David crashed through the brush, new boots sticky with sweat and sap, with blood. Packing dirt, snapping twigs, the crunching pine cones as loud as his ragged breath. His throbbing feet warred for attention against the throbbing in his skull. He spotted the gnarled root in his path, too late, and it caught against his heel. He tumbled, and his stomach dropped as he crashed to the forest floor. He laid where he fell, whole body aching and tense as he squinted back through the trees, back the way he came, gasping for breath.

He was sure Roe ran after him when they split up, but he couldn’t see him now. Couldn’t hear him either. The Defiler’s Gorge was quiet. No sound echoed off its towering walls to filter through the trees, none that he could hear at least. Roe had more experience, but he was older, slower, and hopefully made for a more tempting target. He didn’t want to think of him that way, he hadn’t exactly liked the older man, but he could admit he gave sound advice. Roe warned him not to buy new boots. Not until the caravan stopped in Eren, when he’d have time to break them in and money to spend. Told him to replace his old, fraying belt instead. But it was his father’s belt. Just to spite the old caravaner, he bought the most expensive boots he could find. Felt like a doubly shit thing to do now. They felt both too big and too small, tight in the front and loose around the heel. If he survived this, he’d put his feet up for a week, even if he had to sell the boots and the belt to do it. His sister could complain all she liked, but better a layabout than a dead man.

Easing onto his feet as quietly as he could, he kept his eyes on the sunlight that shone down through the dense canopy. Searched for shapes, for shadows, listened for the crunch of talons or the flap of wings. There was a rustle behind him, but no wind. He spun, fumbled to draw his father’s dagger, and yanked it free scabbard and all as his belt ripped, blade still held fast by the leather.

“Shit,” he breathed. A rabbit, half hidden by shrubbery, peered out from its warren, beady black eyes staring up at him. Its nose twitched, his breath slowed and his shoulders dropped, and the snarling grey form of a wolf leapt through the shrub. “Shit!” he shot out his fist and smashed the pommel into its snout, sending it headfirst into the dirt. Growling, he tore the blade from the leather and dropped his shoulder low as he lunged forward. The beast lunged as well and their bodies crashed together. He buried the dagger in its chest, slid it free, and thrust again. The wolf thrashed on the end of the blade, howled as he turned its foaming jaws away with his other hand. As its teeth found purchase, a vice grip around his middle and forefinger as its head shook, David howled as well. With a crunch and a click the jaws snapped shut and took the fingers with them. They rolled, bloody in the dirt, torn between growls and whimpers. Steel scraped against bone as he thrust up, buried it past the hilt, and planted a boot beside it. Blood painted him as he tore the blade free. The wolf’s body fell, twitched, and went still.

“Grrrah!” He forced himself back to his feet and gagged, swallowing the vomit that crawled up his throat. His hand was a bloody mess, stumps of broken bone protruded from the pulped flesh where his fingers should be. He could almost mistake them for sticks, camouflaged against the dark earth where they fell. He did, for a moment, when the rabbit hopped forward, snatched one up and darted back down into its warren. He couldn’t stop to think about it, he couldn’t stop moving. There was no doubt in his mind that the Gorge Defiler heard the fight. There were two dozen men with the caravan, and the Defiler’s Gorge had grown since its naming. The once narrow gorge had become an expansive canyon, the once copse of trees an equally expansive forest, and his small odds grew ever smaller. He could be all that’s left.

He ran, and his feet hurt less, all tingling and numb, but throbbing just the same. It seemed like a trivial thing when he thought about his left hand. He clutched at it around the bloody dagger, his blood mixed with the beast’s as it dripped from the blade, but he refused to let it go. Every time he thought of it he wanted to vomit, so instead he focused on trying not to fall and run himself through the heart, tearing through the forest as fast as he dared.

There were more rabbits, watching from outside their burrows. And there were birds, far too many birds, dead silent and perched on the tall trees. There seemed to be no more noise in the forest than the sound of his boots and breath, and all the animals seemed to stare at him.

