There weren’t always Dragons in the Valley. They crept in, slithering, slimy, and sly. You would be alone, minding your own business cleaning a bucket, and suddenly there one would be. Quietly wrapped around the handle. Looking at you out of the corner of their eye. “I could clean that for you.” It would hiss. “I wouldn’t take very long at all.” You, having been raised with the old stories like every other clever girl or boy, would politely but firmly decline. Everyone knew what would happen if you made a Deal with a Dragon.

  __________________________________________________________________________________

  Rodger sighed as he stared at the broken main gear of the Alton’s largest windmill. He was no closer to extracting it from the snarled mess of gears and cables then two hours ago when he started. A faint hiss distracted him, and he looked over at a shelf to see a scarlet and green Dragon coiled like a dirty shoelace in the deepest corner recess of the rack. As far from the sunlight as possible.

  “Would you like some help with that? It would be any trouble at all.”

  The Dragon’s eyes glowed faintly in the shadows as it shifted around.

  “No, but it was very kind of you to offer.” Roger said.

  His grandmother had always told him to be as polite as possible. She didn’t know what would happen if you offended a Dragon, but it probably would be catastrophic.

  “Ah, well. I will be right here if you need me then.” The Dragon lowered its head to rest on the small jar it had wrapped itself around.

  Roger stared as the Dragon tried it’s best to pretend to be deeply asleep. But he could see the faint gleam of light as it peeked at him from under its eyelids. He glanced at it one more time, but it said nothing else.

  The large gear was shattered into four large pieces and numerus smaller ones. How it had happened Roger wasn’t sure, but as the town’s only blacksmith, he had to sort it out. If it wasn’t fixed soon the wheat harvest would start rotting. He once again wedged himself into the morass of debris that was caused by the gear exploding and strained towards the pieces. He wasn’t that bulky as blacksmiths go, but he was just slightly large enough to not reach the closest piece.

  He heard the Dragon slither off as it went in search of easier prey and felt a part of him relax that he didn’t know was tense. Since the first sighting of a small golden Dragon two months ago, everyone had been on edge. Just waiting for some fool to make a Deal and start a cascading series of ever cataclysmic events. Wherever Dragons went, only pain and misery followed. Once they had caused the maximum amount of carnage, they would leave. And whoever was left had to pick up the pieces.

  Three long hours later Rodger slowly trudged toward his home. He had finally extracted the gear but had been forced to completely disassemble almost the entire thing. It was currently in pieces on the floor of the windmill.

  The afternoon sun beat down on his tired back and he sighed as the thought of the cool pond behind his Smithy kept him going. He tilted his head back as a soft cold breeze lifted his damp hair. He reveled in the feeling.

  Roger stopped in confusion. The heat had been oppressive not five seconds before. Where in the world had this cool breeze come from? He spun around, trying to find the source of the breeze. It was so cold that he could see as it wafted through the sweltering humidity, distorting the air almost like mirage.

  With a heavy heart he followed the breeze. Past the dammed-up pond, over the small bridge, and down the thin dirt path to the small hut of the firewood gatherer. The old man who lived there was a kindly soul whose adopted daughter, Sal, was heavily pregnant with her first child. The heat had been miserable for her.

  A thin eerie cackle could be heard sliding under the solid oak door of the hut. It went on and on, increasing in volume as Rodger stood there before the entrance. He raised his hand to knock, but as he did the door burst open. Old Jim, the firewood gatherer, stood backlit by the hearth. Rodger felt an immense cold sweep over him and churn across the meadow, freezing the tops of the few wildflowers that remained. Rodger stared in shock as Old Jim sprang past him and ran down the dirt path towards town, ice forming in his footprints and along the trees where his fingers touched. As he stood frozen in place by a thin layer of ice covering his shoes, Roger peered into the hut. There, draped over the back of a chair, was a bright blue dragon. Its tongue sliding in and out of its mouth as it lay sated by the Chaos it had wrought by fulfilling Old Jim’s wish for cooler weather.

