FAERIE IRE
Or, How Zyx Thwarted a Human Invasion
Erin TETTENSOR
The Year of the Turret (1360 DR)
Zyx was a nimble dragon. Being only four inches long, his body did not require a great deal of lift to achieve flight, which meant his delicate wings could devote most of their attention to maneuvering. This they did with tireless energy, thrumming at a pace that made them nearly invisible to the naked eye. His tail, meanwhile, was long in proportion to the rest of his body—almost ridiculously so. Acting as an efficient rudder against the air currents, it allowed Zyx to execute sharp changes in direction, darting this way and that with a precision that would make even the most agile hummingbird envious.
All of which was terribly fortunate, for otherwise the yuan-ti would have squashed him like a bug.
"Vermin!" the halfblood hissed, swatting at Zyx with the flat of her scimitar.
"Oops!" sang the faerie dragon merrily as he swept out of the way. "Too slow!"
To drive the insult home, he landed momentarily on the edge of the snakewoman's blade, a taunting smile curling the corners of his mouth.
But his triumph was short-lived. The yuan-ti took another wild swing, and her weapon bit deep into the trunk of a tree. Zyx nearly choked in dismay.
"Clumsy fool!" he cried. He nipped forward and poked the halfblood in the eye. An unimaginative means of attack, perhaps, but the injury to the tree demanded quick retribution. "That yellowwood is several centuries your senior!" he scolded. "Show some respect!"
"I'll show you your own insides, insect!"
She made a grab at the tiny nuisance, but Zyx evaded her with disdainful ease, leaving her clutching empty air.
"Show me, then!" the faerie dragon mocked.
The yuan-ti obligingly charged, and Zyx retreated—but only a short distance. He hovered just out of reach, grinning. And in a sudden flash of inspiration, he winked. It was a master stroke. Enraged beyond all reason, the yuan-ti made a final lunge at her tormentor, crashing through the underbrush with murderous intent.
She never made it. The trap gave way beneath the creature's weight, plunging her through the jungle floor and into the cunningly concealed pit below.
There was a solid thud. Branches and leaves tumbled in like an afterthought. Then, for long moments, all was silent. Zyx hovered over the trap, peering into the gloom to ascertain the fate of his victim.
"I hope she's not dead," he muttered. He could not bear the thought of even a single yuan-ti escaping future harassment.
Presently, however, there came a rustling from the pit, and Zyx breathed a relieved sigh. The snakewoman had righted herself, and resumed spitting and cursing as she
tried in vain to claw her way out of the trap.
"Good luck!" Zyx called down to her. "I hope the ants aren't too much of a bother. It's that time of year, you know!"
His last barb safely lodged, Zyx left the yuan-ti to the mercy of the jungle and drifted up into the canopy in search of a quiet place to catch his breath. Pestering the evil snake-men was amusing, to be sure, but it was also thoroughly exhausting.
He alit on a large banana leaf, stretching out in the trough to allow the late afternoon sun to warm his scales. It was a luxury he indulged in when he could, for the rainforest surrendered few unbroken hours of sunlight. Soon his eyelids were drooping lazily, blurring his view over the rolling waves of green before him. Nearby, a hawk circled above the treetops, scanning for prey. Even to the bird's keen eyes, Zyx would appear as nothing more than a sunbathing lizard—an appetizing morsel indeed. But the faerie dragon had little to fear. His bliss-inducing breath weapon was enough to keep him safe from even the most ill-intentioned predators, and he had few qualms about using it. As far as Zyx was concerned, the world could use a little more joy.
Still, it was best to be vigilant. The little dragon blinked in an effort to stay awake, forcing himself to focus on the idle drifting of the hawk. His eyes followed the bird as it wheeled to the west, toward the gorge. There the glistening band of ocher that was the River Olung wound its way toward the distant coast of Chult. But something was amiss with the view. A dark tendril rose ominously against the horizon, weaving and swelling like an angry cobra. Frowning, Zyx twisted to his feet and peered into the distance.
"Smoke," he murmured.
It was an uncommon sight. Fires seldom occurred naturally in such a wet climate, and Zyx was not aware of any intelligent species inhabiting the area. He would treat with unalloyed scorn any suggestion that yuan-ti were "intelligent." Zyx
was not the kind of dragon to allow something as crude as evidence to interfere with carefully cultivated prejudice.
Wide awake, Zyx abandoned his leaf. Part of his duty as self-appointed guardian of the forest was to investigate unusual occurrences such as these. Thus far, he had acquitted himself admirably in that regard. Why, only last winter he had thwarted an invasion of wayward butterflies who had become disoriented in their annual migration. If Zyx did not look after these things, no one would.
When he came nearer the smoke, there was no mistaking the smell of fresh wood. The dragon curled his nose in disgust. What kind of savage would fell a living tree when there was plenty of deadwood about? A stray yuan-ti, no doubt, for no other creature capable of building a fire lived within a hundred leagues.
Or so Zyx had believed. But as the leaves gave way before him, he was confronted with a sight that drew him up short—a truly horrific sight, one that every forest creature dreads beyond all others. A tremor of shock ran through the faerie dragon, and he landed clumsily on a branch. It could not be. Not here.
No, Zyx thought desperately, this is quite wrong. It was a human.
He had never seen one before, but he knew it the moment he saw it. The way it stalked about the clearing as though it owned the place, trampling rare grasses and delicate fungus. The way it attacked a rotting log that was home to millions of tiny creatures, picking it aside like a scab to reveal a great wound in the moss beneath. Zyx averted his gaze in sorrow. How many deaths just then? How many generations of work wasted?
The man paused in his destruction to survey the area with narrowed eyes, the kind of eyes that take brutal stock of their surroundings, slotting everything—animal, vegetable, or mineral—into categories: "useful" or "nuisance." Zyx knew that look. It was not the look of a passing traveler.
His darkest suspicions were confirmed a moment later when the man called out and two more of his pernicious kind appeared, axes slung over their shoulders.
"How's it coming?" the first man called.
"Slowly," replied one of his companions. "Reckon it'll take at least a tenday to widen the path enough to let the wagons through."
"Naw," snorted the third man. "Four days, maybe. Once Ivor and the rest get here, it'll go faster."
The first man grunted, casting a squinted look into the sky, and said, "Better get on with it. Be dark soon."
Taking up a hammer and stake, he scanned the ground with an appraising eye. Zyx realized with horror that the man was erecting a tent.
The little dragon tasted blood. It was only then that he realized he had been biting his tongue. The tip of his tail twitched anxiously, causing the branch beneath him to shudder in sympathy.
This would not do. It would not do at all.
Something had to be done.
Fortunately, it did not take long for a plan to blossom, for Zyx's brain was a uniquely fertile place for plots and schemes.
"Don't get comfortable," he growled under his breath, his gaze burning into the interlopers. "You won't be here for long."
"Cirro."
There was no response. "Cirro!"
As anyone who has ever tried to wake a mist dragon will tell you, it is not an easy task. For such creatures sleep is a sacred rite, an inviolable space, taking its place alongside
meditation, rumination, and other places of deep thought. He who wakes a mist dragon does so at his own risk, for who knows what wondrous subconscious revelations he might be interrupting?
Fortunately, Zyx was not troubled with such worries. As far as he was concerned, Cirrothamalan had already experienced rather more epiphanies than was generally advisable for a non-deity.
"Cirro," he said, "I've come to tell you that I'm leaving the forest."
A luminous slit of yellow appeared, and a vertical pupil dilated eagerly. Zyx checked a sigh. He had feared his ploy would work. Though it pained him to admit it, he had the inescapable impression that Cirrothamalan was not always grateful for his company.
"Leaving?" rumbled the mist dragon. He raised his ponderous head. "How tragic. I am sorry to see you go."
"That's very kind of you," Zyx replied, immune to sarcasm. "But perhaps I've exaggerated a little. What I meant to say is that I'm leaving this part of the forest—temporarily—because I have urgent business elsewhere."
Cirro's eyelids dropped to half mast. "That's fascinating," he said, his tone suggesting something less than complete fascination. "I am truly grateful you disturbed my sleep to advise me."
"Think nothing of it—we're friends, after all. But actually, I need your help." The little dragon adopted a very serious expression and added, "That is to say, the forest needs your help."
Cirro yawned in a manner not entirely befitting one who has received a call to service, and said, "Go away, Zyx."
"You haven't even heard what I'm going to say," the faerie dragon noted. "Aren't you curious?"
"Have I ever been curious, Zyx? Was I curious when you came to me complaining of rogue butterflies? Was I enthralled by your description of political infighting among the howler
monkeys? I have more important things to think about. There are great puzzles in this world that need solving, one of which is why faerie dragons cannot leave anyone in peace."
That said, Cirro lowered his head and curled around himself, signaling the conversation was over.
But Zyx was not one to pick up on subtle cues.
"You'll be interested this time, Cirro," he said. "Humans have moved into the forest."
He should have liked this pronouncement to be followed by a clap of thunder from the heavens.
Had it been, perhaps Cirro would have taken it more seriously. As it was, the mist dragon merely stretched languidly and mumbled, "It was only a matter of time."
"Nonsense!" snapped Zyx. He began to pace nervously on his branch. "They've already made camp, and I heard them talking about bringing wagons in! I'll bet they're here for the trees. I know all about the kinds of things they make out of hardwood. Ghastly," be added with a shudder.
"Mmm," said Cirro. His voice had taken on the thickness of near-sleep.
"And," continued Zyx, pronouncing his next words deliberately, "they're barely a league from your grotto."
Cirro was on his feet so quickly that the breeze knocked Zyx from his perch. The little dragon had to flutter furiously to avoid falling into the river below.
"My grotto?" Cirro roared.
Like most of his kind, Cirrothamalan had a favorite spot for contemplation, a secluded retreat from which he could reflect on the wonderful mysteries of life. The turbid pool itself held little interest for the mist dragon, but the caves beyond were sacred to him. Veiled as they were by a thundering waterfall, the caverns were largely inaccessible to smaller beasts—such as faerie dragons, for example. The grotto was Cirro's sanctuary, jealously guarded. Few forest creatures dared venture near its hallowed banks.
"When the humans find it," Zyx intoned, "they'll claim it for their own. They'll draw water from it. They'll wash their clothes in it. They'll bathe in it."
That last image produced equal shivers of disgust from both dragons. Cirro commenced to pace. His great claws sank deep into the clay of the riverbank, sending frogs and dragonflies scattering for their lives.
"All right, faerie dragon," he boomed. "What do you propose?"
"We've got to get rid of them," Zyx said. "Right away."
"Agreed. I'll attack tonight, under cover of darkness. When the rest of them arrive, all they'll find is little pieces of—"
"Er... ugh... Cirro," Zyx interrupted, grimacing. "That's not quite what I had in mind."
The mist dragon frowned. "What's this?"
"There mustn't be any killing. It's out of the question."
Cirro's scowl deepened. He muttered something unflattering about faerie dragons, but Zyx was unperturbed.
"We only need to scare them," he insisted. The tip of his serpentine tail began to twitch with excitment. "You know, make them think the rainforest is unsafe."
"The rainforest is unsafe," Cirro returned. "Have you actually got a plan, faerie dragon, or are you simply talking to hear yourself speak?"
Zyx regarded him with an air of infringed dignity. "Of course I have a plan," he sniffed. "And a good one, too. Watch this."
An army of yuan-ti burst through the trees, scimitars raised and jaws slavering. There were hundreds of them, each one more fearsome-looking than the last. Their fiendish cackles reverberated through the gorge, causing the surrounding trees to erupt with terrified birds. Grinning eagerly, the snakemen advanced toward the dragons. Their leader's eyes fixed hungrily on Cirrothamalan, and it drew a claw across its throat in cruel mockery.
The mist dragon sighed and looked away from his impending doom.
"Yuan-ti don't cackle," he pointed out.
Zyx tilted his head, considering the snakemen with a critical eye before he conceded, "Hmm. Maybe not,"
"And unless I'm much mistaken, they're not usually pink."
"They are not pink!" Zyx retorted, scandalized. Then he peered more closely. "A bit rosy, perhaps, but certainly not pink."
"Face it, faerie dragon," Cirro chuckled as the yuan-ti faded from view, "you're terrible at illusions. You won't fool anyone with that nonsense, not even humans."
Zyx pouted. Yet he was forced to admit that the mist dragon was right—he had never been much good at conjuring.
"Still," Zyx said, "it doesn't matter. That wasn't my idea anyway."
Cirro gave him a wry look. "Really."
"No, no, of course not. I was just playing around. My real idea has to do with you."
At this, the mist dragon turned his head away slightly, one eye narrowed. "What do you mean?" he asked.
Zyx ignored the skepticism in his friend's voice and said, "You can scare the humans away yourself, Cirro, without hurting them at all. Trust me, I know just the thing____"
The mist crept into the camp like an assassin. It moved slowly at first, coiling leisurely around the abandoned tools and soaking the canvas of the tents. It clung to the waning campfire until nothing remained but defeated wisps of smoke that curled weakly from the damp ashes. At length it stole through the open flaps of the tents where it lingered like a bad dream, enveloping the sleeping forms until the chill became too much to bear and one by one the men opened their eyes.
They awoke to a world of gray. So thick was the fog that they could not see their own hands in front of their faces. They staggered out of the tents, confused, groping in an obscurity no lantern could banish. But the mist did more than tumble benignly through the clearing.
It began at an idle pace, seemingly unthreatening. The fog stirred as though touched by a light breeze, tentacles of mist gently probing the campsite. Though the men could feel no wind on their faces, it was obviously there—for what else could account for the strange motion of the fog? And soon the phantom breeze began to gain in strength, building until it was a veritable gale. Tent flaps fluttered and snapped; the horses screamed and strained against their leads. The fog seemed to take on corporeal form, picking up bits of debris and tossing them recklessly about. The men bent their backs and shielded their eyes as dust and leaves whipped around the camp in a vicious cyclone.
They shouted to each other, but their voices were lost, smothered by the clotted mist. Those sounds that reached their ears told of destruction: the snapping of rope, the rending of fabric. Though they could not see for the impenetrable cloud, the men knew their camp was being devoured.
Then suddenly, inexplicably, it was over. The phantom wind ceased its torment. The fog vanished like steam. Dazed, the men glanced around in utter bewilderment, patting themselves numbly as though expecting to find themselves injured.
Of the camp, little remained but the clearing itself. The tents, the tools—even the horses were gone. Not a trace of debris remained. Were it not for the impressions in the grass, there would be no evidence that the place had been inhabited at all.
"A storm?" spluttered Cirro, outraged. "They called it a storm?" Unable to properly express his disgust, he expelled a large puff of vapor.
"I know," Zyx said with real sympathy. "I was disappointed too. If it's any consolation, it was great fun to watch."
Cirro's two-word reply suggested it was of little consolation.
Zyx regarded his friend in the pitying manner of a parent imparting a painful lesson and said, "I'm afraid fog just isn't very scary."
Cirro narrowed his eyes and took a credible snap at the faerie dragon, perhaps to prove that he was indeed capable of being scary.
"I know," Zyx tittered nervously, dancing out of the way. "It was my idea. But don't worry. I've got another one. A better one."
"Not interested," grumbled Cirro. "I will handle this my way, faerie dragon. Enough of your ridiculous schemes."
He opened bis great wings and gazed up into the canopy, searching for a gap through which to negotiate his bulk.
Zyx had a sudden vision of appalling carnage, and he landed bravely on the mist dragon's nose.
"Wait a moment. Hear me out," said Zyx. Cirro's eyes crossed as he attempted to focus on the tip of his snout, and Zyx used the distraction to forge ahead. "We've been going about this the wrong way. We've been letting reality get in the way of our planning."
So perplexed was Cirrothamalan by that statement that his eyes crossed even farther.
"I should know better," Zyx continued with a sigh. "I was being far too realistic."
"What are you talking about, faerie dragon?"
Zyx smiled patiently and explained, "Let me put it this way. What's the scariest thing in the jungle?"
The mist dragon considered that a moment, then offered, "Woodpeckers?"
Though not the only birds to attempt nesting in the various crooks of Cirro's oft-inert form, woodpeckers were certainly the most painful.
"You're not trying," Zyx frowned. "Think about it from a human's point of view."
With those revised instructions, it didn't take Cirro long to come up with the answer, and his eyes widened with dread.
"The Uluu Thalongh?" he whispered. Even a creature so great as a mist dragon dared not speak the name too loudly.
"The Uluu Thalongh!" Zyx exclaimed with triumph, fear being the exclusive province of the rational.
Cirro succumbed to an involuntary shiver. Of all jungle predators, the Uluu Thalongh inspired the most terror. Though no one—not even the learned Cirrothamalan—could say what the creature truly was, one thing was certain: it was undisputed lord of flesh-eaters, and the very rumor of its proximity was enough to evacuate many miles of rainforest.
"Zyx," Cirro rumbled uncomfortably, "we cannot—"
"Relax. We don't need the real Uluu Thalongh. Reality only gets in the way, remember? All we need is for the humans to believe the Uluu Thalongh is nearby. That camp will be emptier than a sloth's head in no time!"
Cirro smiled despite himself. It was, he had to admit, a good plan.
"But how do we accomplish it?" asked the mist dragon. "Surely you do not expect the humans to be taken in by one of your ridiculous illusions. The Uluu Thalongh is not known for its rosy complexion."
Zyx ignored the barb. "We don't need illusions," he insisted.
"Oh really? And how do you suggest we evoke the great monster?"
"Impersonation," Zyx replied, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. Cirro's expression darkened. "My hearing must be failing
me, faerie dragon. I thought you said 'impersonation.'"
"I did. We'll pretend to be the Uluu Thalongh. Simple."
A little known fact: the axiom about steam coming out of the ears originated with an annoyed mist dragon. A wisp was even then working its way up the side of Cirro's head.
"Simple indeed!" the mist dragon snarled. "As simple as you are! You propose to impersonate a creature that slips inside trees and turns branches into jaws? You must have been dropped on your head as a hatchling!"
"You have no imagination," Zyx sniffed, wounded. "It will work."
"How?"
The little dragon brightened and said, "I thought you'd never ask. Tell me, Cirro, how do you feel about mud?"
A strange keening sound pierced the air. It was at once hollow and sharp, as though someone played upon a cracked wooden pipe. The men winced and covered their ears against the shrill noise, gazing accusingly up at the canopy to identify the offending bird.
But the sound did not emanate from the treetops. Instead it came from deep within the bush, somewhere to the north of the camp. The men peered into the dark recesses of the jungle, but the thick foliage was impenetrable. The piping continued eerily, weaving among the branches like a sinuous tree snake.
"What is it?" Maddock whispered. Something about the sound compelled him to lower his voice.
"It's no bird, that's for sure," said Ivor. He bent to retrieve his axe, and the more experienced of the men followed suit. The jungle was no place to take chances. "And it's getting closer."
Filar grunted and spat on the ground. "Reckon we'd better go check it out."
He pulled his sword from its sheath, turning it over to inspect the edges. The loss of his axe had forced him to use the sword as a tool, and hours of chopping vegetation had left the blade in dismal condition. Still, it would do the job if necessary.
"You men stay here," Ivor instructed the others. "Shout if you see anything."
He gestured at Filar and Maddock, and the three of them left the relative safety of the clearing for the unknown dangers of the brush.
-—ecre—*
"They're coming!" whispered Zyx with glee.
He was rather proud of his shrill, piping cry, fancying that it sounded a great deal like the bone-chilling call of the Uluu Thalongh. Since neither he nor Cirro had ever heard the bone-chilling call of the Uluu Thalongh, there was no one to disagree with him.
"How close are they?" Cirro wanted to know.
The mist dragon was covered from horn to claw in a thick layer of mud, and was therefore quite unable to see. He had been forced to rely on Zyx's convoluted directions to find the clearing, and considered it nothing shy of a miracle that he had arrived unscathed. Even more impressive, most of the stray branches Zyx had affixed to his body had survived the journey. So far, things were going smoothly.
"They're about a furlong away," Zyx estimated. "That gives you just enough time to get ready. Now remember: think tree."
"Tree," repeated Cirro without much enthusiasm. He drew himself up on his hind legs, propping himself with his tail for additional balance. He felt utterly ridiculous.
Zyx did not help matters, clucking his tongue disapprovingly. "No, no! Your forelegs need to come up. Up! Like branches. There you are."
Cirro had a sudden, pained vision of how he must appear. "If you breathe a word of this to anyone, faerie dragon, I'll swallow you whole."
"Dear Cirro, you're such a joker. Now be quiet. They're almost here. You remember what to do?"
Ivor expected their mysterious quarry to be camouflaged, but he couldn't have guessed how well. If Filar hadn't shouted, he would have walked right past it: an enormous tree, oddly misshapen by strange, grotesque bulges. The tree's appearance was alarming enough, but what caused Filar to cry out—and Ivor to leap back with a curse—was the sudden movement of a branch.
For a brief moment Ivor thought himself imagining things, but no—the branch was definitely reaching for him. Worse, the limb ended in what appeared to be a set of long, sharp teeth. Ivor staggered back in shock, his mind reeling.
All of that was strange enough, but what followed was stranger still. The tree shifted its immense bulk, and there came a crashing sound. Everyone—including the monstrous tree—looked around in confusion. Another crash, and the source of the sound became clear: the smaller branches of the tree were falling off. One by one they tore away from the trunk, plummeting to the ground far below. Filar had to leap back to avoid the leafy bombardment.
Faced with the sudden defection of its appendages, the monster seemed unsure of what to do. It withdrew a few paces, then hovered uncertainly, allowing the men to get a better look at it. Bereft of its treelike appearance, it was little more than an enormous column of mud. But it was a column of mud with eyes, teeth, and claws.
Ivor felt the blood drain from his face as he realized what he was looking at.
"It's..."he faltered.
"What?" Maddock prompted, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's a mudman!"
The pronouncement was met with general consternation. "But there's no such thing as a mudman!" Filar whimpered. "No?" Ivor gestured wildly with his axe. "What do you call that, then?"
Faced with an incontrovertible argument, Filar conceded the point. As for the mudman, it appeared to be reconsidering its options, for it had drawn back even farther and was engaged in a heated argument with a nearby branch. The creature was obviously quite mad.
"We'll have to kill it," Ivor said in a low voice. "We'll be sending for our families soon, and I'll not have a mudman around my boys."
"Too right," growled Maddock.
Their resolve hardened, the men advanced toward the inattentive creature. They would catch it unawares, and it would all be over before the mudman even knew what hit it.
By the time Zyx saw the weapon, it was already too late. The blade caught Cirro in the left haunch, biting easily through the dried mud. The mist dragon howled and wheeled around, his tail very nearly decapitating a large man with an axe. A third man, also with an axe, took a swing at Cirro's foreleg.
"No!" Zyx shrieked, "Stop!"
