he could still hear the song of the dragons, still see their brilliant fires filling his eyes, which were blurry from hot tears. He dropped the burning, humming blade and stumbled over to the stone bench and sat. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. His hands were shaking.
“Here.” Kellan looked up and saw his canteen glinting in Marius’ hand. He took it and nodded thanks, drinking long and deep of the cool, pure water. He looked up at the mage, and saw that the sunlight made his golden-blonde hair shine like a halo.
“I’m surprised that you’ve never had a dream like that, considering how long you’ve had that sword, with all those souls trapped in the dragonstone set in the pommel.” Marius used magic to move his bench back where it was the night before and sat. Before Kellan could say anything, he said, “I know what it is you saw.”
“It felt… it seemed—”
“Real? I know. Memories are powerful things, especially a dragon’s memories.”
“That music…”
“The dragons used to sing, all the time. It was the most beautiful music ever made. They sang in the hills and mountains, and the dragons of the sea sang—what’s why the whales do it. They remember how beautiful the dragonsongs were, how joyous and proud… and how sad, sometimes.” Marius’s golden eyes seemed unfocused. He stared off at nothing, and his voice was quiet, and longing.
Kellan was the first to break the silence that followed. “That question you asked me last night…”
“They weren’t always as they are now: vicious, wild, full of hunger and rage.” Marius paused for a moment but then said boisterously, “Ah! I am hungry. We slept too long, I think. Let has have breakfast and be on our way. ”
So they did, eating a quick cold breakfast. Kellan guessed that it was nearly ten o’clock by the time he had everything strapped onto Karthon’s saddle. Then they left the campsite behind and set off north. Kellan, holding Karthon’s reins, walked beside Marius, the golden-haired mage talked.
He told the Hunter long-forgotten truths. He spoke of how the dragons were the first creatures to think and speak and learn. They used their fire not for battle but for light and warmth; they didn’t destroy, they created, using their magic and might to carve out massive halls in the rock of the mountains. They taught the first animals—the birds of the air, the beasts of the land, and the whales of the water—to sing. And when the first People—the elves of the forests, the dwarves of the earth, and the humans of the middle lands—appeared, the dragons taught them to sing as well. Because People could learn and speak, the dragons gave to them the gift of fire, and taught them to use it as they did. They acted not as lords or gods—though they were nearly as mighty as the gods—but as guides and guardians. They taught the People of the world to use language and magic, and gave them their ancient wisdom and watched as the first civilizations of the Three Races lived together in peace with each other and with Nature.
Kellan looked at his companion with some incredulity—though he did not interrupt—when Marius told him how some of the most powerful dragons used their magic to take smaller, more human-like forms, so they could walk amongst the People of the world, and how some dragons, both he- and she-dragons, loved the younger People so, and in human, elven, or dwarven shapes, took lovers and sired ‘dragon-born,’ who lived to be great heroes of the Three Races.
Marius stopped talking for what seemed like an hour, and Kellan, trying to absorb all he was hearing, managed not break the silence. Then, when Marius continued, his tone was dark. “And then, he came.” Apparently, not all dragons were content with living in peace and harmony with these younger beings. They wanted not to guide, but to rule, thinking themselves to be gods among lesser mortals. The Black One, one of oldest dragons and a true monster, swayed many of his kin. His true name became a curse to everyone of the Three Races, and even other dragons shuddered at the sound of it.
Thus began the Dragon War—the Time of Ash, the Hundred Years of Fire. This was when dragons became greedy, as the Black One and his followers filled their dark halls with mountains of gold and jewels. The Three Races united as they never had before to stop the unstoppable tide.
Marius’s anger turned to a deep regret. Although many dragons despised the Black One and fought against him alongside the Three Races, because of the atrocities committed by the Black One, hatred for all dragonkind arose in the hearts of every man, elf, and dwarf. When the Black One finally fell, all dragons—even those wise and good dragons who were for thousands of generations friends to the Three Races—were driven back to their ancestral homelands, the high northern mountains.
Infighting caused the survivors to descend into savagery, butchering and even eating each other when food became scarce in the mountains, which it soon did. They devolved, and forgot their ancient pride and joy—they forgot how to sing and speak, and knew only the cries of sorrow and roars of fury. Their intelligence and wisdom disappeared and was replaced by mindless hunger and greed—some still guarded their hoards, even though they no longer knew why.