  Roger cursed, spun around, and raced down the path after Old Jim.

  “Poor stupid old man.” Roger snarled angrily to himself. “He knew what would happen. Why did he make a Deal!?”

  He pounded down the path having to dodge the ever larger chunks of ice that littered the ground. As long as he could catch Old Jim before he spread the Chaos to far, this might still be contained. He broke through the thick trees to a scene from his nightmares. Old Jim’s path though the town could be traced by the ever larger and slowly growing crystals made of solid ice. They spread across the ground, sinking into fields, and piercing though walls.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Roger glanced around and snatched up a stout stick about three feet long and took off along the expanding ice field, careful not to get caught up in it. Panicked cries began rising, growing louder than the creaking of the ice, as people were trapped in their homes and shops. One such cry started close to him, higher in pitch than the others. Roger ground to a halt and frantically looked around. That had been a child’s voice!

  “Help! Help!”

  There it was again. He moved quickly towards the plaintive cry coming from a hut close to him. The ice had grown into the door, so he began striking the clay that covered back wall. It was dry and cracked from the heat of the summer and it fragmented easily under his blows as he made a small hole. Roger jammed his stick into the hole and used it as leverage to pry off a large chunk off the wall. A good-sized piece crumbled off and he stuck his head in the hole and peered around. The source of the cries was the miller’s son, Toby, all of four years old. He clutched his mother’s leg as she held a stone from the hearth. Liá had been beating on the wall from the other side. They stared at each other in shock for a moment before she pried Toby off her leg and pushed him through the hole into Roger’s arms. The ice creaked as it slid across the floor toward Liá, desperate to reach her. Roger set the boy down and frantically whaled on the wall with his stick as she did the same with her stone. The ice would pierce into her and feed off her pain, blood, and fear to grow faster. With only inches to spare the last chunk of wall fell away and Liá threw herself into the hole, scraping her head and slicing a gash into her arm from the jagged wood that had supported the clay. Roger scooped up the sobbing boy and they stumbled away from the hut as it was slowly consumed.

  “Who made a Deal?” Liá demanded, taking Toby from him. The little boy clung to her, burying his head in her neck.

  “Old Jim.” Roger said grimly. “He must have decided that he didn’t have that many years left in him anyway. Sal is so miserable in the heat Jim must have tried to cool it off for her. Fucking idiot.”

  Liá stared blankly at the sky. “He has damned us all. He knows what happened in Old Bewton! That was over thirty years ago, and you still can’t get within ten miles of the town!”

  Roger gazed starkly at the sparkling ice as it pushed its way through the last bits of wall, straining towards them.

  He nodded at the ice and said quietly, “You need to take Toby and run. Alton is doomed. I am going to try to save as many people as I can and try to stop Jim before he spreads his Deal to far.”

  Liá’s mouth compressed into a thin line as she glared at him. “I am not going to run from this! I will go to the windmill. It is far enough from the town that it should be safe for a while. Send anyone you find there, and we will all leave together.”

  The ice creaked as Roger sighed. “Very well. I will tell people to go to the mill. Leave at sunset. There won’t be any point to wait later.”

  She nodded firmly. “Good luck. You are going to need it.” Liá turned and jogged quickly towards the windmill, little Toby waving forlornly at him from his mother’s arms.

  Roger cast about for his trusty stick and rescued it from being subsumed by the ice. He hesitated, not sure where to go or what to do next. Liá’s house was on a small hill that allowed him to overlook the town. He could see the trail of destruction that showed Old Jim’s erratic route though Alton, a route that the Deal forced him to take, spreading the ice as much as possible.

  As he watched a plume of fire rose above one of the distant huts, exploding into being and colliding with the ice. He gaped in horror as some poor doomed soul made another Deal to save themselves. The town was unsalvageable now. All that was left was damage control. Save as many as possible and get out himself.

  The intense fire reacted with the ice creating a massive steam bank that rolled over the town making it difficult to see. He had to get down there as quickly as possible before it became impossible to move about.