He was seized with terror. Not for Cirro—the mist dragon was quite capable of scalding the humans to the bone. But that was precisely the problem.
"Cirro, please!" begged the tender-hearted faerie dragon. "Don't hurt them! Oh, this won't do at all!" He flitted to and fro
like a confused bumblebee, wringing his forefeet in distress. "Think, Zyx, think!"
Below, Cirro unfurled a wing, knocking all three humans to the ground.
"Get them away from me, Zyx!" he snarled. "I'll do what I must!"
To demonstrate the point, the mist dragon slammed his tail into the ground, leaving a deep trough.
This display of strength should have sent any creature into headlong retreat—any sensible creature, that is. But the humans remained stubbornly in place, trading near-misses with the mud-caked dragon. One man hacked continually at Cirro's legs, his pitiful blade finding the occasional tender spot. Another took opportunistic swings witb his axe, catching the dragon on the move and thus adding force to his blows.
Cirro kept them at bay as best he could, blowing harmless clouds of steam to obscure their view. But eventually he would lose patience, and when that happened, the steam would become deadly.
There was only one thing to do. Zyx threw himself heroically into the path of the nearest human, preparing to blast the man's face with his bliss-inducing breath. But the faerie dragon's inexperience with humans proved costly, for the graceless creatures were quicker than they appeared. There was a blur of motion, and everything went dark. Zyx was caught.
"Unhand me, you filthy beast!" The tiny creature scowled defiantly at the three faces looming above, its lower jaw jutting forth in an almost comical gesture of bravado.
"What's this now?" Maddock muttered.
Even as he asked the question, he cast another wary glance
at the mudman. The monster had withdrawn the moment its ally was captured, but it remained only a few paces away, watchful.
"It's a flying lizard," Ivor declared.
His pronouncement provoked an indignant squeak from the captive.
"Lizard indeed!" said the creature. "I happen to be a faerie dragon, and I'll have you know that it's very bad luck to catch one!"
"Eh?" Ivor blinked. "Faerie dragon?"
At that, Filar let out a loud, expressive groan.
When his companions regarded him with bemused expressions, he explained, "I've heard of them, right enough. My brother up on the coast had a run-in with one last spring. Caused him no end of headache. They spend all day playing practical jokes on whatever poor souls live nearby. Plague a man till he's mad, they will." He shook his head ruefully. "If we live here, we'll never be rid of the little vermin!"
"I say!" objected the diminutive dragon. "Is that kind of language really necessary?"
Ivor ignored it. He hoisted his hand in Filar's direction and asked, "You really think this thing is a faerie dragon?"
Filar shrugged. "It's a talking lizard with wings. What else would it be?"
"Think it'll bother us?"
"Reckon so. It's in its nature."
Ivor cursed violently. "Just our luck, isn't it? Bet there isn't another one of these things for a thousand leagues!" He looked over the little pest in disgust, then opened his hand and shook it free. "Be gone with ye, then," he growled.
The dragon lingered a moment as though it would speak, but wisely thought better of it. Its tiny form darted through the trees and disappeared.
"You're just letting it go? " Maddock cried. He had obviously envisioned a more permanent solution.
With a gesture, Ivor reminded him of the presence of the mudman. "It's a big forest," he said, "and this place don't have much to recommend it."
"Bad company," agreed Filar, "and bad weather besides. If we're gonna rebuild the camp anyway, we might as well find someplace a little more hospitable."
Their perfectly rational concerns had nothing whatever to do with abject fear of the mudman, whose exact nature had been called into question by its unexpected conversion to a quadruped. (Subsequent fireside accounts would identify the monster as the lesser-known but equally fearsome mudbear.)
"Move on, then?" suggested Maddock.
"Reckon that's the most reasonable course," said Ivor, with a very reasonable expression.
Thus agreed, the men withdrew from close proximity to the mudman, taking reasonably quick strides back to camp.
"Cirro, I've come to tell you that I'm leaving the forest."
The mist dragon did not so much as open his eyes. "Go away, Zyx," he growled.
It had been nearly a month since the incident with the humans, and Cirro had not heard a peep from the faerie dragon. Only then did he realize how much he'd enjoyed the reprieve.
"I mean it this time," Zyx sighed. "And I just wanted to say that I'm really going to miss you."
Cirro raised his head. He had never heard Zyx sound so earnest. "Is this the truth?" he asked. "Where are you going?"
"The other side of the gorge."
The mist dragon narrowed his eyes and asked, "Is that not where the humans were going?"
Zyx's expression was all innocence. "Someone's got to keep an eye on them," he pointed out.
But Cirrothamalan was no fool. "You can't resist, can you? They are simply too tempting a target!"
A coy smile worked its way across Zyx's snout. "But it was such fun" he murmured. His eyes grew unfocused, as though he was reliving a sweet memory.
"I doubt the humans thought it was much fun," Cirro noted.
The faerie dragon overlooked that observation with his usual blitheness. "It will be a grand adventure," he said. "But I shall miss you, my friend."
It seemed Zyx was in earnest after all. Cirro rose to his feet, and with due ceremony offered the traditional farewell of his kind.
"Good-bye, Zyx. May the mysteries of life unfold themselves to you."
As the tiny dragon flitted away, Cirro felt a peculiar weight in his stomach, as though he had swallowed a large stone. Was it possible? Might he actually miss the little pest?
"I'll come back to visit someday!" Zyx piped as he disappeared from view.
The stone in Cirro's stomach vanished, replaced by an ill-tempered growl. He might have guessed. One was never truly rid of a faerie dragon. They were as clinging as a burr, as nagging as a conscience. He could name several diseases that were easier to be rid of. Still, some part of him welcomed such constants in life. And when Zyx returned, as he no doubt would, some part of Cirro would welcome the faerie dragon too.
THE WOMAN WHO DREW DRAGONS
Rosemary Jones
The Year of the Helm (1362 DR)
Of course, if that female painter hadn't shown up about the same time that Guerner called for more drinks, the tavernkeeper Varney might not have pursued his great idea about dragons. At least, that was what Varney said later. Mrs. Varney just said, "Well, isn't that like Varney, trying to blame somebody else for his troubles."
It all started with Varney's customers, as Varney pointed out to Mrs. Varney. Those customers, a group of regulars, were having one of their endless nightly debates about the habits of dragons and their own fortitude during encounters with the scaly beasts.
"So I just twitched the string like this, and up leaps that black dragon. Thought his whole cave was infested by snakes, and he lets out this roar and
races away. Leaving me in possession of all his treasure," said the gnome Silvenestri Silver, wriggling a piece of twine across the table.
In the middle of winter, in the dark days that marked the end of one year and the beginning of the next, Silver spent most of his time in his favorite tavern, the Dragon Defeated, telling tales of his past exploits as a treasure-stealer. When the roads dried out and warmer weather came, he'd be away to a bigger city to look for work. Sembian cities held certain perils for a professional treasure-hunter (like rival claimants to his prizes and unkind people who whined that he'd cheated them of their share), so Silver preferred to wait out winter in Halfknot, the small town with a mixed population of humans, dwarves, and gnomes where nothing much ever happened.
Varney and his wife scrubbed the tables, moving around the group of listeners gathered around the gnome and his string. Mrs. Varney wished that they'd all go home and whispered to Varney that it was time to shoo everyone out the door. But Varney disagreed. Winter was too slow a time for the Dragon Defeated and its owner to lose any chance of an extra purchase.
Looking over the group arguing about dragons, Varney knew the order wouldn't come from the dwarf, Badger Bates. The dwarf would nurse his one drink all night unless someone else paid. If the human, Wyrmbait Nix, hadn't lost all his coin to Silver in one of their numerous bets, he might buy something to eat. The big man was always hungry and not too fussy about Mrs. Varney's cooking. Of course, His Honor, Grangy Guerner, part-time magistrate and full-time ratcatcher, always had plenty of jingle in his pocket, but he rarely lingered in the tavern for any length of time.
"Dragons aren't afraid of snakes," said the dwarf Badger Bates, taking up the thread of his never-ending dispute with Silver about which of them knew the most about the dragons.
He pointed one dirty finger at the gnome sitting across from him. "All I'm saying is that proof is proof. I've never seen any proof of your story except a snip of dirty twine. Now folks know when I tell about Malaeragoth, I'm going show them proof of my words. I've got my scale, don't I?"
Bates tapped the iron box sitting beside his plate. The dwarf worked in the local foundry but had once dug gardens and built fountains for the wizard Uvalkhur the Undaunted. When certain rival wizards murdered the old man in his own home, Malaeragoth, the sapphire dragon and sometimes steed of Uvalkhur, suddenly appeared before the thieving wizards ransacking the mansion and revenged his former master. Almost one hundred years had passed since the day that Malaeragoth tore apart the manor to play cat-and-mouse games with the murderers, but the ferocity of his vengeance remained a favorite tale in Sembia. Of all those who'd occupied the manor that day, only Badger Bates had escaped with his life. And from that day to the present, no more had been seen of the sapphire dragon.
"And besides, the last time that you told that story about the black dragon, you said you cast an illusion of one snake crawling across his den," argued Bates. "Now when I talk about Malaeragoth—"
"One snake, ten snakes, what does it matter?" Silver said, cutting off Bates's last sentence. "You're missing the point. What I'm trying to say is that it pays, and pays well if you're hunting someone else's treasure, to know who you're stealing from. Dragons are no different from people. Know their habits, know where they keep their loot, and know how to trick them. That dragon—and I never said that he was the usual sort of black dragon—that dragon had what the wizard called a pho-bee-a. Couldn't abide snakes in any form. And when he saw a snake, or thought he saw one, he ran."
"I am the last person alive to have actually seen Malaeragoth and I can produce my proof anytime I want," Bates
persisted, flipping open the lid of his iron box. The shimmering sapphire scale inside shone like an evening star in the tavern's dim light. "Besides, Malaeragoth wasn't one of your commonplace black dragons that any reprobate gnome illusionist could trick," finished Bates in a huff.
"I paid good gold for information about that black dragon," snarled Silver, "and more for a great snake illusion. That's what made it possible for me to defeat that dragon—and a lesser gnome couldn't have done it. You may have been clever enough to pick up that scale, after you crawled out of whatever hole that you hid in, but avoiding Malaeragoth isn't the same as tricking a dragon in his own lair!"
"Humph," said Badger Bates. "Proof is proof, and I still don't see anything on the table."
"I've got the scars from my encounters, and nobody asks me to plop those on the table when I tell my stories," said Wyrmbait Nix. "But scars or no scars, I still believe the gnome. As for putting things down on the table, Silver pays for his fair share of the drinks, which is more than you've ever done, Badger," continued Nix, who made his living capturing baby dragons for wizards' menageries. He spent his winter months in town, offering to show any lady in the tavern his scars, including the terrific bite mark left on his leg by a baby blue dragon. "And neither of you has spent day after day crawling through dark dank holes after those nasty-tempered wyrmlings!"
"Yeah, well, they don't call you Wyrmbait for nothing," said Silver. "But I'd rather steal a treasure and keep a whole skin, than carry around a bag of hissing, wiggling baby dragons nipping at my fingers. Nasty way to make a living, Nix, nasty."
"Baby bites," scoffed Bates. "Why that's nothing compared to the fury of Malaeragoth. He ripped Uvalkhur's roof off with one swipe of his claws. He hunted Uvalkhur's killers through the hallways like one of Guerner's terriers after rats. I saw
him, and that's more than either of you have ever seen—a great old dragon like that, fighting with all his strength!"
The ratcatcher Guerner suddenly spoke up. "Well, I've never seen a dragon, and I've never wanted to see one. Catching rats is enough vermin for me. But I like hearing your stories, makes these winter nights pass quicker. I'll stand you a drink all round for your tales. Hey, Varney, draw us four more cups," he said to the tavernkeeper.
Varney smirked at Mrs. Varney. He'd been right and she'd been wrong, it was worth staying open a little longer.
The chink of Guerner's coin dropping into his box sparked Varney's big idea, or "another one of Varney's big ideas" as Mrs. Varney would say in later years to friends and relations. Middle of the tenday, middle of the winter, was such a lonely time for a tavernkeeper's coin box in Sembia. It had been another lousy winter for trade. There'd been talk of odd trouble in odd places, ghosts in the forests and suchlike. In a small town like Halfknot, where Varney ran the Dragon Defeated, people relied on travelers for their extra coin. And when the gods, elves, Zhentarim, and who knew what else kept disrupting trade, well, then, it meant everyone got very nervous and hoarded what gold they had.
But with the Year of Maidens passed and the Year of the Helm begun, Varney wanted to encourage customers to stop saving and start spending at the Dragon Defeated. Advertising Mrs. Varney's meat pies as being made from the best ber-rygobblers hadn't done the trick. In fact, some unkind bard had started a song about "Mrs. Varney's Rat Pies."
As Varney served Guerner's round, a woman blew through the tavern's door with a cold, wet wind and an offer to repaint the Dragon Defeated's sign. Varney just knew that her offer was all that was needed to start his great idea attracting a little cash to his tavern.
Small and fair-haired, the painter's skin held that ruddy brown tinge of a wanderer who spent most of her time
outdoors. Spots of color sprayed across her hands, the marks of her trade.
"I was heading east," the painter said, "but the roads are rivers of mud and I'm tired of slipping and falling every third step. So I'm stopping in Halfknot until the roads dry out. I'm painting signs for the baker, the butcher, and the hostler. I'll do yours too in return for a few meals."
Varney promised as many meat pies as the painter could eat.
The next morning, Varney, the painter, and Mrs. Varney discussed a new design for the Dragon Defeated's well-weathered sign. The current placard depicted a group of men attacking a rearing white dragon.
"I noticed your sign when I first came to town," said the painter, standing underneath it, ignoring the rain dripping on her head and down her neck. "That dragon is simply awful. The neck is all wrong, the head's too small, and those wings! They look like a bird's wings, not a dragon's!"
"Can you add a princess, dear?" asked Mrs. Varney, who was a sentimental soul. "You know, one of those girls all dressed in fine silks with a little tiny crown perched on top of her curls, being rescued by the lads? Like in the stories my granny told."
"Well," said the painter. "I don't know as much about princesses as I do about dragons, but I can draw one. What else?"
"Can you make the chaps in the sign look like those three over there?" asked Varney, pointing a thumb at Silver, Bates, and Nix, who were walking down the street. The gnome, the dwarf, and the human were still arguing about who knew more about dragons.
The painter looked them over. "Don't you want something better? I'm not sure that they'll attract the customers."
"I want it to look just like them," said Varney. "I've got an idea about those three."
Once the repainted sign was flapping in the gusts of winter wind, Varney nailed another smaller sign next to his door advertising free beer on the slowest night of the tenday in return for a good dragon story.
Much to the town's surprise, Varney lived up to his promise. Every storyteller got one free beer—small and a bit watered, but free. Also, Varney had every listener and storyteller put a coin or a button or a packet of pins in a cup. At the end of the evening, the best story was awarded the cup, with the tavern's own "dragon defeaters" Silver, Nix, and Bates acting as judges. Of course, food and additional beer were charged at Varney's usual rates, and the winner most often stood the company an extra round, all of which meant that Varney's coin box started to fill up very nicely.
So Varney's idea worked, as Varney liked to tell friends and relations in later years. More people came to the Dragon Defeated, just to hear a story well told, and after a few ten-days, as the weather improved and travel became easier, the promise of a free beer and the possibility of winning a cup of coins and buttons spread up and down the roads, drawing more out-of-towners and regulars from other taverns. All sorts of strange folk began to appear at the Dragon Defeated to compete with their story.
Silver, Nix, and Bates took to strutting around town because of their positions as "dragon experts." The dwarf even promised to give Malaeragoth's sapphire scale to the first person who managed to astound all three judges.
On the night of the "unfortunate incident," as Varney described it in later years, the Dragon Defeated was packed with a lively, hard-drinking crowd of humans, dwarves, and gnomes. A human fighter with well-oiled leather armor and a really big sword slung across his back finished his tale of hand-to-claw combat with a green dragon with a thump of his fist on his chest. The audience looked between him and the judges, waiting to hear what the trio thought.
"Well," said Nix, cleaning his teeth with an ivory toothpick, "if you'd lunged a bit more and ducked less, you could have finished the fight in half the time. If you're going to go hunting dragons, you can't be afraid of being nipped on the arm or leg. Bites heal. Look at my scars. Besides, we heard something similar from a man from Triel last tenday, didn't we boys?"
"Yup, I don't think that story is worth even a button," said Bates, who was known throughout Halfknot as a dwarf so cheap that he wouldn't give away the time of day for free. There was a running side bet going at the Dragon Defeated that no one would ever get Malaeragoth's sapphire scale from the dwarf. "Besides, I like to see a bit of proof, I do. Anyone can tell a fancy story, but not everyone can produce solid evidence."
"I think the whole thing showed a lack of finesse," Silver said, washing his fingers in a porcelain bowl. "With a little bit of guile," added the gnome, using his embroidered hankie to dry off his fingertips, "he could have had the head off that creature and been out of the forest without even pulling that really big sword out of its scabbard. If he'd studied his dragons before he went, he'd have known how to handle them. Everyone knows that you're most likely to find green dragons there and those type of dragons are cross-eyed and easy to confuse."
"You're wrong," said the sign painter, sitting in the corner nearest the fire and eating one of Mrs. Varney's meat pies. "A green dragon is not that easy to kill and they're never cross-eyed."
A number of heads turned to stare at the woman. She smiled slightly at the three dragon experts and continued to eat her pie with calm, deliberate bites.
"What do you know about greens, missy?" said Nix.
"I've painted a hundred or so, and I've never seen a single crossed eye," she replied, saying more than she'd said in all
the previous tendays. Behind her table, her large pack leaned against the wall. The roads outside were dry, she was dressed for traveling, and she'd come for one last meal before leaving town. Being on her way out of Halfknot, she obviously didn't care who she offended that night. Or, at least, that was Mrs. Varney's explanation of the subsequent events.
"What do you mean, madam, that you've painted greens?" said Silver.
"I draw dragons," said the woman. "My name, by the way, is Petra. The dragons sometimes call me Ossalurkarif, but I prefer Petra. I definitely prefer Petra to 'missy' or 'madam.'"
"Lady Petra," said Silver, leaping up on his table so everyone could see him, then making an elaborate bow, "my apologies for these repeated questions, but what do you know about dragons?"
"More than you do." Petra sighed and pushed her pie aside. "I've sat and listened for all these tendays. And your tales are all very pretty and well-told. But not one of you has really looked at the dragons that you say that you've met. You've fought them, you've killed them, you've stolen from them, and once or twice, you've even had a conversation with one. But none of you have ever noticed much more than if a dragon is green, red, or blue."
She reached behind her and pulled a number of long metal and oiled canvas tubes out of her pack.
"I draw dragons," she said again. "Somebody has to. We live in a realm filled with dragons, but what does anyone really know? Your wizards talk of Draco Mystere, but what good is reading the words of others compared to actual field study? Why you won't find in books whether a red adult has one or two phalanges or the color of a bronze hatchling's tongue. But I can show you that! And I can prove greens don't have crossed eyes."
Petra opened one of the tubes and drew out a number of tightly rolled parchments. As she spread them across her
table, people stood up to get a better look, causing the gnomes to join Silver on the tabletop so they could see over the heads of the humans. The dwarves just muscled themselves to the front of the crowd. As the sound of "oohs" and "aahs" rose from the crowd, Varney stopped pouring beer and boosted himself up on the bar to see Petra's drawings.
Filling every inch of the vellum were dozens and dozens of drawings of green dragons. There were greens in flight, rearing up to peer over treetops, curled around a clutch of eggs, and resting with chins across crossed claws, looking like tabby cats asleep in the sun.
"Look there," said Petra, pointing at the head of a green dragon with eyes deep-set under a row of hornlets and crest fully extended. "Perfectly normal eyes. Not a sign of crossing."
"Well," said Silver finally. "I guess I got my dragons a little mixed up. It's the whites that have crossed eyes."
"No," said Petra, pulling another tube from her pack and twisting it open. "Whites have beautiful eyes. Much more variation in eye colors than other dragons, in fact, probably because of the white scales. I've seen whites with blue eyes, green eyes, and the most wonderful shade of amber. The one with amber eyes was a very old dragon whose scales had gone a lovely shade of cream, with just a slight tint of azure on the belly. He said that all his brothers had amber eyes, but none of his sisters, who tended to have lavender or violet eyes."
"You talk to dragons?" said Nix, managing to sound both intrigued and disbelieving at the same time. "You've spoken with white dragons?"
"The polite ones," answered Petra with a shrug. "If I'm painting a big portrait. It can take hours sometimes and they do get so bored posing. I guess that's why I like doing the little sketches more, like the ones of the greens. There I'm just drawing them quickly as they go about their lives. It
seems less intrusive somehow. Dragons are very sensitive about such things."
"So how many kinds of dragons have you drawn?" challenged Nix. "I've captured more than three different species in my time. I could show the bites on my leg from a blue, and the one on my arm from a green, and the one from a red wyrmling on my—"
"Not in front of the ladies," cried Froedegra, the blacksmith's daughter, who knew very well where the little red dragon had bit Nix and never wanted to see that scar again.
"Thank you, but you don't need to show me anything," said Petra. "I know the bite of one dragon from another. I've drawn copper dragons on the High Moor, red dragons playing in a volcano's fire, gold dragons reading scrolls in labyrinths, white dragons sliding through snow and ice, bronze dragons being ridden by wizards on battlefields, blue dragons burrowing beneath hot sands, and black dragons flying above the salt marshes, where the world is neither sea nor land, but a bit of both. I've walked all the Realms from end to end, just to draw dragons."
As she recited her catalog of dragons, Petra pulled scroll tube after scroll tube from her pack. Dragons crawled, walked, swam, flew, dug, ran, stretched, fought, and slept in the dozens of drawings spread across all the tables of the tavern. More dragons in more colors than anyone had ever seen before. Silver and Nix were silenced.
But Badger Bates was moved to speak, because he knew that if he displayed the awe that the others showed, he'd lose Malaeragoth's sapphire scale. And Bates never gave up anything without a battle.
"There's no sapphire dragon here," he said, surveying the drawings that littered the tavern. "There's one that I've seen that you have not: Malaeragoth in his rage! I saw him that day he ripped up the wizard's killers, and nobody has seen him since."
"Malaeragoth! That dragon is dangerous to draw," said Petra, frowning at the name. "I painted him once and only once, as he paced through his cold caverns, but he caught sight of my painting in his scrying mirror and sent a servant to steal the picture from me."
"Easy to say, hard to prove," answered Bates. "I don't believe you. That old dragon has been gone for a hundred years. There's many here who know that I'm the last alive to see him."
Petra shook her blond head at the dwarf's taunt and began to gather up her pictures, rolling them tightly and packing them back into their protective tubes.