Big and small, in a flurry of wings, beaks, and talons, they descended. They flocked to him, and there were no shrieking cries or characteristic warbles, only pain.

* * *

Well aren’t you just full of snakes? The drover and the trader wore matching sympathetic smiles as they looked up from the horse.

“She’s hurt, certain she won’t mend on her own.” The drover's thick accent broke the silence. Oh, but the trader is not to be outdone.

“As he says, I’m afraid she’ll need medical attention. It’s a good thing she was injured so close to town.” The trader spoke in that way only a trader, a talker, a diplomat, a manipulator can. He had naturally mouselike features, and at some time in the past he may have seemed rather timid. Unfortunate though it was, the literal weight of his success made him seem rather rat-like instead. And I try so hard not to judge the book by its cover. “Eren is a bit out of the way, we should be able to get her in good health by the time we leave,” he paused, the lines on his face creased with worry. His eyes just a touch too excited. Here it comes, that’s it, exposition’s out of the way so now it’s all building tension, rising action. “Though, I fear in the worst case, should the injury be worse than it appears, or should they lack the means to mend her...” the drover did his best to look busy, calming the horse, fighting to hide the excitement. The kind that makes a man move, bounce his knee or tap his fingers. Even Ian had to admit, they played their parts well. They were practiced, rehearsed. “We may need to procure a replacement from their stables, and hope that someone will take her for a fair price of course.” Ah yes, the climax. If even the horse played its part, I suppose I’m obliged to put on a performance as well.

“Of course,” Ian said, “if it’s worse than it appears. Though, regardless, you’ll have to pay for its care at least. I’m terribly sorry, truly, I have no idea what happened to h-”

“A freak accident, of course, they happen.” He interrupted, looking solemnly to the ground before affecting a look of embarrassed gratitude. Embarrassed for me? Grateful for my understanding? A terrible accident, of course, and heaven forbid it be even worse than it appears. A gold plated apology, of course, will smooth away this unpleasantness. Ian smiled as he glanced down at the uninjured horse. The horse which had so unceremoniously thrown him from the saddle. And so the falling action, descending like the executioner’s axe, passes final judgment. Now for the resolution.

“I will walk to town, and I will pay.”

Ian’s ass was sore from riding, his throat parched, his coin purse lighter than it should’ve been two or even three towns down the road, and his pack was in desperate need of mending. The horse really threw him. All the animals were spooked, and though It wasn’t clear by what, it only made sense that his would be the one to buck. To throw him from the saddle straight onto his pack, and then stumble itself. It was a miracle it didn’t fall on him, then he’d have been in real trouble.

As it stood, he had a few bruises and a book with a damaged spine. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last, though the hole in the pack proved a rarer and more troublesome challenge. He dared to hope that Eren wasn’t superstitious. Covens always left him torn between disgust and sadness, and he wasn’t in the mood for riddles.

He noticed the buildings first, above the trees, many more than six stories high. Then the 12 unyielding feet of stone that encircled the town, encircled itself by an equally impressive moat. Up close, given the size of town, one could mistake it for a solitary fortress floating on the water. In the light breeze, the water gently lapped at the masonry. The guards, laden with gambeson and chainmail, took their time lowering the drawbridge. But then, guards did most things slow. The wooden boards could hardly shift under the weight of a hundred men, and issued no groaning or creaking complaints as he crossed. One could hardly find better craftsmanship in a port town, or the fertile places, but they’d never build defenses out of wood there. Inside the wall, they’d let nothing go to waste. The snaking, curved brick wall, which would have served as a temporary boundary as they expanded, formed the base of their battlements. Similar brick walls stood further in town, dividing it into sections and clearly marking its growth.

