Sky Serpents

Sky Serpents

I see it! The biting evening wind further ruffled his fur as he forced his aching bandaged paws to step towards the door. To his dismay, many jagged stones which littered the dirt road made their presence known with the sharpest of hellos. He grimaced internally at each greeting and pressed on. Nearly there. Despite the ache that massaged his limbs, the weight of the guitar strapped to his back, and his overall dishevelled appearance, Daimhin entered the weathered stone walls of the tavern with the dignity of a prince.

An expected din of conversation, both drunken and sober, welcomed him. The contrasting warmth of the tavern had already wrapped him in a soothing embrace, as he made his way to the bar. With an unnoticeable sigh of relief, Daimhin cautiously removed the guitar, letting it rest against the wall, and climbed onto a wooden stool.

The young bard turned his head to observe the others in the tavern. Nimble elves sat shoulder to shoulder laughing heartily at some unheard humour. Bearded humans knocked their beer steins together in cheer, before consuming the frothy goodness in one swing. The occasional lone drinker occupied a table, seeming to ponder how to drown in an earthen mug of ale. Daimhin’s own race, the Naies, was not to be seen. Nor was any familiar face, for that matter. The fact almost made him smile.

“And what can I get you, young one?”

A growl reverberated in the back of his throat before he could suppress it. “Do not. Patronise me.” Daimhin lowered his deep voice as he spoke.

The barman, a human who was large in all dimensions, chuckled heartily for a few moments. He met Daimhin’s murderous glare with a childish grin. “Sorry friend. Appearances are deceiving.” The Naies’s fur prickled in waves. “So my good Sir, what are you having?”

“Elven spring water, if you don’t mind.”

The human’s laugh thundered through the tavern. Caught by surprise, Daimhin nearly lost his balance on the stool.

"Oh yes,” he said, wiping a few tears from his eyes, “A very manly drink! Around here, we call it ‘Pixie Water’, due to its manliness.”

“Now, listen here!” Daimhin rose from his stool, but unfortunately lost the illusion of height that the stool gave, adding to his ridicule.

“Don’t get so worked up, pup. It was only an innocent jest.” Grinning wide, he poured the pink coloured beverage for the seething bard.

Baring his canine teeth, the ‘pup’ was readying himself to unleash an assault of poetic daggers when a hand rested on his shoulder.

“Be calm, Dámh.” So there was a familiar face within these walls. Daimhin did not need to recognise the elderly voice, or see the light grey paw that gently laid pressure on his shoulder. There was only one who called him that name. Seanán. Of his numerous acquaintances during his travels, Seanán was one of the few he hoped to meet more than once.

Without a word, the older Naie removed his paw and walked away. The silent departure played a deceptive cadence to the bard’s ears. It beckoned him to leave the bar (much to the irritation of the barman and thus Daimhin’s pleasure), lift his guitar off the floor and follow the old sage to a small wooden table. Two drinks sat in crystal goblets. Daimhin could not help but notice that the goblets were out of place in this crowded tavern as much as the Naies they were intended for. One liquid was clear, while the other had a slight pink tinge. As if to irk the ill-tempered bard, Seanán sat in front of the Elven spring water and promptly began to pour the enchantingly sweet drink down his throat. With a contented sigh and a friendly smile, he gestured with a nod for Daimhin to accompany him. Wearing a small yet visible scowl, the bard sat.

“So. Why would a fragile sage visit a tavern like this, when he could be sitting in his cosy study, reading books of ancient secrets?” As Daimhin enquired he admired the quality of the crystal. Seanán always possessed the finest.

“Because some secrets are not written and bound in books, but in fur and flesh,” replied Seanán, seeming unrifled by the term ‘fragile’. “But you know why I sought you, don’t you Son?”

Seanán was not his father. Nor could he replace him. But being called ‘Son’ still poured warmth into his distant heart, reminding Daimhin that it was far softer than he liked to acknowledge.