"Malaeragoth served Uvalkhur in Sembia many years ago," continued Bates, "and I was digging a fountain for the wizard's garden when thieves snuck in and murdered the master in his own place. And I can give you proof that I was there that day, for here's Malaeragoth's own scale," said the dwarf, banging his iron box down on the table and flipping open the lid.
"I never said that you were a liar, though you were more than rude to call me one," answered Petra in the same calm voice that she had used to tell Nix and Silver that they knew nothing about green dragons' eyes. "Malaeragoth's scale that may well be. It's off an old dragon, and a sapphire too. The color and the size are evidence of that. But if you've seen Malaeragoth's rage than you know that the sapphire dragon is a dragon best left sleeping. I wouldn't go shouting his name and boasting of my knowledge quite so loud. It's not for nothing that he's taken to calling himself the Unseen Dragon."
"Well," said Silver, determined to regain his status as dragon expert before the crowd, "Badger's not a complete fool. Proof is proof, as he likes to say. You could have drawn your pictures from the stories that you've heard here. You've been listening to us all winter long. How do we know that you've seen these beasts with your own eyes?"
"Because I only draw what I have seen and all my dragons are true in every detail," answered Petra, and her voice went a little higher at being questioned by the gnome as well as the dwarf. "And if you had any brains behind your eyes, you'd give me that cup that sits on the bar. For I've shown you more of dragons tonight than any tale told here this winter!"
Bates sucked in his breath and blew it out again. "Show me Malaeragoth," he said, "and I'll give you Malaeragoth's sapphire scale and double the coins in the cup as well."
The tavern crowd gasped. The sapphire scale might be rare, but coin out of Bates's purse was something even rarer.
"Done!" said Petra, for like most painters, she never could resist a bet. "I'll draw Malaeragoth as I last saw him, old and wily, and as fond of magic as any wizard! But he's a large dragon and I need a large space to paint." She looked around the room and walked over to the north wall. Mrs. Varney had whitewashed the plaster only a few days before. Petra looked at Varney, still sitting on the top of his bar, and asked, "May I paint the dragon here?"
Varney agreed, thinking that a mural of the sapphire dragon would draw the drinkers just as much as any story. And that, as Mrs. Varney would say in later years, was just typical of Varney's foolishness.
Petra called for raw eggs and clean water to mix her paints. Varney brought the ingredients, totaling the cost in his mind and determined to add it as "extras" to her tab. From her pack, Petra pulled out her paint box with its jars of powdered pigments and its multitude of brushes. She grabbed a stick from the fireplace and sketched the outline of Malaeragoth upon the wall. In her drawing, the dragon was frozen in midstep, facing a floating mirror.
Petra mixed the colors on the lid of her paintbox, which unhinged to become a separate tray holding five colors and three brushes. At first, she painted with a broad brush, tipped with oxhair, and laid down large strokes of a deep sea blue.
Then she painted with a smaller brush, tipped with fox fur, the finer details of Malaeragoth's scales, claws, ears, and nose in ultramarine and turquoise. Last, she took up a tiny brush, tipped with squirrel hair, to add minute dots of lapis and gold dust to the dragon's form. Malaeragoth twinkled like a jewel upon the wall, and the sapphire scale in Bates' box shown with the same blue light. Looking closely at Malaeragoth's long throat, the crowd could even see where a single scale had dropped away and been replaced by a newer, lighter blue scale.
Petra painted very fast, something that she had learned from trying to draw pictures of dragons in flight, but dawn light was showing at the windows before she was done. Her audience stretched and shook some sleeping gnomes awake as she cleaned her brushes with quick economical moves.
Nix and Silver shoved and pushed other people aside to take a closer look at the dragon, but Bates remained in his chair, clutching his iron box in one white-knuckled hand.
While the crowd admired the vibrant sapphire dragon, Petra mixed new colors in her box lid and painted a smaller picture within the frame of the painted mirror. But no one except Varney looked at Malaeragoth's mirror, painted as floating before the dragon. In the painted mirror, Varney saw his own tavern with himself counting coins into his coin box behind the bar and others craning to look at a woman painting upon the wall a sapphire dragon looking at them. It was, thought Varney, a very clever conceit and he felt very pleased about the new mural decorating the wall of the Dragon Defeated. Unlike the sign creaking in the wind outside, he wouldn't even have to pay the painter in kind for the new decoration of his tavern.
"Well," said Petra to Bates as she worked on the picture in the mirror, "is that not Malaeragoth to the life?"
The dwarf had not moved, nor spoken, nor slept for the entire night. Instead, he'd sat on a stool watching the painter
with his face growing redder and redder as she got closer to finishing her portrait of the sapphire dragon. Looking at the black anger in his scowl, Nix and Silver knew that the dwarf had lost his bet, but they winked at each other, sure that Bates would find a way to wiggle out of paying.
"Not to the life," said the dwarf after a long, long pause. "I'm an old dwarf and I know what I know. I'm not going to be tricked by some woman."
The crowd murmured their disapproval. "Why it's a fine picture," said Nix, "you can almost see the beast breathe!"
"Still," added Silver for mischief's sake, "the dwarf doesn't lie. What's wrong with the painting, Badger?"
"Malaeragoth had eyes," said Bates pointing to two empty holes in the dragon's head where Petra had not laid a speck of paint upon the plaster. "If she'd really seen him, she'd know what color they were."
"As green as unripe plums when he's content, as bright as summer lightning when he's angry," answered Petra.
"Show me!" challenged the dwarf.
"Best not," said Petra, packing up her paints and all her brushes except one tiny brush tipped with golden hair. "Better that you should pay me as you promised and leave Malaeragoth as he stands. Leave his eyes blind. The old wyrm doesn't like people spying on him. And" she added in an angry undertone, "I don't like people trying to weasel out of a bet."
"If you can finish it, and finish it right," said Bates, "I'll pay. But not a penny before that, and not the cup either. Don't you lads agree?"
"Well," said Nix, who had a tingle in his big toe that reminded him of the time that a red hatchling had bitten him to the bone, "I think the lass has done a very fine job. It's definitely not your ordinary blue dragon. It's a sapphire as sure as anything, and who's to say it's not Malaeragoth."
"I do!" shouted Bates. "I'm the last living person to see that dragon and only I know what his eyes look like!"
Since Silver loved to make trouble, he sided with the dwarf. "An unfinished painting is like a tale without an end. We've never given the cup away to any story that didn't have a proper ending. Varney, what do you say?"
Varney made another mistake at that moment by saying, "I say that you're the judges. If you don't think it's worthy of the cup, the cup and the coins stay here. Not a single button for the lady. And you, Miss Petra the Painter, owe me for your drinks and those eggs and water for your paints."
Petra flushed as red as Bates. "Have it your way," she muttered, loud enough for Nix to hear and remember afterward. "I warned you. But it's your wall. And your lives."
She picked up the little brush tipped with golden hair and pulled a silk-wrapped jar out of the side pocket of her pack. She unscrewed the ivory lid of the jar and dipped the brush into it. Something sparkled on the tip of the brush but nobody could say for sure what color was the paint. With quick, deft strokes, Petra filled in the eyes of the dragon.
The dragon's eyes were beautiful, iridescent as pearls and green as new plums, and they sparkled in the pale winter sunlight shining through the cracks of the tavern's shutters. The play of shadow and light upon the dragon's head made the eyes look alive, thought Varney.
"I'll take my payment now," said Petra, grabbing the cup off the bar and tipping the coins and buttons into her pack. She was heading toward the door as she talked.
To everyone's amazement, Bates did not protest. The dwarf let out a long, loud sigh.
"Yup," he said. "It's Malaeragoth!" And he added in a stubborn, angry tone, "But it's not a very good likeness! He was much uglier than that."
At the sound of its name, the painted dragon blinked and took a long, hard look into the painted mirror that floated in front of it. Varney stared at the painted mirror too. He saw the crowd within the mirror turn, and shove, and move
in a swell of mixing painted colors, pushing away from the painted dragon staring at them with a malevolent gaze.
Varney saw his own painted jaw drop open in surprise. His painted wife rushed to his side. And he felt Mrs. Varney's hard grip upon his arm.
"Run, you old fool, run!" she shrieked.
On the wall, Malaeragoth's painted lips curled back from long, gleaming fangs.
"It moved!" cried Nix, diving for a window and tearing at the shutter as he spoke, years of dragon hunting propelling him away from possible danger.
Silver followed close upon his heels.
"No," said Badger Bates, stubborn and argumentative to the last, "it can't move. It's just a picture."
But even as Bates spoke, the painted dragon coiled off the wall, leaving gaping holes in the plaster behind him. Stones and plaster crashed and ricocheted through the screaming, running crowd. Varney shoved Mrs. Varney behind the heavy wooden bar and threw himself over her.
"Ooof," said Mrs. Varney.
"Hush," said Varney.
The painting crumbled slowly like a dam dissolving before raging flood water. Plaster and stones, flecked with a blue rainbow of painted colors, washed across the floor.
Chairs and tables snapped like twigs beneath the dragon's great weight as he advanced into the room. Malaeragoth lashed his tail free of the painting and the roof beams cracked as he rose to his full height, pushing up against them. Malaeragoth roared, a psionic blast that blew through the crowd like a storm wind through a flock of birds. The sheer force of Malaeragoth's cry buckled the remaining walls and blew out the shutters. Nix and Silver leaped through the open window and ran as fast as they could, never stopping until they reached the edge of town.
But Badger Bates stood firm, rooted by the sheer shock
of seeing the sapphire dragon again and frozen by the fury of knowing that he was not the last living person to witness Malaeragoth's fabled rage.
And Malaeragoth fell upon Badger Bates, crushing him beneath sapphire scales. The dragon raised itself off the dead dwarf, roared once more, and vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.
When the dust cleared from the collapse of the north wall and the subsequent fall of the Dragon Defeated's roof, Varney and Mrs. Varney crawled out from their hiding place behind the bar and began to pick through the ruins.
Once assured that the sapphire dragon was gone, Nix and Silver, being very thankful to still be alive, returned to help them.
"Well," said Silver, rummaging through Badger's flattened remains as any good thief would, "there's nothing of value here." He slipped his former friend's purse into his own pocket and blew the dust of the crushed iron box and Malaeragoth's sapphire scale off his hands. "What have you got there, Nix?"
"It's the sign," said Nix. He called to the tavernkeeper trying to dig out his squashed coin box from the rubble. "Hey, Varney, do you want this?"
The sign's paint had been scraped away in several places, leaving the rearing white dragon without a head, showing only two of the three adventurers, and depicting just the remains of the painted dwarfs left boot. But the princess, with a tiny crown perched on top of her golden curls, was still smiling valiantly at her rescuers.
"Aww," said Nix, "it's a terrible shame that it's so ruined. It was a grand picture. Maybe you could have the painter woman paint it again. She said she was sorry for what happened, but
Bates shouldn't have tried to cheat on a bet."
Varney shuddered. "Not her. I'll have nothing more to do with a woman who draws dragons," he said. "She's off to the east, says she wants to study landwyrms."
Varney took the sign from Nix and stared at it for a few minutes.
"I have an idea," Varney said, getting more and more enthusiastic as he talked. "I'll cut it down and just save the princess. We could call the new place something like the Royal Rescue and hire a bard to sing tales of royal ladies in love. Everybody likes a good love story in the springtime. Stories about princesses are much safer than letting people draw dragons on a wall."
But that princess idea, as Mrs. Varney would say in later years to friends and relations, was just the start of another of Varney's disasters.
THE HUNTING GAME
Erik Scott de Bie
Flamerule, the Year of the Wave (1364 DR)
The caravan rolled along, the wagons creaking, the men coughing and cursing, and the horses whinnying, just as it had for miles and miles before across the Heartlands. The road to Baldur's Gate would be a long one, one that many of the gruff caravan guards had seen many times before. They were familiar with it, familiar enough to watch gullies, turns, stands of trees, and boulders that made up familiar ambush spots.
The scouts were so preoccupied with watching for trouble at their flanks, front, or rear, such that few paid attention to a dark shape in the sky.
Few except Alin Cateln.
Looking out the window, idly plucking at his harp as the wagon in which he rode jostled on, the young bard wondered absently if it was a wisp of
cloud or some high-flying night bird. The trip had passed so uneventfully that he was eager to make up distractions for himself on this, the sixth day out of Hill's Edge. His seat tossed him up and down, but still it was more comfortable than a saddle.
"Say, what's that, do you reckon?" he asked the driver.
The gruff-faced man looked at the sky. "What?"
"That shape right there," Alin said, pointing.
"There? The only thing that ain't cloud?" he asked, and Alin nodded. "That'd be Selune, boy, on her nightly walk."
Alin rolled his eyes. Of course the man had not seen it. Just like that, the shape—if it had even existed outside his imagination—vanished.
The stopover in Hill's Edge had been entirely too long and torturous, for the warm Flamerule nights—especially in the hot Year of the Wave—had kept joviality and company outside the inns and taverns where he had needed to play for his lodging and meals. Dashing young men with songs on their tongues and blushing maidens with flaxen or dusky hair and faces tanned golden by the sun... too bad Alin had been trapped indoors.
The wagon gave a shake and disrupted his reverie. Tossing the dark hair that fell in spikes across his face, Alin plucked a sour note on his harp. Ever since that day when his father had sent him away for failing at the Cormyrean academy, Alin had always needed to sing for his supper, or for rides with caravans, and not make merry.
Even on the road, he had to compete with another, much more practiced minstrel: an adventuring bard by the name of Tannin, who traveled with the caravan along with his adventuring companions. The caravanners would surely put Alin off soon—he only hoped they waited until Triel.
There came shouts from outside, but he ignored them. Surely it was just another arguing match between two of the caravan guards.
Unbidden, the words of a song came to his lips, and he strummed a few notes on the harp.
"I walk the road both winding and true," he sang. "It leads to friends both old and new."
Alin was in the midst of remembering the third line when the front half of the wagon vanished in a flash of burning crimson fury. The force of the blast threw him back, shattering open the shutters on the wagon window as his body flew out. Immolated by flames spawned from the Nine Hells themselves, Alin screamed in pain and terror. Through the darkness, he could see only one thing—the flash of a terrible, dark eye wreathed in crackling flame.
Then he saw nothing.
-—<icn>—'
When light came back into the world, Alin was aware of a sensation of softness surrounding his body. He wondered, for a moment, if he had made it to the Great Wheel and if he would see his mistress Tymora any instant.
Then, after a few happy breaths, Alin realized he was hungry—in fact, he was starving. A brief look around told him he was not quite in Brightwater yet. Instead, Alin was merely tucked under thick blankets and staring up at the ceiling of a bedroom.
He tried to rise, but his head exploded in lancing pain. At first, Alin was afraid his head had come free of his body, but he soon realized—by feeling with his fingers—that it was still attached to his neck.
What a terrible dream, Alin thought.
Finally, after many abortive attempts, Alin managed to lever himself out of bed. He was nude but he was not cold. The window, open to the night air, let in a pleasant breeze. The room was simple, bare, and small, with only a bed and a chair for furniture. His light tunic, indigo-dyed vest, and leather
breeches, neatly folded, sat on the chair. Alin picked them up and inhaled their scent—not flowery, but clean.
For a moment, as he dressed, Alin wondered if it was all just a dream. Then he heard voices. The joyous sounds of a tavern rose to meet him from down a flight of stairs.
Still rubbing his head but smiling, Alin went down.
The atmosphere in the common room of Triel's Singing Wind Inn was on the somber side, though travelers still raised tankards and mugs in toasts to companions long gone and new friends made. Several spoke in hushed voices about a dragon attack, but Alin didn't know if it was for real, or just the ale talking. The rafters were smoke-stained and the air was thick with the scent of pipes, spilled ale, and unwashed bodies. A bard strummed on a harp and sung a tawdry ballad of gallant but stupid knights and the lusty barmaids who loved them.
Alin inhaled deeply and felt his lungs burn. He loved every moment of it.
Over in the corner, Alin glimpsed an unusual pair—a hulking man in dark leathers with a greataxe standing by the table and a thin woman in silks and robes who must have been half the man's size—sharing a quiet drink. He did not have time to see more, as a meaty hand came from the side to catch his shoulder.
"Hey, look who's up!" a friendly voice said.
Alin turned. Beside him was a hefty man in a gold and white tunic. His skin was fair, his hair gold, and he wore a thick mustache.
"I'm sorry, have we met?" asked Alin, who didn't know the face.
"If by 'met,' ye mean 'hauled yer half-dead carcass from the burning wreck of a caravan and healed ye while Thard carried
ye back 'ere,' then aye, we've met," the man said. "After the dragon, ye're lucky to be alive—thank the Morninglord for young bones!"
It came back to Alin in a flash: the caravan, the flames, and the burning eye. Apparently, it had not all been a dream.
"You... you saved my life?" Alin asked. "How can I repay you?"
"Well, yer name would be a good start," the man said. He took Alin's hand. "Mine be Delkin Snowdawn, Morning Brother of Lathander, o' Luskan. And who might ye be?"
"A-Alin," the young bard managed through teeth clenched against the pain in his hand. Delkin's grasp was certainly a firm one. When the priest finally released his hand, Alin put it behind his back and rubbed it. "Alin Cateln, of Tilverton."
"Ah, a Cormyrean," Delkin said. "Good wine there—some o' the best."
Alin nodded dumbly. He was about to speak again when Delkin seized him about the waist and pulled him along.
"Ye've got to meet me friends, the other Moor Runners," he boomed. "And, seeing as how ye're awake, let me get ye a drink to put ye back to sleep."
Alin blinked, and the priest laughed and added, "Ah, I just be kiddin' with ye."
"Moor Runners?" Alin asked. That sounded familiar.
"Won quite a name for ourselves in the Evermoors, killing trolls," Delkin replied. "Though that be quite a while back, the name just stuck, ye know. Come o'er here."
Alin could not refuse as the priest half carried him over to the mismatched pair he had seen before.
"Thard and Inri," Delkin introduced, indicating the hulking man and the slight woman in turn.
"My lord, my lady," Alin said with a low bow.
The man was even bigger close up. The woman was a petite elf maid, with hair like gold and a complexion to match. The two completely ignored Alin.
He stood there a moment, uncertain, and looked at Delkin, but the priest was already gone. He turned back to the companions. His mind racing fast, Alin did the only thing he could do: he searched for clues as to what he should say. His eye caught on the design etched in the blade of the greataxe.
"The blades of Tempus, emblazoned upon a swift steed," he said. "That means you are a warrior of the Sky Ponies, correct? Such a heavy axe—you must be a strong warrior."
The hulking man looked at him curiously and asked, "Aye, what of it?" His voice was rough and deep.
The bard turned to the elf maid next. "And you, fair lady, by your garb I make you to be a sorceress—shifting veils that change colors in the light, to reflect the chaos that is your magic, am I right?" he asked.
She looked at him for the first time, and her eyes were startlingly pink and red in hue.
"And your gaze, like the sunrise..." Alin began. "It reminds me of a ballad. Ah, many a time I've spent, on soft-packed ground with my dear lassie, watching the golden jewel climb lazily, my arm around her, gazing more into her eyes than the rise...'"
By the time Delkin brought him the promised drink, Alin was sitting with the two, rattling on and on about his journeys, art, and life story. Thard wore a soft, proud smile, and even Inri's eyes were dancing.
"Ye make friends quick," Delkin praised him as he passed tankards of ale around the table. The barbarian took his tankard and drained it off in one gulp.
"Your companions are fine adventurers," Alin said. "I was merely listening to their stories—they are the ones worthy of praise, not I."
"Mayhap," Delkin said. He eyed Inri suspiciously, and the elf maid's eyes twitched toward him. "Though they be having ulterior motives____"
Alin's brow wrinkled and he asked, "What ulterior motives? "
The Moor Runners looked at one another.
"I had doubted it before," Inri said. If moonlight could dance, Alin thought, it might have been her voice. "But not now. We wish to have you join us."
"As our skald ... er, bard," Thard rumbled.
Delkin nodded and smiled broadly.
Alin was stunned. "But, what, why?" he asked. "You... you just met me, and now you want me to be part of your band?"
Delkin wrapped his arm around Alin. "Ye see, Alven—" he began.
"Alin," the bard corrected him.
"Right. Our bard, Tannin ... well, he... ah, departed at the caravan, and we're looking for a replacement."
Alin's suspicions were confirmed—the Moor Runners were the adventurers who had been with the caravan.
"A replacement?" asked Alin. "And you want me?"
"That be yer trade, aye?" replied the priest. "We heard ye sing along the road, and—"
"I'd love to come with you!" Alin shouted, startling the Moor Runners. None had expected such a reply, and so quickly, but none protested.
"Good," Thard rumbled. "Been needin' a good tune, e'er since Tannin was killed."
"Killed?" asked Alin.
An unhappy Delkin flinched and glowered at Thard.
"In the dragon attack," Inri explained.
"Aye, wretched beast took us by surprise," Delkin mused. "Poor Tannin ... 'Tis a risky line of work, adventuring
and all____" He looked at Alin. "Er, not that ye'll be in any
danger."
Alin realized he should have been terrified, but instead he felt excitement rushing through him.
"A dragon?" Alin asked. "You can kill such a creature, right?"
The Moor Runners looked at one another, dubious.
Finally Delkin shrugged and said, "Aye, definitely. Ah, well ... mayhap. Well, ah, not actually, no. Well, what we really need..."
Just then, the doors of the Wind swung open and crashed loudly against the interior walls. The heads of the inn's patrons, as though pulled by invisible reins, jerked toward the disturbance, and more than a few breaths caught.
The fiery-haired woman who entered the common room was tall, slim, and stunning. Black leather and plate in the Thayan style, complete with spikes like talons, wrapped her muscular frame. A black half-cape fell from one shoulder and a sheathed, curved sword was thrust through her belt of dark reptile skin. A silver ring in the shape of a winged dragon swallowing its own tail gleamed from her right hand. A spiked gauntlet covered her left. Her pale face was lean and sharp, and her eyes—gleaming dark orbs—had a hungry look to them.
"Who be the beauty, I wonder?" Delkin said.
Inri looked sharply at him, then turned wary eyes back on the stranger. Alin said nothing. He just sat there, stunned.
The silence lasted only a moment before the woman spoke. Her voice was powerful, almost husky, and easily caught the attention of all who heard.
"I understand you've a dragon about," she said.
"Aye? What of it?" a one-eyed patron scoffed.
"I'm looking for a few brave souls who'll help me dispose of the beast," the woman replied. "I need a tracker and a mage, if possible."
"Help ye?" another man asked. Alin recognized him as a snide caravanner. "Some lass in ridiculous..."
He trailed off when a sliver of metal appeared at his throat. A gasp ran through the common room. No one had seen the woman so much as move, much less draw her blade. The man trembled, his mouth hanging open.
"Ryla Dragonclaw," she said from between clenched teeth. "Remember it."
The man quivered in fear under the intensity of her gaze.