By the time he made it to the center of the tightly packed town, the caravan was already setting up shop. He could buy a new pack, for an exorbitant price from the caravan or of questionable quality from the town, he knew what local tradesmen could be like. No worries, Ian, best quality you’ll find in the west! If it does break for some reason, bring it on back to me, I’ll get it fixed up for cheap! Just fees for the quality of the material and the excellent craftsmanship of course. No, he had to get it mended, and that meant less time spent in a comfortable room reading. Then again, maybe he could get lucky and find a library.

“And here,” Heren said, motioning to a prominent stone building, “is where we house the cistern!” Eren’s streets weren’t particularly busy, but the roads between buildings were narrow in many places, and many were made narrower by stalls or other obstacles.

“Cistern? You have plenty of wells, and you said the river comes down from the hills, so why are you collecting rainwater?” Ian asked. 

“Last time the Gorge Defiler woke up, my big brother was only two, but when it does wake, it poisons the water. Some people died the first time, and a lot more the second, but after that they built a cistern. Even with all the maintenance and remodeling, the first one fully broke down...” Heren scrunched up his face as he led Ian down a side street, considering, “about 80 years ago? So they turned it into a jail and built this one closer to the new center of town. Only a handful die before people realize.”

“Really? I was wondering why anyone built here. Thought it’d be closer to a lake.”

“You’d think, but it seems happy to eat whatever’s nearby and sleep. Course, it noticed the extra treasure oddly quick, so we’ve been paying double tributes since the town was established. It usually wipes out a caravan when it wakes up, since the best route to Ismahill’s through the gorge, but otherwise it’s surprisingly tame.” 

Ian couldn’t help but bark out a laugh. “Kid, my luck’s bad enough as it is, I don’t need you jinxing things. I’m passing through that gorge myself in a day or two, and if people start going out to investigate noises or getting mysteriously sick, I'll blame you.”

“Who says it’ll be the Defiler?” Heren grinned and slowed to a stop, facing a small, three story building. “Some sleepy midland monster is the least of your worries. Caravans go missing up there all the time.” He leaned in, conspiratorially, and whispered, “there are wolves.”

Ian smiled back. “Well now you’ve definitely jinxed it.” But it’s not all bad.

“Unless you need anything else, this is the sewing circle.”

“No, thank you.” Ian tossed a coin and Heren caught it smoothly. It doesn’t even smell like blood yet. I wonder how they cover it up.

* * *

David’s chest heaved as he felt the cold earth against his back, pressing into his wounds through the holes in his tattered clothes. His strength quickly left him as he heard wings flapping overhead, and a chorus of howls in the distance. The narrow walls of the gully provided shelter as he shook, and as the birds passed. His tears fought to wash the blood from his eyes and blind him just the same. The beasts of the Defiler’s Gorge would have to hunt someone else for their pound of flesh. For another pound of flesh. The rest of his would crawl back to town if it had to. And he had to.

I won’t die here. I can’t die now. It hurt, it all hurt so badly, and he just wished it would stop, but the pounding in his chest wouldn’t let it, wouldn’t let him. His blood felt fast. His chest felt like it would burst. His legs carried him down the gully, and his arms braced against the walls. He walked, eyes on the sky, moving faster, flinching at the noise from the leaves and the rocks underfoot. Faster, faster over the packed soil, almost running, smiling. Not yet, the others may be dead but not me. Could my father have survived so long? Could anyone from Falstead? Even if I die now, I’ve done more than anyone else from that dump could manage.

A sudden breeze ruffled his hair. It blew around his face and he laughed, barely audible over the sound of the bushes and trees in the wind above him. He ran through the gully, ignoring his pain and laughing as the wind blew harder. Louder, louder and louder through this damned forest you beautiful wind! Just keep it up a bit longer! It came in gusts, cool and refreshing against his marred skin, rushing in his ears and tugging at the corners of his mouth. It reminded him of the ocean.