“Of course I know. You’ve come to preach your idea of ‘destiny’ to me,” Daimhin replied, guarding his feelings with the tone of carelessness.

“Great things are born from ideas, my dear Dámh!” The elder Naie splayed his arms as he spoke, as if the added visual emphasis would change Daimhin’s mind.

“That may be, but you won’t get any greatness from me. Not unless it’s of the musical kind. I’m a musician, a poet, not a hero.” He rubbed his tongue along the crowns of his teeth, as if to scrape off the taste the last word spoken brought with it. The whole idea of heroism was ridiculous. Righteous fools who believed they could change the world. They believed the impossible even in the moments before their (untimely) death. The idea that he, Daimhin Illuas, was destined to be a hero... was a joke.

“And it will be of the musical kind! If only you were me and I was you! Then you would see what your music does to your captivated audience. You soothe souls that have burned in fiery pains. You implant hope in the most shadowed heart. You give people strength to live in a world of... of... serpents.”

Seanán’s praise surprised Daimhin so much that he had forgotten to drink from the goblet that was pressed to his lips. Putting it down again, he smiled. “More proof that I’m a musician, old friend. And a very good one if I’m to believe you.”

“Oh no, Dámh.” Seanán shook his head, gazing deep into the pink liquid. Disappointment was etched into his frail features. “You are much more. The sooner you realise that, the sooner you can begin to heal the world.”

Heal the world? It was foolish to think that could be achieved, thought Daimhin. The wounds inflicted by Dragaks, a destructive dragon race, ran too deep. So, what if he could make people forget their sadness for a few moments with music? When the song is over, they go back to their fears. The fear that men, armoured with black obsidian scales, would darken their skies as they flew above. The fear that armies of the sky would rain down weapons of fire, burning their flesh, to send more proof to their cowardly human king. The Dragaks were the supreme race; a crown meant very little.

Daimhin spoke no more. He could see the utter sadness in the elder Naie’s face. It’s hardly my fault that the sage has become delusional in his old age, he thought to himself. Nevertheless, guilt helped itself to a feast on his, apparently very soft, heart.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Each Naie drunk from his sparkling goblet as they wondered and wished. During his contemplation, Daimhin’s fingers naturally reached for his guitar.

“Play it,” Seanán softly requested.

For this, Daimhin needed no further encouragement. He brought up his guitar to a comfortable position and struck a few warm up notes. Seanán leaned back in the stiff chair and closed his eyes, ready to exchange the world of reality for Daimhin’s magic. A few drinkers turned their heads in interest. The bard chose the song. His fingers neared the strings of his instrument when a panicked cry disrupted his concentration. The cry contained the word he least wanted to hear.

“Dragaks!”

Sounds of terror passed along the crowd. Three warriors of scales walked into the tavern, and trampled the noises with their heavy footsteps, leaving a strained silence.

“What the devil are they doing here?” Daimhin whispered the words in quick shots to Seanán.

Seanán’s voice felt abstract in its reply, “Play a song, Daimhin. Let it be the last one I hear”.

Before he could question what Seanán meant, the dry, cracked voice of a Dragak informed him.

“Sage of the Naies, you will come with us.”

Daimhin’s blood ran cold. They know.

He looked at his old friend, who had already risen from his seat. His face was solemn. His eyes were hard. The warmth which usually radiated from his stature had been ripped away. A dead Naie walking. Daimhin mentally slapped himself for the thought.

“Seanán...” he whispered in desperation before the sage was out of earshot, hoping for... anything... anything that would take away the helplessness, the confusion, the fear. In reply the elder Naie cast a warning look. Be calm, Dámh.
He walked away from Daimhin and the half empty crystal goblets. He walked out of the warm tavern, accompanied by dragons, while the bard sat in his seat, unblinking. He walked with his head held high... until the Dragaks’ claws slashed his face. At the sight of red blood and grey fur, and the sound of an old one’s cry of pain... everything Daimhin felt... was overshadowed by a wordless rage.