"The Dragonslayer!" Alin blurted. His voice sounded blasphemously loud in the awed stillness.
Ryla's eyes flicked to him and she sheathed her sword with a flourish. Leaving a relieved caravanner behind her, Ryla walked toward the Moor Runners, her step smooth and confident.
"You know me," she said to Alin, her words meant only for him.
He tried to stammer out a response, but no words would come. Her direct speech and her burning gaze thrilled and stunned him. Struck dumb, the bard could only look at that vision of loveliness, her hair painting a crimson corona around her sensuous face.
"Well met, Lady Dragonclaw," Delkin started.
"Just Ryla," the dragonslayer said. "I am no lady, nor a knight."
The priest shrugged and went on, "Ryla, then. I be Delkin Snowdawn, captain o' the Moor Runners. This is Alin Catalan—"
"Cateln," Alin breathed.
"Right," Delkin said. "Alin Catalan of Tilverton—" he gestured to Inri and Thard—"and these be—"
"Ah, adventurers," she interrupted the priest, continuing to speak to the bard.
The two other Moor Runners narrowed their eyes. Ryla looked directly at Alin and mouthed his name, as though turning it over on her tongue. A shiver of thrill passed down his spine.
"Just what I need," the strange woman added.
Inri looked at Ryla, then at Delkin, but it was Alin who spoke. "To slay your dragon?" he asked with unmasked excitement.
"Tharas'kalagram," Ryla replied. "Yes. A red wyrm I've followed this far. I know where he's headed, and I need some brave and..." She looked Alin up and down. Her eyes were burning. "Hearty adventurers to help me kill him."
As she stared at Alin, she licked her lips ever so slightly, so only he could notice.
"My apologies, dragonslayer," Delkin said, taking the prompt from Inri. "We're a bit occupied at the moment replacing our bard, and we can't be bothered to—"
"We'll do it!" Alin said.
The other Moor Runners looked at him with expressions ranging from the shock on Delkin's face, to the surprise registering through Thard's features, and the horrified disdain in Inri's eyes.
Ryla's ruby lips curled up in the vestiges of a smile.
"Rest well, then, brave sir bard," she said. "We leave at dawn, for the Forest of Wyrms."
"Who gave you the right to speak for us?" Inri asked as soon as Alin came out of the inn, rubbing his eyes in the bright sunlight.
"What?" asked Alin as he finished securing the cuffs of his tunic. "I thought..."
The Moor Runners were all saddled and ready before Alin, who was unused to rising at first light. Atop a giant black stallion, Thard was a giant in furs and boiled leather. On a white mare next to him, Inri rode sidesaddle, clad in green and silver silks. In scale mail and a white tabard with the sunrise of Lathander, the priest Delkin looked nervous on his dun. With a whistle from her rider, Delkin's steed stepped in front of Inri's mare and the priest spoke to calm the sorceress.
"Alkin, I'm all for dragon slaying, but can we really trust this heroine o' yers?"
Alin didn't get a chance to correct him as Inri spoke up. "She wears a magical ring—and that is all. Would a dragonslayer really be so naked of magic?'
Thard nodded. Even though the Uthgardt people didn't make extensive use of magic, he had to agree. "Something seems wrong."
"Maybe she's just ... amazing," the bard argued. He patted Neb, his strong Cormyrean steed. He was pleased the horse had survived the dragon's attack. "Thayan armor is renowned, and a katana—a Kara-Turan blade—is the finest sword ever made. Mayhap she doesn't need magic."
The Moor Runners were all about to protest, but something silenced them. Alin felt a presence behind him.
"Mayhap I don't," offered Ryla's sultry voice.
Striding up to them, the dragonslayer was radiant. The dark armor made a striking contrast with her milky skin and her hair seemed afire in the sunrise. Her eyes were fixed on Alin. He lost himself again in those smoldering eyes.
After a moment, Delkin cleared his throat. "You have no horse, Lady?" he asked.
"I've always preferred to carry myself," Ryla said without breaking the gaze she shared with the bard. She paused, but only for a breath before adding, "On my own two feet."
Delkin grinned, but saw—from a look at his companions— that lightening the mood was a lost cause.
"We shall outpace you for certain," Inri said. "Unless you run as fast as you draw steel."
Ryla looked away and fixed her deadly gaze on the elf maid, who met it, but soon shrank back, seeming to grow smaller on her steed. Thard fingered his axe, and a slight smile crossed Ryla's face.
"You can ride with me," Alin offered, startling all. They all looked at him—Inri in disbelief, Ryla with a slightly bemused smile. "As you wish," Inri said.
She turned to the north, muttering something under her breath in Elvish, and urged her steed into a trot. The mount gave a snort but started walking, and Thard's steed followed. Delkin shrugged and turned as well.
Ryla looked up at Alin with thanks written on her pale features and offered a playfully dainty hand. He pulled her up, and was startled at her grip—it was more powerful than that of Captain Agatan, the strongest soldier he had ever known. She mounted behind him and wrapped her arms gently around his waist. His face flushed, but he would not turn and let her see.
"Hold tight," he murmured.
"Always," replied Ryla. Her whisper, so close in his ear, startled and excited him.
The journey to the Forest of Wyrms took most of the day, with short breaks for meals and walking the horses. During the entire ride, Ryla had pressed her body close against Alin, and when they had walked the horses, she'd stayed close to him. It didn't seem she was doing it intentionally—indeed, Ryla hardly seemed aware of either her proximity or her effect on the bard—but Alin hardly cared. He could feel the soft swell of her slim stomach juxtaposed against the cool steel of her armor. The odd duality was thrilling.
"What is it you've got there?" the bard asked Delkin, trying to get his mind off the beautiful dragonslayer. He had wondered about Delkin's saddlebags all morning.
"Oh, ye mean these?" the cleric asked, unbuckling and lifting one of the flaps. Contained in the saddlebags were thick, heavy pots and pans, spoons, ladles, and other cooking utensils. "There ain't nothing beats a good meal on the road, I always say."
"You're a cook?" Alin asked, eyeing Delkin's ample belly.
The sturdy priest laughed. "No, no," said Delkin. "I'm more an eater than a cooker. But Thard's a cook to rival the finest in Waterdeep. He'll be cookin' dinner this e'en ... ye'll see what I be meaning."
They broke for a highsun meal among a stand of boulders. Delkin broke out the trail rations and began dividing them, but Ryla declined the hardtack and dried fruit, saying she was not hungry. None of the Moor Runners protested. They fell to their meal while she went around one of the boulders.
After a few minutes of biting the hardened bread, Alin found he was not hungry either. Or, at least, not for trail rations. Rather, he hungered and thirsted for Ryla's presence. He excused himself and followed the dragonslayer. His exit drew glances ranging from the bemused, in Delkin's case, to the suspicious, in Inri's. Alin climbed the small mountain of giant rocks in search of a certain fiery-haired warrior.
It didn't take the bard long to find Ryla. The beautiful dragonslayer was perched on the highest boulder, gazing all around, like a queen surveying her lands. She was turned away from his approach, and her blade lay across her lap. As the sunlight played along the katana's length, it almost seemed that the crimson dragon etched on the steel was alive and dancing.
"Looking for our quarry?" Alin asked.
Ryla leaped to her feet and spun, blade up and ready. The bard, startled, stumbled back toward the edge of the boulder. He teetered on one foot and fought to keep his balance.
He realized Ryla was laughing. The woman had sheathed her katana and extended a hand to help him. He took it, and she pulled him up with seemingly little effort.
"You could say that," she replied. "Though, really, I'm just looking."
Almost the same instant Alin realized she was still holding his hand, Ryla let him go and moved away. She took up Her
position on the rock again, one leg bent close to her chest. Her hair shimmered in the sunlight.
Breath was hard to come by for the bard, though he knew he would have to remember to breathe or he would pass out on his feet.
"Lady Dragonclaw?" Alin asked.
"Just Ryla," replied the dragonslayer. She glanced at him to accentuate her point. "I'm no lady."
"Oh, aye. I remember." Alin felt warmth rising in him at the familiarity. "Ryla ... You must tell me about your travels—your exploits. I collect stories, and you're famous, after all."
"There's not much to tell." Ryla looked away and said, "I hunt dragons. 'Tis a game, nothing more." "A game?"
A smile played across Ryla's fine features. Alin felt self conscious and looked away.
She said, "To me, 'tis a game, as surely as you skip rocks over water or fought with wooden swords as a child. Some hunt foxes, some boars. I hunt dragons. A hunting game."
Alin drank in her words for a moment before he realized she had stopped.
"But..." he said, "but surely there is more!" He looked back, and she was smiling mischievously. "Like, ah, how many have you slain? How do you seem so young when your legend was told in my father's day? You are no elf maid! Why do you vanish for years at a time and return in the tales? Whence your armor, or your sword? Are they of some great epic make—a master smith, or an archmage?"
"Nothing so fancy," replied Ryla. "As to how many, surely you can count." Alin had noticed the twelve spikes on her armor before, but he finally realized what they were: dragon claws. "And 'tis not polite to ask a lady her age."
"I thought you were no lady," returned Alin.
Ryla gave him a devious smile. "Some secrets I'll keep," she
said. "Except to observe that those stories you mention were probably told in your grandfather's day, not your father's."
Alin's eyes opened wide in surprise, but the dragonslayer's lips moved no more. He left her to her surveying and climbed back down, his mind roiling.
The sun was dipping in the east. The Moor Runners had been traveling over flat plains for a long while, and they were about to ride over a rise when they heard a bird's cry from above. Inri waved them to stop. The sorceress put out her arm and gave a fey whistle. In a moment, a black raven swooped down and landed on her bracer. Then the bird began speaking to Inri in perfect Elvish.
"Her familiar," Delkin explained.
Ryla gave a snort.
The raven finished and Inri nodded. At her short command, the bird squawked and flew off.
Inri turned to the Moor Runners and said, "Anthas says there is a war party of ores encamped immediately to the north—a score or more of them."
Delkin nodded and said, "Aye, then, we'll break here and camp."
The Moor Runners swung down from their horses and began unstrapping their saddlebags. Alin dismounted and offered his hand up to Ryla. The dragonslayer, however, did not notice.
With a suspicious look on her fine features, she glared at Inri from atop Alin's steed, and asked, "Why are we stopping?"
"It wouldn't make sense to waste our energy on a score of ores," Delkin explained as he unrolled his travel tent. "They're not hurting anyone at the moment—let them be for now."
"They're vermin," argued Ryla with a hiss. "They should be destroyed."
"But we're hunting a dragon," reminded Alin. "Not ores."
The dragonslayer regarded him with a venomous stare. He could see her temper flaring again.
"I hadn't forgotten," she said as she pulled the reins from his hand. "Don't make camp just yet. I'll be right back."
With that, she wheeled to the north and kicked Neb into a gallop. Fiery hair and black half-cape streaming behind her, she flew over the plains toward the ore camp.
"Morninglord's heel!" shouted Delkin.
The Moor Runners dropped their gear and scrambled to mount and follow. Deprived of his horse and pack, Alin began running after Ryla. Of course, the horse easily outdistanced him. As soon as he got to the top of the hill, he stopped and his jaw dropped in shock.
A hundred yards away, Ryla had just reached the ore encampment, where there were considerably more than a score of ores. There were perhaps three-dozen of the creatures, all with weapons close to hand. They leaped up with shouts of alarm but Ryla didn't even hesitate. The flame-haired woman pounced from the charging Neb, steel flashing in her hands, and slammed her feet into the first ore to rise. She rode him down and fell onto the others with blade and fist.
Logic told Alin that she was hopelessly overmatched, but Ryla didn't hesitate for a heartbeat. She laid into the ores with her blade, slashing left and right. Everywhere her blade fell, dead and dying ores tumbled down, and her fist slapped weapons aside and knocked more of the creatures from their feet. Blades struck her armor but she shrugged them off without pause.
Alin felt a song of battle coming to his lips, unbidden, and he sang as loud as he could, praying Ryla could hear him and take heart from his song.
In short order, though, he realized the ballad was not meant to encourage her. Rather, it merely praised her ferocity. There
was no grace or finesse to her fighting, only sheer brutality and phenomenal strength.
After a single verse had been sung and a dozen ores felled, the other Moor Runners arrived and stared at the woman tearing through the ores like an incarnation of fury.
"By the dawn____" Delkin breathed.
Ryla slashed down, disemboweling a yelping ore on her right, and knocked a berserker down on her left with a punch. An ore stepped on her katana blade, held it pinned, and raised its greataxe over its head with a deep war cry. Ryla roared right back, jerked the blade up with a pulse of her mighty shoulders, throwing the ore off its feet into the air, and cut the hapless creature in two as it fell to the ground. Then she spun and caught a high slash from behind.
Neb, who had been left unmolested by the ores who were more intent on the wild woman attacking them, had circled around and soon trotted to a stop next to the loudly singing bard.
Alin's ballad cut off as he realized Inri was casting a spell. Tongues of flame curled and licked around her silvery bracers and condensed between her hands into a bead of crimson. Alin's eyes went wide—he had seen war wizards sling fire before—and moved to stop her, but Thard held him back. Alin realized he could not break Inri's concentration, or the spell might go awry and explode in the midst of the Moor Runners.
He watched, helpless, as the elf maid opened her eyes and threw toward the battle, where the last of the ores had surrounded Ryla. An inferno burst in the camp, and Alin averted his eyes. He could hardly hear the screams over the dull roar of the flames.
When he looked back, the camp was a smoldering ruin. His heart fell—he thought Ryla killed for sure—but then he saw movement.
Delkin motioned Alin to mount his waiting horse then he
led the Moor Runners down the hill toward the blackened encampment.
Tapping her blade against her boot, Ryla was waiting for them. The fire had seared the blood from the katana blade and her skin, but had not blackened either. It seemed the flame had done nothing except purify her.
"You're alive!" the bard gasped in relief.
As Alin came closer, however, he saw that her legs were trembling. He leaped from his saddle and rushed to her. Weak, Ryla collapsed on his shoulder. She felt surprisingly light, almost frail in his arms.
"Didn't think... I could... handle it, eh?" Ryla asked, her breath short. She held up her right hand. The silver dragon ring glowed fiercely.
"Your ring blocks fire?" asked the bard.
Ryla gave a weak laugh. "Something ... like that," she replied.
As Alin helped her mount Neb, Ryla flashed a look at Inri ... a little smile that set the elf maid bristling as though at a thinly veiled threat.
The Moor Runners set up camp a mile outside the Forest of Wyrms. At a distance, the forest looked peaceful, almost inviting. The towering redwoods were spread out enough to accommodate several men walking abreast, and rose majestically into the sky. Alin could not help singing a soft ballad about the place that he'd learned in Cormyr. The Moor Runners seemed comforted by his voice—except for Ryla, whose expression was unreadable.
"A bold and epic tale will be our deeds, or a dark and tragic one will be our deaths," Alin sang. He felt a little thrill run through him, and he hesitated to begin another verse.
"Restrain yer enthusiasm," Delkin said with a clap on the
shoulder that startled Alin out of his tune. The bard looked at the priest in shock, but Delkin smiled. "And getyeself some rest. We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow." He gestured at Alin's rapier. "I haven't even asked. Ye know how to use that thing?"
"Ah ... of course!" Alin said. "I've taken lessons since I could walk, and—"
"Good," the cleric rumbled. "Ye might need it tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"There be dragons 'ere, boy," Delkin said. "Hope ye paid attention at those lessons, though them beasts don't take to fencing much."
The priest rumbled with laughter and walked back to where Thard was cooking, a dozen paces away.
Alin smiled. He pulled his harp out of his saddlebags and unwrapped it carefully. Easing it into its accustomed position against the calluses inside his arm, he strummed a few notes on the strings. He wondered if he might spend a few hours that evening working on the new lay he was composing: The Ballad of Dragonclaw.
"Eyes like fire, atop a golden spire..." he sang. "Surveying the land, queen of the hunting game..."
He stopped himself. He had not meant to sing those words. It was just something Ryla had said, words that were running through his mind. The hunting game...
"A dangerous game," he breathed.
"I can't eat this!" Ryla's angry voice came. "It's practically raw."
Alin turned his head just in time to see Ryla hurl a haunch of venison in Thard's face. The barbarian barely caught the seared meat before it smacked into his nose. Sizzling juices still came off the meat, however, spattering his skin, beard, and fur coat.
" 'Ware, ye wench!" he roared, as though castigating an impulsive child who was throwing a tantrum. He slapped the meat aside and into the dust.
Delkin tried to save the venison but his fingers were too clumsy and he dropped it.
"Justiciar's hand!" the priest cursed. "It's ruined!"
Delkin rounded on Ryla and the Moor Runners fell silent. From the looks on their faces, Alin guessed that he had just discovered how one went about making the normally ebullient cleric furious: wasted food. Putting his hands on his hips, he gazed death at the dragonslayer.
Ryla was not about to back down. She drew herself up even taller than her intimidating frame should have allowed and faced the broad-shouldered priest. Her pursed lips said nothing but Alin could see them trembling a tiny bit. He got the distinct sense, however, that it was not from fear.
Delkin seemed to have composed himself, though Alin could see his hands trembling." 'Twas cooked in the Uthgardt style," he rumbled. "Perfectly seasoned, lovingly handled. Thard is a master cook, and ye have insulted him. Apologize." It was not a request.
"It wasn't cooked enough," Ryla retorted with a dismissive wave. "Your master cook is a master fool."
" 'Twas well done—half burned, even, just as ye asked!" Delkin roared. "Apologize!"
"I refuse," responded Ryla.
"Ye insult all o' us!" Delkin shouted. "Apologize!"
"No."
There was silence. The four adventurers stared at the dragonslayer in varying degress of shock. Thard's gaze was stony, Inri's suspicious, and Delkin's outright furious. Alin looked at Ryla with sympathy, and he could not keep the longing out of his gaze.
The dragonslayer looked around at the four faces and found nothing that pleased her in any of the gazes. Her lip curled up in a self-righteous sneer.
"Is this what passes for heroism these days?" she asked. "Rudeness? Discourtesy? Suspicion?" She looked at Delkin,
Thard, and Inri respectively as she spat those three words. "Are all of you adventurers this unwelcoming to those who would call you friend?"
There was no response. The Moor Runners looked at her with wide eyes, but no one spoke. Alin gaped. Thard brooded. Delkin flushed. Inri just looked at Ryla with a baleful glare.
Ryla made a dismissive sound in her throat then said, "Pathetic—"
With that, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the campsite toward the trees.
The three Moor Runners looked at Alin, dumbfounded.
"She'll get over it," the bard assured them. "She's not really angry."
"I hope a dragon eats every one of you!" the dragonslayer shouted back, rage hot in her voice.
The Moor Runners, all but Inri suitably chagrined, sent helpless looks the bard's way.
"Ye go and talk to the lass," suggested Delkin with downcast eyes. "She be in no mood for any o' us."
Before the suggestion even passed the cleric's lips, Alin was already following the dragonslayer.
She walked only a short way before picking up the pace, and even began running. The bard followed without hesitation, clutching his deep indigo cloak against the night's chill. She was making excellent time, and his talents had never exactly run to running.
Alin decided to file that joke away for future use.
In a few minutes, Ryla passed between the tall redwoods at the edge of the Forest of Wyrms and Alin pulled up short, perhaps a hundred yards behind her.
He reached into his tunic and drew out a silver coin on a leather thong. Then he gave a short prayer. "Lady Luck, for the love I bear thee, don't let a dragon pounce on me!"
He kissed the symbol and jogged toward the wood. Clouds
came over the moon, so he pulled out a sphere of glass and strummed a high note on his harp. With the touch of his bardic magic—little more than a cantrip of power—the large marble began to glow with a soft, red-white radiance akin to a torch.
He came upon Ryla in a small grove near the edge of the forest. Her katana discarded, she was punching one of the trees with her spiked gauntlet, taking off chunks of reddish wood with each left-handed strike. The bard watched for a moment, awed at her strength, and cleared his throat.
Ryla stopped punching the tree and leaned against it, her back to him, as though the strength had gone out of her.
He took a step forward and said, "Ryla..."
She turned, her eyes burning. Her features were luminous and almost feral under Sehine's glow. Water had stained her cheeks and seemed to gleam crimson in his magelight.
"What do you know?" she demanded. "What gives you the right to judge me?"
"I'm not judging you," Alin said.
"Then why are you here?" pressed Ryla.
"I..." The bard trailed off. How could he speak, when she was so beautiful in the moonlight? Somehow, he managed, "I only thought I'd ask you ... about my ballad."
"A ballad?" Ryla looked intrigued. "What ballad?"
She took a step toward him.
"Ah! A-about you," he stammered. "The ballad of—of Dragonclaw."
"A song about me?" Ryla said, one scarlet eyebrow rising.
As she walked toward him, her hands deftly unbuckled the black breastplate she wore and slid it over her head. It fell to the ground, revealing her gray undershirt—an undershirt soaked with sweat and clinging tightly to her skin.
Alin swallowed. It had grown even harder to think coherently.
"Ah, yes... a ballad."
She stepped within reach, unbuckled her black leather skirt, and stepped out of it.
"Wri-written b-by me." Alin stuttered. He felt warm all over.
"Tell me, good sir bard," Ryla purred. He had had no idea she could sound like that. She raised her right hand and ran the back of her fingers down his cheek. Her touch sent tremors through his body. "Is there anyone... special, back home, waiting for her dark-haired, blue-eyed hero to come home a dragonslayer?"
She stepped closer and stared into his eyes.
"N-no," Alin said.
Ryla pressed her body against his, and chills shot through him. He could see tiny flecks of what he thought was crimson in her eyes. She was so beautiful____
"Though I ... I've always loved ... the lady Alusair ... from afar."
"A princess, eh?" Ryla murmured. She pressed her lips against his cheek and her breasts against his chest. "I can hardly compete."
"Oh, it's just—" she kissed his neck and ear—"a boy's fantasy."
"A fantasy...." she whispered.
She pushed him down, and Alin fell on his rump. One foot on either side of him, Ryla towered over him. She pulled the tunic over her head and stood in the moonlight in only her boots and ring. Her hair was a fiery cascade and her flawless skin sparkled. She put her hands on her hips. The movement only emphasized her curves.
"Who is your princess now?" she asked with a lusty smile.
"Y-you are," the bard stammered.
"Perfect answer."
Then Ryla slid down onto him, and Alin lost all ability to think. He didn't need to.
"What's new with ye, boy?" Delkin asked Alin, clapping him hard on the shoulder.
The bard didn't even notice. They were deep in the Forest of Wyrms, one of the most dangerous places in Faerun, with certain death all around, but he hardly thought about it. His star-struck eyes were fixed on Ryla's smooth shoulders as she strode ahead of them, her black half-cape shifting in the light breeze, and her hair a scarlet cascade.
"Oh, nothing," the bard replied. "Just musing over a dream I had last night."