“And when the dragons were gone, the Three Races forgot the wisdom the dragons gave them—how to live in peace with nature and each other,” Marius said. “They kept the dragons’ gift of music and creation, but they began to grow apart. Elfkind remained connected with Nature, but as they retreated further and further into their great forests they became self-centered, even arrogant. Dwarfkind did likewise, retreating to their underground kingdoms and, like the Black One and his ilk, hoarded gold and precious jewels and cared for little else. And mankind… well, man cared only for power. They wanted to rule everything, to dominate everything under the sky—but I suppose you know your own history.” He shook his head, and there was only a touch of anger, though Kellan sensed that his anger was directed at something he had not spoken of, but he said nothing of it.

The sun was low in the orange sky, and Kellan could smell ash in the air. He’d been so absorbed in Marius’ story that he hadn’t realized how much time had passed and how far they’d walked. He felt a strange but familiar sensation, and gripped Dragonbane’s hilt—the sword was humming. At the sound of a roar far off in the distance, the dragonstone set in the pommel glowed. The two men and the horse stopped and listened, and Kellan felt his muscles tighten and his heart beat slightly faster. But the sound was different somehow—whenever he’d heard a dragon’s call before, he had thought of it only as an animal’s call, wild and frightening. But now, after hearing Marius’s story, the dragon’s voice sounded just as wild and angry as any others’, but also full of pain.
The monster’s painful howl stirred him, and he was surprised that he actually felt for it. He felt real pity—something he’d never felt in his life, at least for any monster, mindless or not—and knew, suddenly and clearly, that everything Marius had said was true.
Kellan looked at the other man. Marius had walked a few feet ahead of him, then stopped and turned to face him. His eyes were full of golden fire—and something else Kellan couldn’t name. Dragonbane began to burn by his side.
“She’s lost, Kellan,” Marius said. “She’s all alone out there, hungry and frightened.” Kellan then saw that the ‘something’ in the man’s eyes was a kind of longing, like a father who heard his long-lost daughter’s name on the wind, who saw her face everywhere he went.
Dragonbane burned in its scabbard—its hate was worming its way through the Hunter’s veins, twisting his confusion into a mounting rage. Then, he remembered the dream—golden wings, golden eyes… and he knew.
Kellan drew his sword. “Those were your memories, not the ones in the sword.”
Marius nodded. “I wanted you to see,” he said. “Would you have believed any of it otherwise?”
“I should’ve known when you said that dragons would take human forms.”
“Only the Golden Dragons, the most gifted mages among our kind, could take other forms.” Marius turned to face him fully and gestured at himself with one hand. “I could, at one time, take any form I wished, but my power is not so great anymore. This human form is the most natural. I was barely able to keep my true nature from being sensed by your weapon—its hate is stronger than I had imagined.
But I am tired of hiding in the shadows, Kellan. I have been hiding for more years than I can remember. I have been too afraid to spread my wings, like in the old days, but now—”
Kellan was suddenly blinded by a brilliant white light, like a thousand-thousand stars. He turned away from the light and shielded his eyes with his arm. Then the light was gone, and he heard Karthon crying out in fear. When he looked around again at the place where Marius had been he saw the golden scales glimmering in the light of the setting sun, and enormous wings spread wider than any dragon’s wings the Hunter had ever seen or imagined, blocking the sun from his view. It, and its enormity, stupefied him completely—and then man, Marius Golden-Head, stood before him again, wearing his plain robes and his heavy boots with his brown leather satchel over one shoulder. But his eyes were full of brilliant fire.
In Kellan’s hands Dragonbane’s blade was like burning blood, and its hate was overpowering, but the Hunter stayed his hand—though only just. He’d never felt such unbridled rage. “Why show yourself now?” he said. “Why show yourself to a Hunter, to me? You knew who I was, you knew about this sword—why?”
“I told you, Kellan. I’m tired of hiding. I’m tired of living in fear and shame, but more than anything, I’m tired of my own inaction.” Marius said. His voice was deep and serious, but not menacing. “There are no weapons in the world that can kill me, even in this shape—except for that sword.” He gestured to the volcanic blade. “The truth is, Kellan, I do not blame you—humans, or the other races, for any of it. I do not blame you for driving all of us away.” The she-dragon far off in the distance howled again. Marius turned his head to the sound. “You may have driven us away, but it was all our fault. You were not ready for the gifts we gave you. You were not ready to accept our guidance, and we were too blinded by pride and love to see what was happening, to you and to ourselves.” He looked back at Kellan. “We failed you, all of us—especially me. I was always aware of my brother’s vanity, his lust for power and dominance—I was the elder brother, and I failed him. I let him become the monster that destroyed our family and our people, and who nearly destroyed yours.”