His shaking paws grabbed his guitar, and placed it on his back. Daimhin hardly felt its weight as he ran through the tavern, knocking down stools as well as their occupants onto the floor. Once out, the cold hit him so hard he gasped in shock. Not quite the intimidating stand he had hoped for.

Seanán’s captors looked upon the small Naie.

I should say something... heroic...

Daimhin found no such words. Lizards’ tongues were faster.

“Just a mutt. Put him down,” the Dragak closest to Seanán stated curtly to his comrades. Stretching out his wings, he launched himself into the sky, with the bleeding Naie in one arm. Daimhin watched as his friend disappeared into the clouds. The illusion of power disappeared as quickly as it came. Two winged lizards closed in.

Tearing his eyes away from the point they vanished, he faced the Dragaks. Yellow eyes, void of emotions trapped him in a chilling gaze. The eyes of these heartless killers gleamed even in the darkness. Daimhin took two steps back and reached for the wooden guitar strapped to his back. In a smooth movement he unhinged the neck of the guitar, revealing the simple ebony hilt of a sword. The Dragaks continued to watch as the ‘mutt’ pulled out a short sword from his instrument. They did not flinch. Before the steel blade could face their direction... they attacked.

Wtih black claws outstretched, they leaped forward with more speed that Daimhin was ready for. It was all he could manage to focus on one Dragak and halt its claws from finding his flesh. Sword and claw met with a metallic scraping sound. The vibration of the clash carried up Daimhin’s arm, but he managed to hold his position. In the same moment the second Dragak hissed as it dodged a throwing axe. A long sword was swung at Damihin’s Dragak, forcing it to retreat.

“Need a sword hand, pup?”

Daimhin looked upon the sword wielding barman. Gratitude erased potential irritation. Almost.

“Never call me that.” The Dragaks recovered from their surprise and screeched a war cry. “And yes, help if you can.”

The human laughed and confidently swung his sword in the air in reply. “I can.”

Thank you, friend.

Human and Naie fought together. Silver metal clashed with black claws. Sounds of fierce battle were carried to the onlookers sitting in the tavern, prompting them to leave the scene. Even those among the young knew death was imminent.

As Daimhin slashed with his weapon, he couldn’t help but hate. It wasn’t just the hate of the monsters he fought. He hated the scraping sound of sword on scales. He hated the sweat dampening his fur. He hated the ache in his sword arm. And most of all, he hated that he loved it all. The sword fit into his hand perfectly. Adrenaline intoxicated him. This is what a warrior feels like. Victory will be had!

“You fight better than I thought,” spoke the barman. “You won’t hear me mocking you again, friend.” He laughed as full heartedly as he fought.

Daimhin never did hear the barman mock him again. He never heard him say anything again. The sound of ripping flesh tore through the air. The barman’s chest was penetrated. Stunned, Daimhin did not move when the dead body fell on top of him, and pinned him to the ground. Warm blood from the gaping hole flowed onto his own chest, as he lay on the floor, motionless.

“They are finally dead. Let us leave.”

For the second time in one evening, Daimhin simply watched as Dragaks disappeared into the sky. Demons have wings.

After a timeless moment, Daimhin moved the corpse off him. For a second, he thought the barman had stirred, but of course he was mistaken. He sat up and observed the quiet surroundings.

The tavern was deserted. He was alone. He was alone with the body of a nameless friend.

Grief surprised him. It punched him in the gut while he wasn’t looking. It knocked the wind out of him. Daimhin clawed at the grassy soil as he choked on his half-stifled sobs.

Grief had not finished its job when fear attacked. Seanán. The image of the lifeless body of the sage filled his mind. With a strong certainty, he knew he must to stop the image from becoming truth.

But first... the burial.



Daimhin never wanted to be a hero.