The dragonslayer's face, by chance, half turned to him. An errant strand of hair fell across her face. Alin felt warm all over.
"Several times, last night," he added.
"By the looks of yer musing, it must've been a good 'un," the priest said with a snicker. Then Delkin's expression turned serious. "Don't let it distract ye. There be dragons 'ere, and ye needs be on yer guard. What can ye tell us o' this place?"
Shaking his head to clear it of his daydreams, Alin pursed his lips. He recalled all the stories he had ever heard of the Western Heartlands and the Forest of Wyrms.
"It's said green dragons have claimed this place," explained Alin. "And for good reason. The beasts infest the forest as thickly as jackrabbits."
"Keep yer eyes open," said Delkin with a nod.
Alin nodded. He looked at the other Moor Runners as they picked through the dense helmthorn brush, trying not to be stabbed by needles that were as long as a man's hand. Scanning the ground in front of them, Thard was impassive as always, but his hand was on the axe at his belt. Ryla followed close behind him, ready to draw her blade at a moment's notice. Only Inri's attention seemed not focused on the task at hand. Instead, she watched Ryla's every move with suspicion,
and more than once Alin caught her hand moving through the gestures of a spell.
"What's with Inri?" the bard asked Delkin.
Delkin wore a bemused smile when he turned to Alin and said, "Oh, Madam Sorceress isn't too happy she's no longer the on'y lass around us Moor Runners anymore. Women kin be competitive, if'n ye know what I mean. At least she 'as Thard."
Alin's mind filled in the details. "Is that all?" pressed Alin.
"An' she be suspicious," the priest admitted. "Lady Dragon-claw's magic be concealed."
Alin raised a finger to his lips in thought.
"Aye, a mystery," agreed Delkin. He looked up at the front of the group. "Lady Dragonclaw, ye're sure our dragon's here? I haven't seen or heard anything."
"My apologies, but you're a priest, not a scout," Ryla said, not bothering to correct him regarding her name. "And yes. I saw him land here, and he hasn't left since the attack on the caravan."
Reassured, the Moor Runners continued on, looking all around, all the time. Alin pressed all his senses into service, using the techniques he had learned from his master to extend his hearing into the surrounding trees.
Thus, he was startled when Inri appeared at his side, seemingly from nowhere.
"Is she not suspicious?" the elf asked. "How could she have seen thisTharas'kalagram land here, when she was near Triel with the rest of us?"
Alin turned a scowl to her. "Find someone else to listen to your suspicions," he said. "Focus on the task ahead."
"Quiet you two," Ryla said. "I hear something."
"What is it?" Delkin asked.
Ryla turned to him and said, "A dragon."
At that moment, a huge green wyrm burst from the trees
with a roar, not ten paces from the dragonslayer. The beast was at least forty feet long and muscles pulsed along its entire serpentine body. Fiery eyes glared death down upon the five adventurers, and putrid green spittle dripped from its daggerlike fangs. Delkin shouted, raising his symbol of Lathander high, even as Thard drew his axe and Inri prepared a spell.
The creature rose up above them, its jaws opening wide. Alin would not have been surprised to see two cows from back home fit between those jaws.
Tempus!" Thard shouted, swinging his greataxe with shattering force against its foreleg.
The dragon screeched as several of its scales caved in and green blood sprayed the barbarian.
It lashed out at him with its other claw, an attack he barely ducked. The sword-length talons slashed a nearby tree in two. Thard kept rolling, for the fangs were not far behind.
Standing behind Delkin, Inri finished her chant and pointed over his shoulder, sending a bolt of lightning at the beast. It slammed into the dragon's chest, causing the huge body to spasm with electricity. Enraged, the beast breathed in and its chest bulged.
"Dragonbreath!" Delkin shouted, then immediately fell into a chant to Lathander.
The shout jarred Alin, who realized he had been watching open-mouthed as the dragon attacked, unable to respond as quickly as his fellows. His first order of business was to shut his gaping mouth, then he dived behind the priest.
At that instant, the creature exhaled, and a vast spray of corrosive green gas fell upon them. Alin screamed, for he saw choking, burning death coming for him, but the gas didn't sear his flesh. Instead, it billowed and raged around them, pushed aside by a shimmering golden shield surrounding Delkin's holy symbol.
"Ha ha!" came Ryla's shout.
The dragonslayer flew out of a nearby tree and drove her
katana deep into the crown of the dragon's head. The wyrm shook and roared, but Ryla held on, wrapped her legs around its forehead, and pulled the katana out, only to plunge the blade into it again and again.
Thard came at the dragon's body again, swinging and hewing its green scales with his axe. He again went for the wound he'd made on the beast's leg, and more blood flew. The dragon, distracted with Ryla, made only half-hearted attempts to pull its injured claw away. Meanwhile, it pawed at its head with the other talons.
Alin felt a surge of triumph and leaped to his feet. Harp in hand, he plucked a discordant note and sent a wave of disharmony toward the dragon. The sound struck the creature and it recoiled for the barest of instants, keeping it from knocking Ryla from its head.
The dragonslayer screeched again and sliced her katana into one of the wyrm's eyes. The dragon roared and shook its head frantically, throwing her off. She flew, limbs spiraling wildly, over fifty feet through the air. She landed on her face a dozen paces away from Alin.
"Ryla!" Alin shouted, running from the circle of the priest's power.
"Alin, no!" snapped Delkin, dropping his shield as his concentration broke.
Thard may have been fast, but he was not fast enough to dodge the dragon's bulk as the creature lunged into their midst, barreling the hulking barbarian aside like a discarded child's toy. As Alin leaped at Ryla to cover her body with his own, a sweeping tail struck him in the midsection, launching him through the air. As he flew, he heard the screams of the other Moor Runners.
Then he slammed against a great redwood, and he heard nothing at all.
When he woke, a soft hand was touching his forehead. At first, he tried to kiss it, but then he realized it was not Ryla but Inri who was waking him.
"We were all knocked cold, but Ryla killed the beast," Inri said before he could ask.
He sat up at once, a hundred questions on his lips, but Inri cut them off with a silent command to follow as she started away. The bard stood, finding his body aching but whole, and made his way after the sorceress. She mercifully slowed her walk to allow him to follow.
When they arrived back at the spot where the dragon had come upon them, Alin was chilled to the bone. Thard peeked from beneath a bloody bandage across his forehead and leaned heavily on a long shovel. Arms crossed, Ryla seemed unhurt—causing Alin's heart to leap—but wore a grim frown. Even Inri had not escaped unscathed; she wore one arm in an improvised sling.
It was the fifth member of their party who caused Alin's breath to catch.
Delkin lay half buried in a shallow grave. His face, burned black by the dragon's breath, was unrecognizable—Alin could only tell it was him by the honey-gold curls.
With a strangled cry, Alin dropped to his knees by the priest's grave.
"Don't touch him!" Inri shouted. "The acid will burn your flesh as well."
Alin might have ignored her and reached for his friend, but Thard caught him in time. As it was, he merely wept into the barbarian's strong arm.
Ryla gave an exasperated sigh. "I told you we didn't have time to bury him," she said. "The night is coming, and when the dragon wakes—"
"For pity's sake," Inri begged. "Just a few more minutes."
The dragonslayer rolled her eyes but shrugged in acceptance.
Alin stood and walked toward her. He looked at Ryla with a shocked expression, and she flashed him a seductive smile. When he gave no response, she turned and pointed.
Just up the path, a bloody ruin decorated the small clearing: the remains of the green dragon. Dozens of tree trunks lay snapped and splintered on the ground. Some trees even lay pulled up by the roots. Blood and bits of dragonflesh spattered the trees that were left standing a sickly green color. The creature looked as though it had been torn in half lengthwise, and huge gashes had torn its thick carapace to ribbons. Many of its exposed bones were splintered, as though some great force had thrown it against those broken trees.
Alin's thoughts leaped to Ryla—he had known the dragonslayer was strong, but how strong was she?
The bard looked back, a question in his eyes, and Ryla smiled.
"And I know where its lair is," she said.
The dragon's lair was huge, a yawning cave bored in the side of a small volcano. Two rotting green dragon carcasses lay outside, grim watchguards that delivered a dark message to any brave or foolish enough to enter. The bodies were fresh, and assailed the cave with a foul odor.
"At least he won't smell us," Alin observed to no one in particular.
Ryla smiled and waved the party of four forward. Thard, axe in hand, took point, with the dragonslayer and Inri following close behind. Alin, rapier drawn, took up the rear, but he didn't know how effective he would be in an attack. His sword seemed woefully inadequate compared to the others' weapons.
Entering the place was a shock, for the cave's darkness was much warmer than the light outside. The adventurers
could see nothing in the blackness, and Alin recast his light spell. The light extended only a few feet in every direction, and the darkness pressed upon it like a living, breathing foe. Unrecognizable bones and bits of arms and armor littered the wide tunnel. The occasional snap of bones or metallic rustle of armor was the only sound. No rats, spiders, or other vermin scuttled by their feet. Alin suspected that few living creatures would survive long in the lair of a dragon.
They didn't have far to go through the oppressive blackness to reach Tharas'kalagram's inner lair. Less than a hundred paces in, they came upon a glowing cavern. Peering over the lip of a higher ledge, the four could see a gargantuan serpentine beast slumbering amidst piles of gold and gems. The horde was huge, a treasure out of a bard's epic tale. Gold and silver sparkled and dazzled, threatening to blind any who looked upon it at the wrong angle. The dragon that slept upon it was even larger, at least double the size of the green wyrm that had attacked them in the forest.
"Good, he's asleep," Ryla whispered. "Let's go."
With that, she disappeared into the forest of stalagmites.
"Ryla?" Alin asked. "Ryla!"
He slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his shout when they all heard a rumbling sound from below. They didn't have time to look over the edge, though, as another earth-shaking snore came up from the lair.
"She gives us no strategy?" Inri asked. "What... ?"
Ryla reappeared from behind the stalagmites, an irritated expression on her face.
"All right, all right," she growled. "Thard, you strike from hiding, then run—that rocky outcropping there." She pointed down in the dragon's lair toward a smaller tunnel and fallen boulders that would provide cover. "Inri, you stay up here and hit the beast with all the magic you can muster. Alin, help Inri."
"What about you?" the bard asked.
The end of Ryla's mouth turned up in a smile. "Once Thard hits him, Kalag—the dragon—will awaken. When it attacks him, that's when I go on top of it and take out its eyes. When the dragon is blinded, we have the advantage."
Thard and Alin nodded. Only Inri looked unconvinced.
"Magical protections?" she prompted, as though reminding a youngster.
A flicker of something passed over Ryla's face, but it was gone before Alin could read her features.
"If you must," she said in apparent exasperation.
"Thard will need the most," Inri said.
She began casting spells upon the barbarian, keeping her voice low. Alin did the same, ransacking his brain for spells he knew that might help the man. Finally, he settled on one of his most powerful charms—a spell of invisibility.
Inri nodded as he cast it, as though grateful.
"Take this spell too," said the sorceress. "It will allow us to converse without speaking."
She chanted a few arcane syllables under her breath, and a silvery radiance fell over them. Ryla flinched but grudgingly remained in the aura of radiance.
Gods! Alin said through the bond.
Yes, came Inri's voice in his mind. Try not to fill our minds with meaningless exclamations, though.
Instead of shutting his mouth, Alin emptied his mind, suitably chastened.
When they were finished, Thard picked Inri up so they could share a kiss. Cheeks flaming from embarrassment at the passionate feelings he felt through the mental bond, Alin stole a longing glance at Ryla, but the dragonslayer looked preoccupied with planning. He could also feel no thoughts coming from her—perhaps she knew how to hide her thoughts from others, even with Inri's spell. He turned away before she could read his thoughts.
The Moor Runners took up their places, Thard heading
down closer and Ryla disappearing up the wall. Excitement shivered down Alin's spine as he waited. Thard looked like a hero of legend, picking his way between stalagmites as effortlessly as though they were tree trunks. All the while, he kept his eyes fixed upon the dragon's slumbering form and his hand on his axe handle.
Is it asleep? Inri asked Thard.
They could feel the barbarian's mental confirmation.
Alin clutched his rapier hilt firmly but dared not draw it, for he feared the sound it would make. Besides, he reminded himself, such a tiny blade would be nigh useless against the colossal dragon that awaited them. He called to mind his bardic tricks and the magic that would summon them, but even there he could do little but conjure dancing lights or perform feats of legerdemain. Once again, he felt useless in a fight, but he didn't feel out of place. Rather, he was there to bear witness to the epic battle sure to unfold—he would write it into The Ballad of Dragonclaw and—
Then they heard Thard's confusion in their minds. Wait, this is not the beast that attacked the caravan.
What? asked Alin. He could feel Inri's confusion and suspicion as well.
The scars are different.
At that moment, the dragon's eyes opened and its gaze fixed on Thard. Crimson, fiery death filled its mouth and its eyes were burning with terrible laughter.
Tempus!" the barbarian shouted, throwing himself forward.
Through the mental link, they felt more than saw his scorching doom. "No!" Inri screamed. "Ryla!" She began a spell of escape.
But then the words stopped as a blade protruded through her chest and blood leaked from her lips. Ryla slid the katana out and spun the elf around. Inri blinked, too stunned even
to gasp in pain, and the dragonslayer took her head off with a backhand slash. The headless body tumbled over the ledge, and down into the dragon's lair.
Alin looked up at Ryla with absolute confusion. The dragonslayer smiled and planted a kiss on his forehead. Then she made her way down toward the dragon, stripping off her armor piece by piece as she went. When she reached the bottom, she stood before the beast with only the silver ring on her right hand.
The dragon growled and pulled back, as though to pounce, but Ryla laughed. Laughed!
"Oh, come now Kalag," she said. "Surely you recognize me."
"You broke the rules, Rylatar'ralah'tyma," the dragon growled.
Alin's limbs froze at the mighty sound, but his hair rose for an entirely different reason. The name—Rylatar—he had heard that name before.
The dragon continued, "You're not allowed to change. The rules—"
"Are our rules, anyway," she countered with a dismissive wave. Then Ryla ran her hands down her arms and over her beautiful, bare skin. "Really Kalag, you'd rather I were horribly scarred by some lowly green's acid gas? My beautiful body...."
The wyrm scoffed. "You're hideous as it is," he hissed.
A lovely pout appeared on Ryla's lips. "You don't like the ring?" she asked, holding it up as though modeling it for him. The silver sparkled in the firelight.
The dragon's lips pulled back in a sneer.
Ryla shrugged and said, "Fine."
She slipped the ring off her finger, and the bard watched with a mixture of horror and wonder as her body rippled and grew, her skin sloughing off and revealing crimson scales and deep indigo wings. Her head lengthened and her sparkling
white teeth became fangs. Within a breath, Ryla had grown to the size and shape of the other dragon. Her red scales sparkled in the firelight.
"Eyes like fire, atop a golden spire," Alin found himself singing under his breath.
His mind seemed far away. As it stretched and snapped, he was vaguely aware that he had lost something.
"A thought occurred to me, about the age," Ryla growled. "We should assume elf bodies in the future... just so we don't seem too young."
"'We'?" Kalag asked.
"Oh, yes," Ryla said. Her talon held out the tiny silver ring to the other dragon. "I'm done being the hunter—time for me to be the hunted. I found you, now it's your turn to hunt me."
The dragon looked at the ring and asked, "Why do you do it?The adventurers? Why?"
Ryla rumbled, as though with mirth. "I enjoy the deception," she said. "And I brought you meat. What are you complaining about?'
"I wonder, sometimes, if you're not fond of them," Kalag growled.
"I'm not fond of anything," retorted Ryla.
"Sharp death in hand, whose passion knows no name..." Alin sang as he felt reason fleeing.
He fought the desire to babble incoherently, but it wasn't for fear that the dragons would hear him, but only because it would disrupt his song.
"Then you won't object when I eat the little bard who's hiding up there," reasoned Kalag.
"Actually, I would object," Ryla replied.
Kalag shot her a look that could only be a dragon's form of jealousy, and Alin would have shivered if he had maintained his sanity. Instead, he chuckled.
Ryla caught the glare and said, "I propose a new hunting
game: one where we're the hunters, he's the hunted, and he gets a head start."
Alin's ears pricked and shivers of terror shot down his spine. His shattered mind hardly registered the threat, though. It was too busy putting words to his music, music twisted by madness.
"Mercy? From you, Rylatar?" Kalag smiled. "Very well then. How much of a head start?"
"Oh, five years will suffice," she said. "The lives of dragons are long—it will be but a summer's day to us, but a lifetime of fear for him."
"This bard must be special, to warrant such treatment."
At the notion, Ryla scoffed—an action that sent flame lancing out to melt a stalagmite.
"If you must know," she said. "It's because he's composing a very nice ballad. This way, he'll have time to finish it."
"Ruling her land, queen of the hunting game!" the maddened bard sang with a smile as he climbed to his feet.
Then came the most hideous sound he had ever heard— and would always hear as he ran—booming and thunderous, but dark and mocking:
A dragon's laugh.
THE ROAD HOME
Harley Stroh
21 Marpenoth, the Year of the Shield (1367 DR)
Worthless band o' cutthroats, scoundrels, and knaves," the dwarf spat, climbing atop a scarred oak table. His hard eyes searched the war weary faces of the crowded inn. "Who among you slakes his thirst with blood and fills his belly with battle? Who in all of Moradin's creation has so little fear of death?
"The Company of the Chimera!" the dwarf bellowed, answering his own query with a triumphant roar. "The finest company of rogues ever to cast dice with the Gods of War!"
The common room erupted with cheers that shook sawdust from the ceiling. Flagons were raised high and naked blades flashed in the smokey light of fat-lamps. For two tendays the Company of the Chimera had occupied the Inn of the Seven Silvers, cowing the locals until none dared to pass the inn's
double doors. Hired to guard over the Sembian waystation and twenty miles of the Dawnpost highway, the mercenaries had done more damage and caused more terror than any brigands in memory.
"Join us, dragon-tribe girl!" Tombli stabbed a blistered finger toward the long-limbed barbarian sitting by an open window. "Or are the women of the North as icy as their winters?"
Clad in tanned pelts and an oiled sealskin cape, Saskia was immune to the frosty draft that had driven her companions close to the crackling hearth. With pale white skin and crystal blue eyes, she might have been cunningly carved from ice herself, were it not for the raven black hair that spilled to the middle of her back. A notched sword rested against her shoulder, the barbarian's only companion. She surveyed the company, their noses red with drink, their bellies soft and full.
"Keep your toasts," Saskia said. "I'll take my drink with warriors."
"If the copper-counting lords of Sembia choose to pay our band to watch over their packs of ratty bondsmen, then I say let them pay!" Tombli dropped from the table. "We've earned our season's keep and not a Chimera has fallen."
"Your peace is killing us, little man."
Tombli loosened the jeweled dagger at his waist, the symbol of his devotion to Abbathor, the dwarf god of greed and avarice.
"As captain of the company, I command you to drink."
The barbarian wrapped her arms around her bastard sword and pulled the hood of her cape down over her eyes.
Snarling, Tombli stole a brand from the crackling fire. He kicked the door of the inn open wide and cast the log into the darkness. It spun to a flaming halt in the center of the road.
Tombli slammed a flagon onto the table before Saskia and challenged, "Drink or fight."
A chill breeze cut through the room and Saskia's eyes flashed from beneath the trim of her hood. The inn erupted with cheers and catcalls when the barbarian pushed the flagon away.
Saskia rose slowly and stretched like a cat, her lips pulled into a grim smile. Wagers were made and grimy coins changed hands. By the time the barbarian had shed her cloak and tied her sleeves up, every warrior sober enough to walk had stumbled outside. Laying her sword to the side, Saskia strode out into the street to drunken shouts and wild applause.
A biting pain erupted from the back of Saskia's thigh. The barbarian fell to her knees in surprise, a war dart buried deep in her leg. Tombli stood silhouetted in the doorway, another dart readied to throw.
"Civilization is making you slow," Tombli laughed. "Half a year ago, it would have been impossible to hit you. Now I'd have to try to miss."
He drew back his arm to throw again.
Cursing, Saskia flung herself to the ground. A dart hissed past, but she was prone, with no way of dodging the others that were sure to follow. With a swipe of her hand, Saskia hurled a scattering of gravel at the dwarf. It was a desperate move. Nothing could distract the dwarf lord's trained arm.
Tombli's laughter was cut short when a pebble exploded against his chest in a flash that lit up the night. The dwarf staggered back, momentarily stunned. Saskia was equally surprised, but a life spent hunting beasts on the wild tundra had trained her to seize every opportunity, no matter how improbable. Saskia's vision went red and she sprang at Tombli, roaring like a tiger. The pair fell back inside the inn, Saskia's fierce blows raining down on Tombli's face.
It took half a dozen Chimeras to pull her off the dwarf. Tombli sat up slowly, his face pulped and bloodied.
"Hold her down," he mumbled through a swollen lip. Tombli
tore a tankard out of the hands of the nearest Chimera and stumbled forward until he stood above the barbarian. His beard was soaked with blood and his forge-hardened face grimaced in pain.
"To the Company of the Chimera!" Tombli shouted, raising the tankard high. The company echoed the dwarfs toast with sullen murmurs. Gripping Saskia's hair in his fist, he emptied the tankard over her head. "To the Company of the Chimera. Many heads, one purpose."
"Lie still," Grummond ordered, his greasy hands working the tip of the dart from Saskia's leg. The company's surgeon was a smashed nose half-ore who had seen more battle with his one good eye than all the rest of the company together.
"Fightin' the captain," Grummond scoffed. Pressing his hands to either side of the wound, Grummond leaned into her leg and sank his teeth into the tip of the dart. With a jerk of his head he tore the dart loose and spat it onto the floor. "Were you half drunk or half daft?"
"The dwarf thinks too highly of himself," Saskia said, "and he's guiled you all into fearing him."
"Tombli's a war-caster o' Abbathor. Nothing but trouble, that one." The half-ore poured a rust colored syrup over the ragged wound and gave her thigh a slap. "His father was an exile o' the Rift Clans, his mother a duergar princess. Ain't no dwarfhold gonna adopt a half-gray bastard. Tombli's been takin' that pain out on the world ever since."
"If he's such an almighty priest, how come you do all our healing?"
"Not every priest's a healer," Grummond said, his one good eye on the door. "But if n you hate him so much, why stay with the Chimeras?"
Saskia shrugged. "A wolf needs a pack, an Uthgardt needs a tribe. It is the way of things."
Grummond studied her. He had known many barbarians, but there was something different about Saskia. The North-lander had no mirth to match her melancholy. She didn't fight out of bitterness, like Tombli, or greed, like the company. Instead it was as if a war-worm had curled up inside her belly, giving her a hunger for battle that refused to be sated. The only challenge worthy of her respect would be the one that killed her. Anything less merited only disdain and scorn.