Kellan frowned. “Your brother… the Black One?”
Marius nodded. “I loved your kind more than my own family, and he knew it.” He stepped towards Kellan and stopped when Dragonbane’s tip was only a few inches from his chest. Suddenly, the blood-red blade was engulfed in a crimson fire. The man—the dragon—didn’t flinch, and didn’t take his eyes away from Kellan’s. “If anyone, if any dragon, deserves the blame for what was done to the world, to Nature itself, it is me. If anyone deserves to die, it isn’t her,” he gestured in the direction of the she-dragon’s calls. “It is only me.”
The sword’s desire to kill the man—the monster, a voice in his head corrected him, a voice that wasn’t entirely his own—was extremely powerful. “Why—” Kellan struggled to speak, his voice was strangled by weapon’s hate, “Why tell me this. What… are you asking of me?” He broke into a cold sweat, and his heart was pounding painfully in his chest. The she-dragon roared again, far away.
“You have a choice before you, Hunter: will you carry out the sentence that should’ve been placed on my head alone, the punishment I should never have escaped; will you let that sword do that which it was made to do, what it wants to do?” The sword raged and thrummed in agreement. “Or do you choose something else?” The dragon paused then spoke slowly, “Do you choose mercy?”
“You said you deserve… death,” Kellan yelled. “Why… ask for mercy?”
“It wouldn’t be for me—” the dragon said. Then he looked to the north, towards the painful cries of his kind, “—it would be for her, for all my kind.” He looked back at Kellan, and the Hunter saw the greatest sadness he had ever seen in the dragon’s eyes. “I am the last, Kellan. The last true dragon. I failed my brother, my sons and daughters, and I’ve lived with my shame for millennia—but no longer. I believe they can regain what they lost, and I believe I can help them do it.” His fiery eyes were rimmed with shining tears. “I can teach them to sing again.”
Kellan thought of Hale, her broken body in a pool of her own blood. He thought of all the destruction he’d seen, wrought by dragonkind—the bodies of children clutched to their mothers’ chests, frozen and blackened and crumbling into ash. He saw dead eyes brought to false life by the light of dragonfire… and he also heard the singing over the mountain tops, the infant dragons huddled with their parents, singing beautiful fire to the heavens. He remembered the joy he felt—no, not him, the Hunter Kellan Althur, but the Golden Dragon. He remembered the love, and how powerful it was.
The burning blade wavered in the air as Kellan’s body shook from uncontrolled sobs—he hadn’t cried for decades, he thought, strangely embarrassed, since he was a boy. A voice in his mind screamed for justice, for revenge, for death and fire and blood, and Dragonbane filled his veins with fire.
Marius closed his eyes and tilted his head back to the sky; his arms hung loosely by his sides, his fingers open and relaxed. “The choice is yours, Hunter.”
Kellan took the sword’s hilt in both hands and lifted it above his head, ready to strike, to cleave the dragon’s head—but he forced his hands down. His muscles screamed in protest, and he screamed back. Then he advanced on the dragon, taking him by the neck with his free hand and pointing the tip of the hungry blade at the dragon’s heart. Every fiber of his being urged him on—the sword screamed for vengeance: for all the Black One did, for what happened to Hale, for everything...
Then he heard the she-dragon again, and he heard the cries of a lost child, hunted in the dark for reasons she couldn’t understand; and he heard the singing from the dream. He lowered the blade and staggered back. Gathering what will he had left, he spun and flung the burning, evil sword as hard as he could. It clanged off a distant rock and landed in the grass, its fire dying almost instantly. As soon as it left his hand, the sword’s screaming voice vanished from his thoughts, and he felt suddenly very tired. He fell to his knees, sweating profusely and breathing heavily.
Neither Hunter nor dragon spoke for several long minutes—even the warhorse seemed stunned into silence. Then again the blinding light—and Marius was gone, and in his place the Golden Dragon towered above the Hunter once more. His voice filled the air and shook the earth. “You will be remembered for this, Kellan Althur.”
“Just go,” the Hunter said, tiredly.
With what sounded like the a laugh from the golden-haired man, only a thousand times louder, the dragon bowed its giant head, and with an overpowering blast of wind and a thunderous beat of great golden wings, the Golden Dragon was gone.
Just before Kellan’s eyes went dark and sleep took him, he heard the stamping and snorting of an irate warhorse, and something else very far away. When he dreamed, he dreamed of giant wings shining wondrously in the sun, and of two great voices singing together—and after a moment, they were joined by a hundred more.