  Roger charged down the small hill. He felt his heart race as panic set in. It was late afternoon, almost everyone would be home, how would he reach everyone?

  “If I can get to the bell in the town square maybe people will rally to the sound?” He thought desperately to himself.

  Roger dodged around an ice crystal, jumped over a fence slat, and ran down the small street. He yelled at anyone he passed to go the windmill. As he worked his way through town more and more people hurried past him with small bundles of belongings, their expressions pinched with sorrow for their small town.

  Creeping the last few yards to the main square, he slowed as the fog grew thicker and hotter. The bell was on top of the old watchtower.

  Roger froze in shock. There, in the mostly destroyed square, the bell laid half melted on the ground. And around the square, two figures danced. Glowing so brightly he had to shade his eyes. Old Jim and what looked like Matron Stella, had been turned into beings of pure fire and ice. They swept around the square, steam and fog poured down off them and rolled across the ground in billowing sheets. Swirling in the air around them were the Dragons. Languid and graceful They spiraled through the fog leaving curling wakes behind Them. And the couple danced on.

  Across the square stood Sal, clutching herself as her father went ‘round the square. Roger desperately gestured to her, trying to get her attention. She shuddered and started working her way towards him. As she stumbled the last couple of steps the figures sped up.

  “We have to get out of here!” Roger hissed.

  “My father…”, she said softly “I can’t leave him!”

  Roger shook his head. “You father is lost. The town is doomed. We must leave! Now! Before it is to late!”

  He squeezed her arm gently and as he started to draw her away, he noticed other people creeping towards them. Roger waved at them and worked his way around a patch of ice. As they drew away, the figures that used to be people began to pulse brighter and brighter.

  The Dragons began singing. Their voices, bright and sweet, echoed off the deteriorating buildings. Roger wished he could plug his ears to block out the hateful sound.

  The small group moved as quickly as they could around the oozing ice and scorching fire, feeling their way through the thick fog. They broke into clear air and hurried up the small hill to the Miller’s house, pants and shirts soaked and dripping with water from the hot fog.

  They turned and looked back at the place that was once their home. The blue and red pulses showed through the fog, penetrating the thick miasma with a bright light. Roger panicked. He didn’t know what was coming next, but it couldn’t be good.

  Turning to the group he cried, “Run! Run now! To the windmill!”

  They turned to him startled, comprehension dawning with horror on their faces. As one they turned and ran as quickly as they could towards the uncertain safety of the windmill. Cerulean and scarlet lights echoed around them faster and faster as they fled across the last field and onto the windmill complex. Roger looked around as they arrived, his heart sinking as he took in how few people had made it. The windmill, with the small barn attached to it, was made of solid stone. That should help weather, if the stories were true, what was to come. Liá was shouting at people to come inside, and relief spread across her face as she saw him and his small group.

  The relief turned to terror as she looked beyond him. She screamed, “Hurry! Get in here now!” Roger wrapped an arm around Sal and helped her the last few steps before turning to take one last look at what used to be the town of Alton.

  A raging tempest swirled around the town, devastating what buildings remained standing. The blues and reds combining in a sphere of fog and steam, Dragons diving in and out, cavorting and playing in the roaring wind. It would be almost beautiful if you didn’t know the tragedy that it was hiding.

  Roger slammed the door closed and fastened the bolt. Light seeped in through the cracks in the boards and stone and everyone huddled as far from the surging winds as possible. The lights shone brighter and brighter until they flashed incandescent and the whole building shook, almost coming loose from its foundation. The sudden silence from outside was deafening. The mill started groaning as it resettled, creaking in protest.

  Roger slowly crept towards the door, hesitating as he touched the bolt of the door. It squealed in protest as he pushed it open, revealing a scene of utter devastation.

  Alton was gone. In its place was an eerie sculpture of solid ice. Liquid fire wove in and out of the structure in impossible ways allowable only by the magic of the Dragons. As he watched the Dragons exploded upwards in a rainbow of colors, winging Their way to what ever hole they skulked in until they grew hungry again.

  There weren’t always Dragons in the valley.