Grummond turned to put away his oils and salves and said, "So how'd you witch up that bit o' magic?"
"What do you mean?"
"The flash, the boom!" Grummond laughed. "I lost a pair o' gold crowns to that pretty little trick."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Saskia growled, something ancient and cruel flashing in her blue eyes.
"All right," Grummond held up his hands in defense. "Didn't mean nothin' by it. You know who your friends are."
A shout went up from the common room.
"Gruumsh's blood," the half-ore swore. "What now?"
Tombli leaned into the room, jerked a thumb at Saskia, and said, "Get up and put some civilized clothes on. I need your eyes."
A band of trappers had ridden into the waystation. The company gathered to meet them, crowding around the men and their heavy iron cage. By the time Saskia had limped outside Tombli was already engaged in a shouting match with a swarthy Calishite, trying to drive down the trapper's price by bluff and bluster.
The man's armor was brutally torn in several places and a long bandage wrapped the length of his leg. Whatever was
in the cage had given the trapper and his fellows a hard time of it.
Saskia eased through the crowd then stopped short.
The trappers had caught a dragon.
Saskia had seen images of drakes before. She had seen the likenesses of great wyrms inked onto scraped hides, carved from ivory and wood, gilded in gold and silver, and painted on cavern walls. But the miniature dragon, no larger than a cat, had something every representation had lacked. Like an exotic sword polished to a razor's edge, the dragon was beautiful.
Long lines of sinewy muscle tensed and corded beneath glossy scales the color of wine. A pair of sharp horns curled above dark eyes that flashed violet, framing a savage maw filled with needle-sharp teeth. Its delicate wings strained anxiously against the tight confines of the cage, and the body ended in a serpentine tail tipped with a single ivory barb.
Tombli whispered from Saskia's elbow, "What in the Nine Hells is it?"
Saskia struggled to translate the Uthgardt word to Common, but the best she could manage was a vulgar approximation of: "Apseudodragon."
Tombli snorted. "A sort-of-dragon?" He spun back on the Calishite and shouted, "Cheating son of a djinni! One hundred golden lions and not a falcon more!"
While Tombli and the Calishite fell back into vicious bargaining, Saskia knelt before the cage. The wyrm's gemstone eyes were timeless, utterly indifferent to the concerns of man. Its scaled kin had reigned long before the press of cities and farms, and would exist long after the last eldritch tower crumbled to dust.
Free me, sister.
Saskia flinched. She hadn't heard Uthgardt spoken since she had fled her home. The dragon hissed with impatience. Again the words leaped into her mind.
Free me!
As a girl Saskia had been plagued by dreams in which entire flights of great wyrms filled the skies. Worse, her dreams had worked tiny miracles on the world around her. When Saskia had nightmares, lights danced across the northern skies, sentries reported watch fires flaring blue and red, and rusting blades were made bright. The tribe's aging shaman, terrified of what he couldn't explain, declared her visions to be portents of evil and did everything in his power to purge her of the wicked taint. But every ritual and ceremony failed and in the end Saskia was branded a witch, damned by an untapped potential she couldn't control.
Free me!
"No," Saskia said, her voice a fierce whisper. Her eyes narrowed to shards of ice and her words slipped into Uthgardt. "I sacrificed fortunes to your troves, swore my spirit to your totem and placed my body upon your altar." She spat on the ground. "Your kin denied me."
Before Saskia could stand, the dragon's long tail shot between the bars of the cage. It struck once, as delicate as a lover's caress, slashing a crimson arc across her cheek.
Saskia fell backward, her blood flaring as the dragon's poison charged through her veins. The weight of her own body bore down upon her like a coat of wet furs. Her head lolled weakly and her fingers went numb. As the sky darkened, her ears were filled with the thunder of a roaring drum.
Once more the voice leaped unbidden into her mind.
We did not deny you. You denied us.
Saskia slept and as she slept, she remembered.
She was standing on a steep slope, knee deep in drifting snow. Before her rose a towering chain of granite peaks that stretched to the sky.
The Spine of the World.
Behind her the mountains fell away through rolling clouds of snow and blowing ice. A relentless wind hammered her body, threatening to pluck her from the mountain and hurl her into the whirling white abyss. Her cheeks were black with frost, her fingers and toes were numb with cold, and her eyes burned from days of seeing nothing but endless expanses of white.
Kicking and punching holds into the slope, Saskia continued her climb.
A tenday ago the elders of her village had given her a choice: leave the tribe forever or submit to the Trial of the Dragon. Saskia had chosen the trial: to travel alone through the wilderness, without weapons or provisions, to the summit of the Uthgarheis, the lonely peak that ruled the Spine of the World. There, atop all of creation, she would be met and judged by the spirit totem of her tribe.
Uthgar had favored her early in the trial, sending a goblin war band tripping and snorting across her path. It had been easy enough to ambush their scouts. Armed with a goblin waraxe Saskia was able to kill a snowbound caribou, taking its hide for warmth and smoking its fatty meat for rations. Arriving at the base of the Uthgarheis, she rested for a day then started her climb along the rocky southern ridge.
That was two days ago.
She hadn't slept since beginning the climb. The caribou hide was frozen stiff around her, and her bundle of smoked meat had begun to dwindle. Still she pressed on, climbing ridge after icebound ridge. To give up was to accept that she was a witch, a corrupt soul given over to wickedness and evil. Saskia knew that couldn't be true, and meeting with the elder spirit would prove it.
On the third day she summited the slender pinnacle of rock that crowned the Uthgarheis. Delirious with exhaustion and triumph, she crawled before the shelter of a fallen cairn and
collapsed, too tired to see if the Elder Spirit was waiting for her.
The howl of a thousand starving wolves woke her from her sleep. Sitting up, Saskia looked to the north. A dark storm rolled toward her, sliding across the sky like a black avalanche. Shards of blowing ice cut her cheeks and day turned to night.
The first gusts tore away her meager shelter. Shouting a war cry, Saskia raised her axe high and buried it into the rocky ground. She held on with the last of her strength and cried to the Great Worm for mercy.
Saskia had thought she had survived the Great Worm's Trial.
It hadn't begun.
Eight days later Saskia stumbled back into camp, frozen in body and numb in soul. The Great Worm never came. She slept for days, slipping in and out of a delirious fever that made her skin hot to the touch. When the fever finally broke, the tribe's shaman came to her tent and told of her the Great Worm's death. The Elder Spirit had been killed by a company of villains only two days after she began her quest. They had gutted his lair, taken his hide like savages, and carried away the dragon's wealth on the backs of slaves and mules.
Her trial had been in vain. Like a foolish child wishing on falling stars, her passionate prayers had gone unheard.
The next morning Saskia left for the south, swearing never to return.
Saskia stretched out on the ground, her long limbs sore from inaction. Dawn would be coming soon, but sleep eluded the barbarian. Left in its place was the anxious exhaustion so common to the cities of man. Of all the curses visited on
civilized folk, that was the worst: to go through their waking hours half asleep and their sleeping hours half awake.
Saskia's dreams had returned. Nightmares of massive golden drakes that blotted out the sun with their blinding wings, silk-scaled terrors the color of soot, white dragons that drove winter's hoarfrost before them. The dragons swooped out of the northlands like a winged plague, storming the walled cities of man and laying waste to all in their path.
At one point in every dream, the largest and oldest dragon, his scales mottled with age, would beckon to her with a single claw, his clouded eyes smoldering like the embers of a dying fire. Then two words would thunder inside her mind: Join us.
Even the memory was enough to make her start. Yes, Saskia thought, sleep could wait.
Saskia exhaled hard and she gazed longingly into the clear sky. Hunting with her father she had learned to track the stars as they made their course across the heavens, but entire tendays passed without her noting the changes of Selune. She had come south hoping to outrun her curse, but all she had lost were the things she valued most. Saskia knew she couldn't stay with the Chimeras any longer, but where was a barbarian to go after being cast out of her tribe?
The crash of metal broke the night's fragile peace. Saskia pulled herself up and followed the muffled ringing back to its source.
Tombli was in the stables, waging a one-sided battle against the caged pseudodragon. He rained blows down upon the cage with a war club, his drunken laughter filling the night.
"Dance, mighty wyrm!" Tombli commanded. "Earn your keep!"
The pseudodragon's barbed tail had been amputated the day after it attacked Saskia. It was defenseless before the dwarfs cruelty.
Saskia slipped silently into the dark shadows of a stall.
The dwarf took the key from his belt, jangling it just out of the dragon's reach.
"Come on, pretty thing. Show me a little wrath.
"No?" Tombli asked with disappointment. Unable to fit the ring back onto his belt, the drunk dwarf cast it aside and traded the club for his jeweled dagger. "Worthless lizard. Better to sell your vitals to the mages and tan your hide for my boots."
The barbarian stepped from the shadows, bringing both fists down on Tombli in a blow that would have felled an ox. The dwarf staggered two steps backward then lashed out blindly with his blade, the dagger cutting a glowing green line in the darkness. Grummond had warned Saskia of Tombli's wicked blade, a serpentine dirk that wept poison, but the barbarian hadn't believed such a thing was possible.
The dwarf regained his balance and charged her with a roar. Saskia plucked the club from the ground and broke it against the dwarf's head as he rushed passed. Tombli fell to one knee, then pulled himself back up, his hard black eyes aflame with rage.
Saskia settled into a crouch and readied herself for another charge.
Growling a prayer, Tombli drew a short rod of iron from a pouch and stabbed his dagger toward the sky. He was answered with a resounding crack that shook the air. Saskia fell to the ground, every muscle in her body contracted into painful knots.
"Think to fight me, barbarian?" Tombli spat out a mouthful of blood. "You and the wyrm are one and the same: feeble pets, without tooth or guile."
Finally the pseudodragon came alive, hurling itself at the bars of its cage with all the fury of a true drake. The cage crashed to the ground, but the stout bars held.
"Gnash all you like, lizard," Tombli snorted. "Those bars are enchanted cold iron, and the finest turn-picks in Sembia would think twice before trying that lock."
Saskia strained in vain against the dwarf's spell. Tombli saw the frustration rising in her blue eyes and began to chuckle.
"Grim spell, isn't it? No one ever forgets their first time. I like to follow it with something I call 'Abbathor's Flowering.' " The dwarf whispered a soft prayer and laid the tip of his dagger against the bare skin of her neck. A shock shot through her body, tracing blue lines of lightning along the veins under her skin. Her veins pulsed once, twice, then burst through the surface of her skin.
Saskia tried to scream but her jaw was clenched shut. Frustrated by her helplessness she could only moan incoherently, tears mixing with the blood running down her face.
"You fear the pain."
She could feel the dwarf's excited breath on her lips. "You don't have to say it," Tombli whispered. "I can see it in your eyes."
Defiant rage erupted from Saskia's proud heart. What did that vile dwarf know of pain? Pain taught her people what it meant to be alive. From birth to death, pain was the single constant in the life of an Uthgardt warrior. It wasn't the pain she feared, but so pathetic an end, slaughtered like a pig by a southern priest.
"Watch closely, dragon. It's been years since I've had the pleasure of skinning a woman alive."
Tombli's threats fell upon deaf ears. Filled with self-loathing, she was beyond the reach of his grubby, blistered fingers. Saskia had come south seeking escape, but like the dragon, she found herself in a cage. Worse, hers was one of her own choosing, and she would die in it.
Free me!
Saskia's soul flared. Years of frustration and denial were erased in a single moment, eclipsed by her rage. She commanded the universe and it leaped to obey.
The key lifted from the ground, held by an invisible hand.
Delicately, but without hesitation, it drifted into the lock and gave the softest of turns. Tombli looked up, his blistered face wrinkled with confusion, just in time to see the cage door swing open.
The drake exploded into motion, distilling days and nights of torment into a whirlwind of fangs and claws. Tombli swung his dagger this way and that, but to no avail. The dragon spun around the dwarf like a dizzying cloud of razors, laying open Tombli like a butcher slicing ham.
Crying in terror, Tombli buried his ragged face in his hands and charged for the door of the stables. The pseudodragon lashed out once with its stump of a tail and caught Tombli's heavy boot, spilling the dwarf into the moldy hay. Tombli fought to his knees with a choking wail and scrambled from the stables and into the darkness.
The pseudodragon settled on Saskia's hip, fastidiously licking the blood from its claws. Inch by painful inch, Saskia's muscles began to unknot, and soon she found she was able to stand.
Greetings, mistress. Iam the Wyrm Aeristhax, heir apparent to the mighty Akilskyls, Wyrm of Renown.
"A witch," Saskia said, her voice a mix of despair and disgust. "I'm a witch."
Witch, sorceress, wizling, bruja, hag... a thousand words for a thousand tribes of man. Deny the Blessing as it suits you; we will have more pressing issues soon enough.
The dragon examined its claws.
Really.you southern women think too much. It's a wonder you have time for life at all.
Saskia started to correct the dragon then stopped. Perhaps she was a witch; what of it? Unless she found some weapons, and quickly, she would be a dead witch. The Company of the Chimera was a hundred strong and had allies throughout the heart of Sembia and all the Dales. Saskia smiled openly at the thought of a running battle with an entire mercenary
company. It was the sort of feat that only a barbarian could hope to pull off.
At the back of the stables were two crates of weapons, cast-offs and rejects from the company's cache. Saskia rummaged through the crates, discarding the weak and delicate, finally settling on a stout shortspear and a brace of heavy throwing daggers.
Aeristhax flew to her shoulder, growling softly.
The mountain-born has raised the alarm.
Saskia nodded and together the pair slipped outside.
Dawn was coming quickly, the village awakening with the crack of drover whips. Saskia cut two horses from the corral, not troubling with a saddle or reins, simply tying on halters. She was almost finished when a voice called for her to stop.
Saskia turned to see Grummond standing on the edge of the corral. The healer wore a coat of burnished chain mail and carried an ore's recurve bow. A handful of black-shafted war arrows were thrust into the ground at his feet.
"You nearly killed the captain," said Grummond as he knocked an arrow and took aim. A dozen other Chimeras fell in line behind him. "We can't let you go."
Saskia swung easily onto the back of the first horse. She was answered with the sharp snap of a bowstring. Aeristhax hissed in anger as the arrow cut its way toward them.
Saskia waved her hand the way another woman might have batted at a fly. Intuitive sorcery, pent up for years, coursed through her, directing the weft and warp of the Weave. The arrow ricocheted off an invisible wall and shot into the sky, tracing a long black arc through the dawn.
Saskia howled in triumph and raised her spear high, her body crackling with power. The Chimeras broke into a charge then skidded to a stop. The barbarian was glowing with an unearthly blue radiance. Grummond waved them back, his bow forgotten.
Aeristhax gave a coughing hiss and took to wing. Saskia kicked hard at her mount and the horses leaped into a gallop, following the dragon north to freedom.
Night came peacefully to Tassledale. Aeristhax hunted in long, lazy circles on the last winds of the fading day, while Saskia made camp on the rocky crest of a hill overlooking the village of Archtassel. She had ridden until the horses could go no farther. The mounts rested, grazing on the meager autumn grasses. The lights of Archtassel slowly winked to life as mothers called their children home and farmers made their way back from the fields.
Surveying their peaceful tranquility, Saskia understood why dragons rampaged through such lands. Like every living thing, civilizations were meant to rise and fall. Ripe fruit was meant to be plucked.
But thoughts of conquest could wait for the morrow.
Saskia knelt on the ground before a pile of twigs and dead wood. At a word the fire sprang to life, the wood cracking and popping as mundane flames settled in, a trail of sweet smelling smoke curling into the chill night air. Saskia warmed herself at the fire's side and whittled a stick into a skewer while she waited for Aeris to return with dinner.
Above her the Five Wanderers shone brightly, twinkling as they made their chaotic way across the heavens. Saskia looked up from her fire and measured their progress.
HOW BURLMARR SAVED THE UNSEEN PROTECTOR
Kameron M. Franklin
Uktar, the Year of the Gauntlet (1369 DR)
It would probably be the last caravan to Leilon before winter brought snow to the passes of the Sword Mountains. Burlmarr hovered over the circled wagons, listening to the gnomes as they sat around the campfire discussing the weather. Or, at least that's what he imagined they were discussing. He couldn't actually hear their voices, but he could see their lips move, and he knew what time of year it was, so that seemed like the logical thing they would be talking about.
The fire had nearly burned itself down to glowing coals when the traders finally turned in. A solitary gnome tossed another log on the embers and crouched down to stoke the flames back to life with a few long breaths. He stood up, stretched, and spent a moment gazing at the night sky before trundling
over to a wagon and lifting a crossbow from the back. After loading it, the gnome began an inspection of the wagon circle, keeping one eye on the shadows that occupied the rocky terrain around them.
Burlmarr made his own rounds, tirelessly floating back and forth over the camp. The mountains were far from safe. Ore raiders or marauding monsters often made their way through the passes from the north, looking for anything that would provide enough sustenance to last them through the harsh conditions of the coming months. The caravan would be an irresistible target.
Movement in the shadows up the mountainside to the north of the campsite caught Burlmarr's attention. He swept the terrain with eyes that could see well beyond a thousand feet, and easily spotted the source of the disturbance a few hundred yards away. In black and white vision that ignored the lack of light, he saw a warband of ores making its way toward the sleeping gnomes. With a thought, Burlmarr glided up to meet them and get a better look.
He could count about fifty of them as he got closer, creeping from the boulders and outcroppings that dotted that side of the pass. They wore piecemeal armor of stiff hide and metal scales, some with crude helmets covering their porcine heads and others only unkempt masses of gray dreadlocks. Even so poorly armed, there were more than enough to overwhelm the caravan, but not a number that would give Burlmarr any trouble. It would probably be best if he confronted them away from the gnomes' campsite. The only thing left was to decide on the best tactics to use. That's when he noticed the hill giant bringing up the rear.
The brute stood about ten feet tall, but would probably have been at least six inches taller where it not stooped over enough that its thick, powerful arms hung past its knees. The giant wore a patchwork of hides, some with the fur still on it. As the brute strode down the mountain, it was picking
up boulders with one hand and stacking them in the crook of its other arm.
As mighty as he was, Burlmarr could not be everywhere at once. The ores were spread too far apart for him to eliminate in one attack, and he had to stop the giant before it was close enough to hurl those rocks onto the unsuspecting caravan.
Burlmarr's foreclaws materialized first. Then he was looking down at the ores past his blunt snout covered in scales and whiskers of faded white and deep gold. He opened wide and shot a cone of flame into the midst of the warband. The fire swept through the rear ranks of the ores and raced over the hill giant, consuming them in its hunger. Burlmarr turned to face the remaining ores, only to see them running wildly down the mountain toward the camp. He cursed himself for a fool. Of course the survivors would panic and run when he appeared in their midst. He had to act fast. The ores would reach the gnomes in seconds.
Burlmarr stretched out his right foreclaw and spoke.
"Svent throden ghiks mirth krahkxiss!"
A thick bolt of electricity lanced out from a claw and struck the nearest ore then arced to the next, and the next, and the next, until the twenty or so remaining raiders all lay motionless on the mountainside, smoke wafting from charred holes in their torsos. The gnomes were safe.
Burlmarr wept as he melted back into the blackness of the night.
"Mother!"
Burlmarr barely got the word out before he retched again, though this time he was able to lean over the bed enough that the remaining contents of his stomach spilled onto the floor instead of the bed sheets. Dizzy and weak, he swooned and nearly toppled out of the bed, but his mother appeared
just in time to lay him back against the pillows.
"Oh, my poor boy, just look at you."
"I'm sorry, Mother. I didn't mean to make a mess. My head just hurts so bad."
"Did you have another one of those dreams?"
Burlmarr nodded slightly, hoping to avoid making the throbbing worse. It was the third night in a row he'd had the dream, which was always a little different. Mostly a different location, though once he could hear instead of see. He knew they were all the same dream because in every one, he was a dragon. The same dragon, he was pretty sure.
And there were always gnomes. Gnomes from the village. Gnomes he knew.
"Well, we can't have you sleeping in soiled linens," his mother said.
She helped him out of bed and walked him over to the hearth, where she lowered him to the floor. After wrapping a blanket around him, she rolled up the bed sheets and used them to clean the mess. Burlmarr's eyelids began to droop, so he lay down before the glowing embers in the fireplace and drifted off to sleep before his mother could finish making the bed with fresh sheets.
The caravan arrived in Leilon just before supper time. After unloading the ore they brought and purchasing winter supplies for the village, the gnomes made their way to the Knight's Goblet to get a late meal. The tavern catered to travelers, and was known for its roast boar served with thick slices of nutty-flavored bread. It was quiet in the common room as the gnomes sat at their table eating. Trade was slow that time of year. Most merchant companies had stopped sending their caravans through the passes for fear of getting caught in a mountain storm.
"There was something going on up in the mountains last night, I tell you," one of the gnomes insisted through a mouthful of boar and bread. "Fire and lightning was flashing all over the place."
"Would you stop with this, already," another of the gnomes groaned. "It was nothing more than a storm."
"How could it have been a storm if there weren't no clouds in the sky," the first gnome protested. "Besides, I'm pretty sure I saw him."
"Who?"
"You know. The Unseen Protector."
The whole table went silent as everyone stopped eating to stare at the gnome. Then they broke out in raucous laughter.
"That's nothing but a fireside story told to children by the village elders."
"I did see him." The gnome's face was flushed and his voice was defensive. "A great gold dragon, just like the stories say."
"If it was the Unseen Protector," one of the others blurted out between guffaws, "then how did you see him?"
The gnomes slapped the table and held their bellies as laughter overtook them again. The lone gnome stood up, his face a mixture of fury and embarrassment, and left the table.
Daikon had heard enough as well. From his vantage at a nearby table, his back to the gnomes, he was just another human and had been able to eavesdrop on the entire conversation without drawing attention to himself. It was time to report back on his success.
His hooded cloak wrapped tightly around him, Daikon left the warmth and light of the inn's common room and walked out into the dark street, his breath a puff of white before him in the chill night air. It was a brisk walk to the camp in the hills outside of town where his men waited. Thoughts of power kept him warm. The Archmage Arcane had been vague in his promises, but Daikon had enough
ambition to fill in the blanks himself.
He nodded to his bodyguards as he emerged from the shadows at the camp's perimeter. His assistant slept under the cart that had been used to haul the bribe they'd taken to gain the hill giant's help. That would have to be retrieved before some scavengers stumbled upon it, or the Archmage Arcane would be displeased. Daikon made a mental note not to bring it up just yet.
Rummaging through his pack in the rear of the cart, Daikon removed a gray lump of stone. He crawled into the back of the cart, the stone cupped in his hands. With a deep, steadying breath, Daikon closed his eyes and envisioned a frail, withered man, his frame bent with old age.
This is Daikon. The hill giant's forces attacked the caravan and were destroyed by what the gnomes called their 'Unseen Protector.' You were right.