The wind buffeted against his back as a shadow passed over him, and the next gust came from ahead. Not unlike tearing parchment, the sound of the Gorge Defiler’s wings filled the air, and his clothes billowed around him as it landed. It perched over him. Talons longer than his hands dug into the earth. Already? Its great wings, each wider than a wagon is long, folded behind its back. After all that running? Vertical slit pupils glared, and gradually dilated. What was it all for? Muscle rippled beneath its matte, verdant scales as its forelegs landed less than three yards ahead of him, his expensive boots framed between the thorny shadows cast by its twisted antlers. What can I do? But David knew. His last source of comfort would be the warm feeling that spread through his trousers.

* * *

Yech! Willaartauraxx wrinkled up his nose. His bared teeth elicited a cry from the fingerless one. I hate when they piss themselves. As he watched, it took a step back and the wet trousers fell around its ankles. It scrambled in the dirt for balance, reached for its thoroughly ruined belt, tipped over, and grunted as it fell on its own blade. I could bite it off at the ankles. It whimpered as it pulled the dagger from its shoulder. But the pants are soaked through. Rearing up and stretching from his tail to his neck, he unfolded his wings. I’ll let the thralls have him. With one flap his talons left the dirt, and by the fifth he soared above the canopy.

Scanning the forest, he noticed a bear had joined the birds in their hunt. Though outwardly there would be no sign, he shot a string of Enthrallment from his Well. The string connected to the cord of Enthrallment around the bear, and it was easier than flying to direct it towards the fingerless one. As it turned and loped towards the gully, he gained height and spread his wings to glide towards the top of the gorge wall. He heard the wolves catch one, probably the fast one, but didn’t bother to look. That fingerless one ruined my appetite. I could still feast, but this is a bad egg. If I lay around all day while thralls throw pests, or themselves down my maw, I’ll need to sleep early or leave the gorge for food.

Willaartauraxx the Gorge Defiler admired his lair for the umpteenth time. A river ran beside it, raged and foamed against the rocks, and fell down off the uneven walls of his home to land below. The river ran half the length of the gorge, telltale specks of reflected light glittering through the canopy. With the last few flaps of his wings, he landed on the soft moss that carpeted his lair. The cave was luxurious, adorned with treasures of all shapes and sizes, not the least of which made up his hoard. Were it not for the gold, he might even have been camouflaged against the moss. But as he folded his wings, the comfortable, durable pile of coins and treasures called to him. He did not resist.

The ring of hard rock around its base was plainly contrasted by its smooth, pleasantly shifting, yet firm embrace. He didn’t plan on taking his next feast sleep any time soon, so he considered using Vegetation to grow moss over the hoard. It certainly made things more comfortable, but if he did overeat he’d need to wash off the toxic sludge left behind when he woke, and that was not worth the effort. It’s not as if there’s anything strong enough around here to make me use Poison, now it’s just an inconvenience.

Willaartauraxx counted. After waking from the feast sleep, he made a habit of always cataloging his hoard. Not right away, a dragon need never go hungry, but before falling asleep. One of his treasures was missing. An ornately carved block of gold, which he had kept for almost a century, was nowhere to be found. There were three new treasures in his hoard as well. A scepter, a golden jar, and a gem encrusted mask. His taloned paw shattered the jar. Whoever plundered his hoard, he had yet to find they’d taken any containers he’d broken. That particular discovery had been a feast before famine, but it was born from his own carelessness. Otherwise, he could never willingly destroy one of his treasures, except perhaps to deny a rival, of which he had none.

After a few more minutes spent circling and adjusting his hoard, he climbed back on top and let himself relax. The block hadn’t even been his hoard for a century, and the contribution was adequate this time. The end of his tail curled around the most valuable treasure in the world, his gold and crystal staff, and splayed out in the coins. A dragon may sleep, but never rest, his mother used to say. To sleep is to grow strong, to rest is to tempt death. What did she know. He resolved that, when he woke in a few days, he would only put a little Poison in the river. Then he would make the flight to town to demand tribute.