Of course I was right, came the surly reply. Now quit wasting my time. I don't want to hear from you again until you have confirmed the Protector's identity.
Daikon kept his mind clear until he returned the stone to its place in his backpack. It didn't hurt to be safe. Only when it was tucked away did he once again ponder why the Archmage Arcane had sent him on his mission. What was so important that not even the archmage's closest aides could be trusted? Why had he been chosen, summoned from the Sea Tower in the middle of the night then teleported to the small town of Leilon as soon as he'd agreed?
There were rumors that Arklem Greeth was preparing to step down, that a successor would be named. Perhaps the mission was a test of his loyalty and ability. Not that Daikon expected to be named archmage so soon, but there would definitely be some shifting of positions once the new Archmage Arcane was pronounced.
With a smug smile, Daikon hopped out of the cart and kicked his assistant. It was time to make some plans.
The gnomes woke up early, ate a quick breakfast, and moved their wagons out before most of Leilon stirred. The past night's mirth was replaced with an air of expectation and urgency. Everyone couldn't wait to get home.
As the caravan climbed the mountain trail, the golden touch of the morning sun on the snow caps kept everyone's spirits light and cheerful. They stopped for lunch near where they had camped the last night on the trail. There were no charred remains left on the mountainside. One of them mentioned that the Unseen Protector must have removed all the bodies and even the gnome who swore he had seen the battle laughed.
Laughter turned to gurgles, blood spilling from his mouth, when a crossbow bolt pierced his throat. Another bolt sunk into the chest of the gnome across from him, followed by a missile of colored light that smote the gnome to the left.
The remaining gnome sprinted for his wagon, desperately wishing the Unseen Protector was real and would suddenly appear. He dived underneath and curled up in a ball next to one of the wheels, shaking in fear.
"Come out, little friend," a voice called from somewhere out of sight. "We want to talk."
The gnome didn't move, but his eyes darted back and forth trying to locate the source of the voice. It sounded very familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. If it was a friend, he needed to warn them about the ambushers.
"You should find a place to hide," he called out, "we were just ambushed. They ... they killed everyone else. The attackers could still be around."
"We took care of them. You have nothing to worry about. Come, talk."
"A-all right," the gnome stammered as he crawled out from under the wagon. "I'm coming out."
Daikon's bodyguard dumped the last gnome beside the rest, lining them up in a row and rolling them onto their backs. Daikon returned from where they had left their cart and waved for everyone to gather around the bodies.
"Now that we have all the information we need to locate Ieirithymbul, along with the names and daily routines of enough gnomes who live there, it's time for the final act that will make our infiltration of the village possible."
Daikon opened the bag he had gone to retrieve and pulled out a silver pendant with a crystal embedded in its center. He held it in front of them and they leaned in to get a closer look. The crystal was so clear he knew they could see their own reflections.
"I have three others like this," Daikon continued. "They were crafted by the Brotherhood and provided for us by the Archmage Arcane so that we could complete this task for him. When the wearer puts on the pendant, his form is altered to that which he first envisions in his mind. He keeps that form as long as he wears the pendant.
"When I give you your pendant, I want you to first spend a few moments concentrating on one of these." Daikon nudged the dead gnome nearest him. "Once you have the image firmly in your mind, put the pendant on."
When he was sure they understood, Daikon handed each a pendant and assigned them a gnome to study. He let the others go first to be sure they did it right. Each stood over their particular gnome for a few moments before slowly fastening the pendant around their necks. As they did, their forms shimmered and shrank until they resembled the gnome lying at their feet. After his assistant's transformation was complete, Daikon placed the final pendant around his neck and underwent his own.
"All right, we're finished with these," he said, motioning
to the bodies. "Dump them in a ravine or something where they won't be found, along with our cart. Then let's load up in their wagons and get moving. It's still a few days ride until we get to the village."
«—and—-
Burlmarr sat on a stool, hunkered over a spinning grinding wheel. He held the rough piece of quartz in his hands against the wheel to remove waste and give it the general shape one of the older apprentices used to practice the facet cuts Master Thintagast taught. He paused for a moment to allow Ambry thynn, a fellow apprentice who was furiously pumping the pedal that powered the grinder, to stop for a breath and pour water over the wheel. Through a window in the far wall, Burlmarr could see townsfolk passing by under the bright sun. It wasn't easy keeping his thoughts on the task at hand.
The caravan should be returning from Leilon any day now. Will everything be ready for the celebration in time?
"I know I'll be ready," Burlmarr replied, keeping his eye on the quartz as the wheel wore it down. "I just hope I don't get sick again."
"Ready for what?" Ambry thynn asked between breaths.
"You asked me if I would be ready for the party the elders are going to throw when the caravan returns."
"I did not."
"Yes, you did. I heard..." Burlmarr looked up to see Ambrythynn's brow furrowed and the corner of his mouth turned up in a way that said he had no idea what Burlmarr was talking about. "Never mind."
I'm going to ask Lissa to marry me. I've already spoken to her father, and he's agreed to help build us a house if I complete my apprenticeship by next Greengrass.
"By Greengrass?" Burlmarr couldn't keep the incredulity from his voice. "Don't you think that's a little soon, considering
we both just started with Master Thintagast this past summer? Besides, I thought you had your eye on Maree Blimthalloon?" "What are you talking about?"
"Ha, ha. That's a good joke, trying to make me think I'm hearing things. Don't worry, I won't tell Maree." "Tell Maree what?" "That you like Lissa Boavartarr." "I don't. Who told you that?" "You did, just now." "I did not."
"It was funny the first time, Ambrythynn, but the act is getting old." Burlmarr sat up and rubbed his temples with the hand not holding the quartz. "I'm starting to get a headache and I want to get this done before we have to go home, so let's just get back to work."
"Fine." Ambrythynn frowned, but went back to pumping the pedal.
Halbrondell, your goat got into my cabbages, again! I've just about had it with that beast. I'm of half a mind to take it to the butcher as payment for the damages!
Burlmarr's head seemed to explode and the room spun like a child's toy. He crashed to the floor wretching.
"Burlmarr? Master Thintagast, something's wrong with Burlmarr!"
The voice sounded like Ambrythynn's, but it was very distant, and getting farther away. The pain in Burlmarr's head was unrelenting, and he slipped into unconsciousness.
When Burlmarr awoke, he found himself lying in a cot with Goodwife Thintagast seated at his side. Master Thintagast leaned over her shoulder, and all the apprentices crowded around behind him.
"Don't try to get up yet," Goodwife Thintagast said, gently
pushing Burlmarr back down as he atempted to sit up. "You had a nasty fall, there. Fortunately, it seems your head was just as hard as the floor."
Several snickers escaped from some of the apprentices.
"All right, everyone back to the shop," Master Thintagast prodded. "Looks like young Burlmarr is going to live. As for you," he said turning back to Burlmarr, "why don't you head home for the day."
He smiled warmly and nodded before following the other apprentices.
Once he had proved to Goodwife Thintagast that he could stand on his own two feet for more than a few seconds, Burlmarr was sent on his way. He took the walk home slowly, stopping to sit when he felt out of breath or light-headed. It gave him time to consider what was happening to him.
The episodes had started almost a month ago, with increasing frequency as his fortieth birthday approached. For a moment, he wondered if it was some sort of family disease or curse, but all the relatives he could think of had lived long, healthy lives. He decided he would ask his mother, though, just to be sure.
As he neared his home, Burlmarr realized he'd never before fallen sick during the day. Most of the time it was at night, following particularly vivid dreams. Dreams about a dragon. About being a dragon.
Palarandusk hovered over the village green in the semisolid, invisible form that had kept him alive and active well past the years even dragons considered the twilight of life. That was, in part, a result of the many experiments he had been subjected
to while enslaved to the Netherese sorcerer Mileirigath. But even that powerful magic was beginning to fail and he had, as of yet, been unable to recreate the combination of spells that originally altered him, his vast knowledge of the arcane, and the many tomes he had taken with him when the Empire of Netheril fell notwithstanding. Some stop-gap measures had been discovered, but most of those never worked more than once. One or two even had unexpected side effects. Well aware that any day may be his last, he remained diligent in his guardianship of the gnomes of Ieirithymbul.
The caravan had just arrived and the gnomes were gathering to help unload the provisions brought from Leilon. He was glad to see that everyone had made it back safely, though he regretted not having been able to escort them home. Unfortunately, some aggressive Forgebar dwarves had needed persuading that their intentions for Ieirithymbul and its mines were misguided. It would take the dwarves months to recover and find their way back to the surface.
By the time he made it back to the caravan, they were only a day out from the village. So Palarandusk returned to drift amongst his beloved children, eavesdropping on their plans, their dreams, and their quarrels. It made the sacrifices worthwhile to think he played a part in shaping their lives. Protecting the little village may not be as glorious as his days of defending Neverwinter, but the intimacy he had with the gnomes of Ieirithymbul was much more satisfying. He knew their names, watched many grow up, wept for their losses, and celebrated their successes alongside them.
It was the celebrations and feasts that he enjoyed the most. During those times, the normally taciturn gnomes opened themselves up to reveal their zest for life, and Palarandusk would bask in the energy like a lizard on a rock at highsun. For that reason, he was looking forward to the celebration that would take place the following night. He had listened in on the elders' plans. It would be a typical feast, like all the past
ones the gnomes threw when the last caravan returned before the snows blocked the passes, but Palarandusk would enjoy himself no less. There would be plenty to see.
Burlmarr sat at the edge of the green, watching the dancers spin around the crackling bonfire in the center of the celebration area. He felt dizzy and flushed, though he hadn't touched a drop of the ale provided by Master Brimmloch for the festivities. It was likely the sickness. He had gotten his hopes up that he could make it through the party—there had been no episodes the day before—but he should have known better. He lowered his head into his hands, his temples throbbing. Perhaps it was time to go home.
He stood up, and suddenly he could see the entire village green, but from above, as though he was a bird flying overhead in the night sky. The sudden change in perspective overwhelmed Burlmarr and he lurched forward, stumbling a few steps before losing his balance and plopping to the ground.
Burlmarr squeezed his eyes shut. He could still see the green from above, but without the conflicting information from his own vantage, the vertigo quickly passed. He remained seated, however, rooted to the spot by fear and uncertainty.
What was happening to him? It was almost as if he were seeing through someone else's eyes.
In his mind, he watched as those eyes drifted across the green, pausing occasionally to focus on a pair dancing, or some animated discussion that Burlmarr couldn't hear. Then he watched as the eyes got closer and closer to a young gnome huddled on the ground, his hands covering his face. Burlmarr moved his hand to reach an itch, and the gnome in his mind's eye did the same.
Burlmarr gasped. The eyes were looking right at him. He was watching himself!
Struck by an impulse, Burlmarr rose unsteadily to his feet and swept his arm out in front and above him. He touched nothing, but the motion of his arm slowed momentarily at the arc of its swing, as though the air in that area was congealing. A wave of nausea swept over him, and he thought he heard someone grunt. Burlmarr sat back down, trembling.
"Who's there?"
"Can you see me, little one?" The question whispered in his ear like a gentle rumble.
"N-no. But I can see me. I mean, even though I have my eyes closed, I can still see, but it's like I'm seeing what somebody else sees." Excitement and terror had taken hold of Burlmarr's voice. The words rushed out like the waters of a swollen river over its banks. "Except now I'm not only seeing things, but I'm hearing voices, too. I'm starting to think I may be drunk, even though I didn't have any ale. Or maybe this is a fever dream. I've been really sick lately."
"No, little one, you are neither intoxicated nor ill. I can assure you that I am very real, but this would not be the appropriate place to prove that. Can you still see what I am seeing?"
Burlmarr nodded as the view shifted to look away from the green and out into the night.
"Good. Use my eyes to follow me. I would like to talk with you for a bit and learn more."
In his mind, Burlmarr moved between buildings, making his way toward the edge of the village, but he hadn't taken a step. The excitement that had been pumping through Burlmarr's veins suddenly crashed against a dam of caution. What was he doing, prepared to wander out of the village in the middle of the night after some disembodied voice? What if the voice belonged to some creature that was trying to lure him away so it could feast on his heart?
But Burlmarr knew it was no soul-sucking, flesh-eating monster he was being asked to follow. No, the whole thing was too much like his dreams. He didn't know how, but he was sure he was seeing through the eyes of a dragon. And in the back of his mind, the childhood stories the village elders told whispered to him a hope of who that dragon might be.
Flushed once more with excitement, Burlmarr walked after the voice. His steps were hesitant and awkward. It was disorienting to use another's eyes. His legs were distrustful of the sensory information, their movements jerky like a puppet on strings. When the view in his mind halted a few yards ahead of him, Burlmarr had to resist the urge to stop, continuing forward until he appeared in the picture in his mind.
Soon, they left behind the sounds of the village and its celebration. Buildings were replaced by sparsely wooded hills, the pale moon bathing the terrain in its cold light.
They began to climb up into the treeline when Burlmarr's vision went black.
"I-I can't see," Burlmarr said.
He strained his ears, trying to capture some sound that would indicate his companion had not continued on and left him, but all he heard was the night breeze amongst the trees.
"Open your eyes."
Burlmarr cried out, jumping backward and losing his balance. His arms flailed and his eyes popped open to see the stars in the sky as he fell on his rear.
"I am sorry, little one. I did not mean to startle you."
"That's... that's all right. What happened?"
"I would guess that the link between our senses was broken somehow."
"Right. Of course." Burlmarr felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. "So, what do we do now?"
"I suppose we could introduce ourselves," the voice replied. Burlmarr thought he detected a note of amusement.
"All right. I guess I'll go first. My name is Burlmarr. I'm a gnome from the village of Ieirithymbul, but you already knew that. Um, I'm apprenticed to Master Thintagast. I live with my mother and father. I have..."
"That is quite enough," the voice chuckled, a deep rumbling that gently rattled Burlmarr. "There will be plenty of time for me to learn your life's story. For now, it is enough that we know each others' names."
"But I don't know yours."
"Oh, I think you do. Or at least you know one of them. Do you really have no idea who I am?"
"Well, I have a guess, but I can hardly believe that it would actually be you."
"Would you like to know for sure? Would you like see who you are truly speaking with?"
Burlmarr opened his mouth to shout yes, but his voice got stuck in his throat and all he could do was vigorously nod his head.
"Very well," the voice said, and a blunt snout twice the size of Burlmarr's head appeared not six feet away, long, tubular whiskers of gold and white trailing from a scaly jaw. Two eyes of molten gold winked into existence, glowing from underneath a pair of horns that swept back to a long, sinewy neck. Twin frills ran down the length of the neck from the back of the dragon's head to just above its thickly corded shoulders. Great wings, oversized replicas of the neck frills, sprouted from its shoulders to sweep back along the length of its body to the tip of its tail. The dragon's form swamped Burlmarr's field of vision, blotting out the countryside, but Burlmarr was not afraid. No gnome of Ieirithymbul could ever fear the majestic creature that stood before him.
"I am Palarandusk, once called the Sun Dragon." The wyrm's lips parted in a toothy smile that conveyed a sense of warmth and friendship. "You know me as the Unseen Protector."
108* Kameron M.
Elder Gromann plodded home. Revelers were still about, but he was tired, and he hadn't seen his wife in a while. Kay-lindrra was probably already in bed, waiting for him, and she didn't like sleeping alone.
There were no lights on when he entered, though the moonlight was more than enough for his eyes to see by. However, once he closed the door, even that was taken away. Fortunately, Gromann knew the layout of his house well enough that it made no difference.
"Kaylin, dear, I'm home," he called out softly, making his way back to the bedroom.
There was no answer. Perhaps she was already asleep. His eyes were starting to adjust to the darkness as he turned the corner into the room. He paused. Two dark shapes stood at the far side of the bed. A third dark mass lay at the head of the bed.
"Kaylindrra?"
A pair of hands grabbed Gromann's right arm and jerked him into the room. Four small globes of green-white light sprang to life across the bed, revealing the four gnomes who drove the caravan: Drom, Merem, Furnis, and Sudo. Drom sat on the bed next to Kaylindrra, his hand over her mouth and a knife resting against her neck. Her eyes were wide and darting wildly.
"What is going on? In the name of Garl Glittergold, if this is some kind of prank____"
"Oh, it's no prank, old man," Merem said. The glow from the lights cast eerie shadows across his face and made the tone of his skin seem sickly. "And we are not who you think."
Merem lifted a crystal amulet, which Gromann just then noticed, from around his neck. As he did so, his form seemed to distort and grow, until a human towered there, wrapped in a hooded cloak.
" Wh-what do you want? "
"You are going to show us where we can find the lair of this dragon you call the Unseen Protector."
"I don't know what you're talking about. That's just a bedtime story told to children."
Kaylindrra squealed from behind her captor's hand as he pressed the knife against her skin hard enough to draw a drop of blood.
"Don't test my patience. We know there is a dragon that protects your caravans, your village. And we know that in your stories, the dragon has revealed himself to the elders. If the dragon is real, then perhaps that is true as well.
"In fact, I'm willing to bet your little woman's life that it is. What do you say? Am I right, and you'll take us on a late night stroll? Or does your wife die?"
"No, no. You're right," Gromann pleaded. "I can lead you to him. Just don't hurt her. Don't hurt my Kaylin."
"Tie her up," the man who had been Merem said to the one who looked like Drom. He hung the crystal amulet around his neck once more and quickly turned back into Merem. "We don't want anybody to know what we're about just yet."
Gromann watched through teary eyes as Kaylin was bound to the bed and gagged. Then the false Merem pushed him out of the room.
"Is there a back door out of this place? " He asked as the rest of the false gnomes filed out behind him. Gromann nodded and led them out of his house through the kitchen.
They made their way quietly through the village with only the night stars as witness. The festivities were all but over and no one was out and about so far from the green. Gromann led them out of the valley and up into the foothills of Felrenden, desperately trying to remember where the ancient gold dragon had revealed himself, several years past. There was a cleft with an old statue of marble inside....
After a couple hours of searching, the man disguised as Merem jerked Gromann to a halt.
"Are we going to get there soon, old man? I hope you're not trying to stall or something."
"Please, it was a long time ago. I'm trying to remember. I'm not even sure if this is his only lair."
"Well, hurry up. This is taking too long."
He let Gromann go and they started walking again. A few minutes later, and Gromann thought he recognized an outcropping of rock.
"I think this is it," the elder exclaimed.
Excitement stirred within his breast at a sudden thought. If the Unseen Protector did show himself, if Gromann had found his lair, it seemed likely the gold would make short work of the men. Gromann quickly hid his grin.
"This? It's nothing but an overhang with some odd bits of art and other trinkets laying around." The false Merem did not sound convinced. "What are you trying to pull, old man?"
"The Unseen Protector has no need for a home like mere mortals. He is invisible and without form, appearing only when he is ready to strike." Gromann couldn't help but slip into his storyteller voice.
"Save your fireside showmanship for the children," Merem snorted. "All right, let's get set up," he ordered the others. "I'll summon the Archmage Arcane."
He removed the crystal amulet and was once again human. From a pouch on his belt, he produced a small stone and stood silently for a moment, holding it in the palm of his hand. Then he returned it to his pouch and took a few steps backward.
A brilliant white light flashed into existence where the man had stood. It began to expand in an oval until it was seven feet tall, energy crackling at its edges. Once its growth stabilized, a foot emerged, followed by a knee, and the rest of a heavily armored man. Not two seconds after, a form bent with age
hobbled out, his bald crown ringed by long, white hair leading the way. A handful of other humans brought up the rear, dressed in a similar fashion as the one who had summoned them. The portal closed with another flash.
"You have done well, Daikon," the old man said as he directed the others to begin setting up some strange rods around the cleft.
"Thank you, Master."
"Now, who do we have here?" The old man came to stand before Gromann. Bent over as he was, he stood only a little taller than the gnome.
"I am Froga Gromann, elder of Ieirithymbul." Gromann straightened, pride in his voice.
"So you are, so you are." He patted Gromann's head patronizingly then turned back to the others and said, "Are we ready? Daikon, please position the bait. Quickly, now. The dragon should be arriving any minute. I made sure our arrival was suitably announced."
Daikon dragged Gromann a few feet until they were in the middle of the circle of rods that had been planted into the ground. He used the amulet again to transform into Merem and drew a dagger from his belt.
"Night, night, old one."
He swung the hilt at Gromman's head and everything went black.
Palarandusk drifted, invisible and intangible, up the hillside toward where he had seen the flash of light. The little one, Burlmarr, should have been home in bed by then. An interesting gnome, that one. Palarandusk would have to keep his eye on him.
As he climbed into the foothills, the dragon realized he was nearing one of his many stashes of treasure that were hidden
around the valley of Felrenden. Then he saw the two gnomes huddled at the base of an outcropping. He surged forward, worry growing in his heart. One of the gnomes looked hurt.
When he was within a few feet, Palarandusk slowly materialized his head. One of the gnomes shrieked. The other, older gnome lay motionless. Palarandusk could see a large bruise forming on the side of his head. Was that Elder Gromann?
"Do not be afraid, little one," said the dragon. "Are you hurt?"
"Y-yes," the young gnome stammered, "I-I mean, no. I'm fine, but Elder Gromann is hurt. I came to find him when his wife said he hadn't come home from the celebration."
"What was that flash of light?"
"I don't know. I just got here myself and found Elder Gromann lying on the ground. I can't get him to wake up. Can you help us?"
"Let me see what I can do."
Palarandusk moved forward and began to materialize fully. A scent in the air stopped him. There were men about. Palarandusk had been the target of adventurers seeking trophies before. Perhaps the elder had been kidnapped by them to use as bait. In which case, he had walked right into their trap. In fact, he then noticed the rods spaced at intervals around the outcropping.
"Fool, it is too late. There will be no escape." The young gnome had become a human wrapped in a hooded cloak, slinking toward the edge of the ring.
"Erans ne!" another voice cried out to Palarandusk's left.
The dragon whirled to face it. Recognizing the command phrase, he began to dematerialize. Arcs of energy shot toward him from the ends of the rods, each arc a different color. As they neared the dragon, rather than striking him, they encircled him from his snout to the tip of his tail. He was suddenly solid again, and he couldn't move.
"Welcome, great Palarandusk." The old man who had shouted the Draconic words came forward to stand in front of the dragon at the perimeter of the snare. "You have been bound in an anti-magic stasis field. You are immobile, cut off from the Weave. You are mine. I could kill you, if I wished.
"Fortunately, you have something I need. I know that you possess magic from the fallen Empire of Netheril. I know you have used that magic to prolong your life. As you can see, I am not exactly young anymore." The man chuckled at his own joke. "In exchange for the magic you used, I will set you free."
Burlmarr tiptoed into his home. It was a few hours before sunrise, and he'd hear no end of it if he woke his parents. He slipped off his shoes and trousers and snuggled under the covers. There was too much to think about to fall right to sleep, however. He had spent the last few hours—he had lost track of just how long—talking with the Unseen Protector. He still couldn't believe he had spoken with a dragon, let alone a childhood-story-come-true.
The subject of their conversation had been just as amazing. Palarandusk had questioned him extensively about his sickness and his ability to apparently link to the dragon's senses of sight and hearing. After casting several spells, it had been determined that the ability was not magical in nature. Palarandusk knew of some individuals who had learned to manifest mental powers through a regimen of strict discipline that took months, even years of subconscious scrutiny and introspection. That Burlmarr did so without such training meant he was likely some sort of "wilder." The sickness was probably a symptom of his inability to control the power, a result of overtaxing his mind. It would lessen—and eventually go away, Burlmarr hoped—as his mastery over the ability grew.
That still left the reason of why Palarandusk was the target of the link. It might have been because of the place the Unseen Protector held in the subconscious of Ieirithymbul, but the dragon had never been more than bedtime tales to Burlmarr. Palarandusk felt it was more likely connected to the various spells that sustained him. Perhaps one or more of them were natural attractants of mental energy.
Burlmarr yawned and rolled onto his side. All his thinking had finally exhausted his mind. His eyes were dry and his eyelids heavy. He quit trying to keep them open.
No sooner were his eyes closed than he began to dream. He was up in the hills surrounding the valley the gnomes called home. It was night, but the area was lit by arcs of multi-colored energy. The arcs held him trapped, staring straight into the face of a bent old man.
Burlmarr sat bolt upright in bed. It wasn't a dream. Palarandusk was in trouble. He leaped out of bed and pulled his pants on. His mother rushed into his room as he was fastening the laces of his shoes.
"Is everything all right? Are you sick, Burlmarr?"
"I'm fine, Mother. I have to go."
"But it's the middle of the night."
"I'm sorry. A friend's in trouble. I'll explain later."
He brushed past her and raced out the door.
As Burlmarr climbed out of the valley, his pace began to slow, allowing his thoughts to catch up with his actions. Questions crept forward from the back of his mind. How was he going to find Palarandusk? He hadn't recognized anything in the quick view he got from the dragon's perspective. What was he going to do when he got there? He was no great hero, like Ardabad, Braeder, or Pheldaer. He could barely control what little power he did have. If something was powerful
enough to capture the great dragon, what hope did he have against it?
Burlmarr shook his head, trying to break free from the doubts. It didn't matter. Palarandusk was his friend. He would find a way to help.
At least locating the dragon wouldn't really be a problem. Burlamarr could see a flickering, multi-colored light in the distance already. It was probably the energy that held Palarandusk.
After another hour of walking and climbing, Burlmarr ducked behind a boulder only a few yards away from Palarandusk and his captors. He couldn't tell if the dragon was in any sort of pain, but he knew he probably didn't have long to think of something. He had to disrupt the arcs of energy.
A rod shooting forth an arc of red energy stood just a short distance from where Burlmarr hid. Next to it, though, was an armored man with a greatsword strapped to his back. He was facing away from Burlmarr, but the gnome knew there was no way he could reach the rod without being seen. If only there was some way he could distract the man. Burlmarr considered one of the minor illusions he could create, but he didn't want to draw anyone else's attention with sounds or light.
At his wit's end, Burlmarr sat back and growled in frustration. He didn't come all that way just to be useless. He would think of something if he had to beat his head against the boulder until the sun came up.
That was it. He would use his head. If he had the ability to link with someone else's senses, perhaps he could temporarily shut those senses down. All he needed was a few seconds in which to race out and tear up the rod.
Not sure exactly how to proceed, Burlmarr focused on the armored man and reached out with his mind. He was surprised when he actually touched something. It was like a bundle of emotions and memories. The sensation almost overwhelmed Burlmarr and he pulled back instinctively.
Taking a deep breath, he probed again, and found another bundle. As soon as he touched it, he could smell sweat mixed with metal, feel the weight of steel plates on his shoulders, and hear the crackling of energy. Smiling with success, Burlmarr imagined each and every one of those senses shut off, and the sensations disappeared. He realized then that the emotions and memories were no longer there, either. It was as if the man's entire brain had shut down.
Without a moment to waste, Burlmarr sprinted for the rod and yanked it out of the ground with all his might. The arc of red energy sputtered and went out.
Burlmarr stood basking in his triumph, the rod held aloft. From the corner of his eye, he caught movement and turned. There was a sharp crack and Burlmarr fell backward to the ground, the rod in his hands cleanly cloven in two. The armored man had shaken off whatever Burlmarr had done to him, drawn his sword, and swung at the gnome. Only the fact that he had been holding the rod above his head when he turned had saved him, the stout shaft deflecting the blade.
The armored man advanced on Burlmarr, and the gnome scrambled backward on the ground. In two long strides, the man was on the gnome and thrust his sword through Burlmarr's stomach, pinning him to the dirt. Burlmarr screamed in agony, blood flecking his lips.
From behind him, he heard Palarandusk roar. A huge shadow enveloped him, and he saw the dragon's jaws snap over the armored man, biting him in two. A chant began to Burlmarr's right and he turned his head to see the bent old man waving a staff before him.
"I don't think so," said the dragon. "I've had enough of your magic tonight."
Palarandusk began speaking rapidly in his own tongue. He finished first and a funnel of whirling wind appeared above the old man. It quickly descended upon him, beating him to the ground. When it finally touched down, it picked the old
wizard up and swung him around inside its funnel, finally flinging him screaming into the night. Palarandusk then charged off in another direction, and Burlmarr heard shrieks that were silenced by the whoosh of flames.
Burlmarr's feet grew cold and he made an attempt to pull the blade from his midsection, but his strength was gone. He laid back, coughing up more blood. The stars in the night sky were growing dim, though Burlmarr was sure it was still a few hours before dawn. He blinked, and a scaly paw appeared above him. It grasped the sword hilt between its claws and removed the weapon. Another paw gently scooped up the gnome and brought him face to face with Palarandusk.
"I am sorry, little one. I would not have wished harm to come to you even if it meant my death." Tears where forming in the dragon's eyes. "I have no magic that would heal you. All I can do is promise that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. May Garl Glittergold give you a place of honor in the Golden Hills."
Burlmarr smiled at his friend, and closed his eyes.
A TALL TALE J.L. Collins
The Year of the Tankard (1370 DR)
Flickering torches mounted on a pair of poles were the only guide for their eyes as they approached the decrepit barn. Once used for storage for the remote lumber camp, it had become home to old, worn out equipment, hay, and as refuge once a year for a peculiar traveling caravan.
They approached in silence, their voices having fallen in unsure expectation of what might await them inside. Myth, legend, rumors, each they knew well enough, but would they actually see what lived only in their imaginations? In their nightmares? The forest was quiet, and though their feet knew the paths and treeswell, their pace slowed, expectation turning to hesitation leading only to doubt, and fear.
The peeling paint and warped wood walls, once
comforting reminders of seasons past, had become as eerie as the walls of a crumbled keep, with secrets etched into every stone. More than once they looked over their shoulders for eyes that were not there. They knew it was foolishness to expect to find anyone else in their isolated home, yet on that night they did not feel alone at all____
"I've seen a dragon!" exclaimed Nollo, an excited grin evident on his young face.
The three other boys, along with the half-elf girl, exchanged looks ranging from amusement to irritation at the claim. McDodd, as expected, was the first to voice his disbelief.
"The closest thing you've seen to a dragon, wagon-boy, is a sand snake bitin' you in your rear when you dropped your breeches to wet the sand!" The biggest of the boys, McDodd often used his size to intimidate the others into agreeing with him. It rarely worked.
Craster giggled, and though he was as small and skinny as Nollo he was filthy compared to the young boy's groomed appearance. His laugh regularly followed McDodd's biting remarks. Nollo frowned at McDodd's rebuttal. Though a few years younger, he did not back down from the larger boy's taunts.
"I have too seen a dragon. I even fed it! And they're called wyrms!" Nollo bit back the rest of his reply, as though realizing he might be saying too much.
McDodd inhaled, preparing another sarcastic remark when Kirsk held up his hand, causing the bigger boy to exhale sharply.
"What? You think he's actually tellin' the truth? He's as big a liar as his father," McDodd said.
He couldn't resist challenging Kirsk's attempt to silence him. Though physically bigger, McDodd stopped short of
intimidating him into agreement, as Kirsk's quiet confidence unnerved the braggart. Kirsk glanced at the half-elf girl Syndar, catching her gaze with his deep blue, nearly black eyes, before turning back to Nollo.
"Tell us about your dragon, Nollo, and what you fed it." Kirsk's words were spoken with a gentle encouragement.
Nollo smiled and said, "I gave it deer meat, and some fish left over from my father's cooking pot. It was really hungry, so I stole another fish from the bucket, feeding it to him whole. His teeth were so big, he bit it in half and swallowed both bites at once!"
Nollo used his fingers to mimic the gaping jaws of his dinner companion.
McDodd could not hold back. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, and Craster says a lot of stupid things."
Craster started laughing at McDodd's comment then sheepishly scratched the back of his neck with his black fingernails. He looked the beggar in his tattered breeches and patchwork tunic.
McDodd continued, "Everyone knows dragons eat cows, horses, and elves. Especially elves." His mouth turned into a cruel smile as he leered at Syndar.
She met McDodd's gaze evenly and said, "The only stupid one McDodd is you. A dragon wouldn't even eat you because you're so stupid. Dragons eat wild animals that roam too close to their lair. They even raid the occasional orchard if they want some sweet fruit. My mother told me about dragons from a book she keeps." Syndar spoke with the voice of a girl trying to be a woman, surrounded by boys who were not yet men. Kirsk smiled as she stuck her tongue out at McDodd who was shaking his head.
"Explain to me again why we let her up in our tree? Fruit? Is she saying dragons eat fruit? I think elves have fruit between their ears. It rots, becoming soft and mushy." McDodd gestured to his ear as he spoke. "Your mother won't know, she
left the elven kingdoms to come live in a stupid boring lumber camp. I doubt she even owns a book. What good are books in a lumber camp? Next you're going to say that she's still teachin' you magic too, right?"
"She is you dullard! One day I'll turn you into toad and you'll beg me to turn you back, but I won't, because all I'll hear is some stupid frog and I'll kick you into a puddle and forget all about you."
Syndar's face turned an angry pink, and though blessed with the ageless beauty and grace of her elf mother, she already demonstrated the temper and strong-willed nature of her human father.
Kirsk intervened. "Leave it be, McDodd. If Syndar says she knows magic, then one day she'll show us. Nollo is our guest in the tree, let him finish his story."
Kirsk waited for McDodd to press the issue, but the bully relented, glaring before punching Nollo in the arm.
"You heard 'im. So what else did your dragon eat? Some of those stupid animals your father tries passing off as monsters? He should be arrested."
Nollo rubbed his arm. "No, he curled up and went to sleep."
Kirsk's curiosity got the better of him. "Nollo, dragons don't usually eat fish fed to them by humans. Why didn't the dragon didn't eat you instead?"
"Because he was caged," Nollo said. "I wouldn't feed a dragon if it wasn't caged. That's stupid."
His reply was so immediate, Kirsk almost believed him.
Craster laughed again, prompting McDodd to punch him.
"A cage?" McDodd pressed. "I doubt you saw a dragon in a cage. They happen to be as big as a castle and fly so high you can't see them."
McDodd waited for the boy's reply then looked surprised when Syndar supported the braggart.
"Nollo, that's a tall tale and you know it," she said. "Dragons
are too strong. If they can carry a horse and rider into the air, they could break out of a cage pretty easy."
She smiled at the young boy, as if to encourage his story while keeping him honest.
Nollo sighed, staring out as a warm breeze wafted through the framed window of the tree house. A lantern on the floor cast shadows along the wall.
"You can keep them in cages if they're small enough," Nollo replied, his voice so quiet the others almost missed it.
"What do you mean small enough?" Kirsk persisted. "You mean like a baby dragon?"
Nollo glanced up, nervous, nodding slowly.
Kirsk smiled and asked, "Where is this baby dragon then?"
Nollo pulled a knife from the pocket of his soft breeches. Elegantly dressed with his embroidered shirt, he wiped some dirt from his polished boots and notched the wood by his feet.
"Not 'posed to say," he said. "My pappy would get mad."
McDodd opened his mouth, but Syndar spoke first. "Was it one of the carnivals back east? You said your father took you 'round the southern edge of the desert. My mother says tribes of men and wandering tent cities live within sight of the sands. Is that where you saw it?"
Nollo shook his head in silent disagreement, stabbing at the floor of the tree house.
To the surprise of all, Craster uttered their unspoken question: "You sayin' yer pappy got a caged dragon up in that barn?"
Nollo looked up too quickly, his expression betraying him.
"Who told you that?" the boy asked. "There's no dragon, I just... I saw one once. You're lying!"
Kirsk reached out a calloused hand to Nollo's shoulder and said, "It's all right Nollo, we know what's in the barn. Every year you and your father spend a tenday restocking for the
journey west toward the Sword Coast. Every year we share tales, and every year you tell us about the beasts, wizards, and barbarians you encounter. We don't care if it's true, we just like your stories. It's better than listening to McDodd burp and break wind everyday, for sure."
Both Syndar and Craster laughed, causing the bigger boy to turn red, threatening Kirsk with a punch. Craster switched sides and encouraged the fight.
"Yeah, knock 'im, McDodd. Knock his teeth in!"
Syndar rolled her eyes, and Kirsk sat motionless, familiar with the bully's threats.
"One day, Kirsk," McDodd threatened even as he lowered his arm. "One day you'll get what's coming."
Ignoring the bully, Kirsk regarded Nollo and said, "Tell us about the barn. Your father must have something special if you aren't supposed to tell anyone. What is it? A talking bird? You swore once you had a talking bird, but when we went to see it, he just pooped in Craster's hair. That was funny, only because Craster did all the talking."
Syndar giggled at the familiar story, and McDodd punched Craster in the arm just because.
"Nothin' special. Just... animals," Nollo mumbled, looking out the window.
McDodd finally found a target for his frustration. "Ha! Just like the time you told us you had a beholder—a floating eye sack that could turn us to stone. 'Cept when we arrived, it wasn't floating, or wavin' its eyes around. Just some pumpkins that grew into a giant pumpkin, with a rotted hole for a mouth, and stems you swore were once eye stalks. Last year, you swore your pap had a drow girl in a cage. Syndar was so scared she wouldn't go into the barn. She believed you, but I knew better. Funny how the evil dark elf was actually Grapper's daughter covered in dirt and soot. A chimney sweep's daughter paid to pretend she was drow. Your pappy is so cheap, he didn't even give her fake ears!"
McDodd laughed with Craster joining in. Teh, yer pap is cheap! And stupid!"
Nollo flushed red, his embarrassment becoming anger at the taunts.
"You're all just stupid tree-cutters!" Nollo shouted. "You wouldn't know a dwarf from a gnome from a halfling. I have fed a dragon. I did it tonight. And I said they're called wyrms!"
He stopped his outburst, seeing looks of surprise from the four local youth. They had never heard him so angry before.
"I... I should go," Nollo said. "My pappy is mad if I'm late two nights in a row."
As he started for the rope ladder hanging from the side of the tree house, Kirsk's gentle hand paused him.
"Do you really have a baby dragon in the barn?"
Nollo stammered out his reply. "Y-yes."
"Well, I give the kid respect," said McDodd. "Three lies in three years, and each bigger than the last."
Kirsk looked back to Syndar, who voiced everyone's thoughts: "Let's go see it."
Nollo shook his head and said, "No! I promised my pappy I wouldn't tell. It's his big surprise for carnival this year. Every year he gets mad when no one comes to see his animals, so he said he'll get something so special, they'll beg him to stay and run the show all year long. Please, I won't be able to sit for a month if he finds out."
The others looked to each other as McDodd said, "I'll go, just to prove what a liar you are."
Nollo looked to Kirsk, his expression changing as a new thought emerged.
"If he thinks I'm a liar, then I'll prove him wrong. 'Cept you all have to pay a coin each to see it. Two if you want a touch." Nollo grinned, secure in the knowledge his father couldn't be sore if he turned profit like he was taught to.
Craster whined, "I ain't got no coins."
McDodd punched him, right in the same spot, and said, "Yer stupid. We ain't payin' no coins to see a lizard in a cage. I'll bet you it's a lizard with wings of cloth, 'cause his pap is stupid and cheap."
Craster winced as he rubbed his arm. "Yeh, stupid and cheap."
Kirsk shared a secret smile with Syndar before gesturing to the open night before them.
"Here's the deal Nollo," he said. "You take us to the barn, and show us your dragon. We'll pay you a coin each if we agree it's real." McDodd started to swear but Syndar pinched him as Kirsk finished, "In fact, if you have any fish left, I'll pay an extra coin to feed it myself. Is that fair, 0 carnival master?"
Nollo smiled at the title, swinging onto the ladder. "Sure is! Better count your fingers though, you might not have them all when you're done!"
The young boy nimbly climbed down as Kirsk helped Syndar find her footing on the ladder. The pair exchanged another glance as Craster blew out the lantern, the night swallowing them.
Nollo led them to the warped peeling doors of the barn, wincing as the rusted hinges moaned when opened. Inside, the musty smell of hay, horses, and lantern oil greeted them. Poorly lit, they could hear the whinny of the caravan horses. Nollo crept forward, taking them around the back of one of the wagons, to a shroud-covered cage.
Nollo turned back to face them and said, "Remember, one coin each for a look, two if you want to touch it."
McDodd shook his fist as he spoke. "I'll give you two of something else if you don't hurry up."
Nollo ignored the threat, puffing out his chest in preparation for his performance. "In all the realms there is no monster so
fearsome, no danger so... so... dangerous, no beast so horrible that they cause fear by their very name!"
Nollo gestured grandly as Syndar whispered to Kirsk, "Can a dragon be fearsome and horrible at the same time?"
Kirsk smirked as Nollo's voice rose. "Cast away your eyes gentle folk, for you dare not see what I am about to show..."
But McDodd had had enough. He pushed the smaller boy out of the way, and grabbed the shroud and yanked it off, revealing a battered steel cage. The bars were warped from repeated blows, and the top of the cage was punctured from dozens of rents and tears. The cage was more fascinating than the mottled brown creature curled up inside it. Dull scales adorned the torso, and a long thick tail curled tight to the sleeping body.
"Gods, the stink!" McDodd said as he wrinkled his nose in disgust. "That's the ugliest lizard I ever saw."
Nollo unsuccessfully tried pushing the burly McDodd back.
"It's a dragon you axe-head, and you're the one that stinks."
Syndar crept close, studying the creature as it stirred at the noise. One reptilian eye popped open, surveying the group. The beast opened its tooth-filled snout, a leathery tongue sliding out in a lazy yawn.
Nollo said, "See? No lizard has that many teeth. Them's dragon teeth. Stick your finger in and see for yourself. Just make sure you have enough fingers left to count your coins."
Kirsk smiled at Nollo's bluster, and looked to Syndar.
She shrugged, looked back to the cage, and said, "I've only read about them in my mother's book, I've never seen one. I expected it to be... to be..."
McDodd finished her thought. "Bigger, right? A dragon is as big as this barn, not smaller than my dog."
As if in answer, the creature let out a cry that sounded more like a squawk than a roar. Its tail flipped back and forth for a moment, rattling the cage, and it sent an expectant look Nollo's way. Disappearing behind another wagon, Nollo returned, struggling to carry a bucket stinking of day old fish. Grabbing one of the slimy offerings, he hoisted it toward the cage.
McDodd stole it from his hand. "Good thing this isn't really a dragon, you'd be too weak to even care for it."
As McDodd slid the fish through the bars of the cage, the creature grew more animated. Syndar and Kirsk looked at each other as a thin membrane momentarily unfolded from the side of the body before disappearing against the scales once more.
McDodd wasn't finished having his fun, and as the creature opened its mouth to take the fish, he snatched it back, laughing.
Nollo, furious, made a grab for the fish. "Don't tease it. Give it back!"
Kirsk started to complain, but McDodd drowned him out. "Ha! A dragon would'a ripped the fish right from my hands. They move so fast yer dead before you even see them. This is just a lazy, fat lizard."
McDodd held Nollo away with one hand, slowly swinging the fish in his other.
"McDodd, stop," Syndar said, but her warning fell on deaf ears.
"I'm helping it hunt, see?" the bully said. "It's moving its neck now."
McDodd swatted at the snout, landing a blow that caught the creature on the end of its nose. It croaked as it pulled back, a surprisingly dexterous claw pawing its face. It shuddered before sliding its neck back as McDodd leaned closer to the cage, laughing as the creature struggled to escape the smell. Kirsk had just decided it was time for that fight between him and McDodd, when the beast sneezed, sudden and violent.
A burst of flame shot from its mouth, promptly igniting McDodd's hair.
McDodd stood straight up, his hair smoking, then screamed as though he had seen the dead walk.
"Put it out! Put it out! Put it out!" he shouted as he ran in circles, swatting at his head.
Craster stood dumbfounded. Syndar burst into hysterical laughter, as Nollo ran to the cage to check on the wyrmling. Kirsk could only stare as his lips curled into a horrified smile.
"It's burning! It's burning! It's burning!" McDodd screamed. He continued his frantic running, still smacking the top of his head.
Kirsk overcame his amused shock, yelling at Craster to grab a bucket that sat on the floor of the barn beside a trough. The two boys scooped their buckets into the water as McDodd screamed that he'd kill them all, running toward Kirsk and Craster. In one fluid motion, he bent over at the waist to expose the top of his head, just as Kirsk threw the water where McDodd's head used to be. Craster stumbled into McDodd at the same moment, drenching the bully from the waist down. Kirsk's water splattered uselessly on the floor behind the bully.
McDodd shrieked, his head smoldering. The captive dragon grew excited at the boy's terror, struggling against the confines of the cage.
Syndar steadied herself as she caught her breath, then noted the ends of her hair standing straight out from her head. She reached a hand to them even as Nollo felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. Kirsk and Craster were too busy swatting at McDodd to notice, and McDodd was too busy swatting back in pain and anger.
Nollo jumped back from the cage as the wyrmling's excitement turned to violent rebellion. It began ramming its head against the top if the cage as hard as it ever had.
A low hum sounded inside the barn, and Syndar tried to speak, her voice lost as the buzzing intensified. Her hair stood up even more, as did the boys', then the buzzing stopped.
Their world exploded in a shower of wood and debris.
The entire rear wall of the barn burst inward, the cries of the baby dragon lost as a massive shadow stepped into view. They all saw the horn-tipped snout at the end of a scaled neck that opened to reveal a row of horrifying fangs. The bellow started low and guttural, rising to a roar of unbridled fury. Blue scales glistened in the fragments of light from the moon that shone through the missing wall and roof.
McDodd sat up, many feet from where he had been standing, unaware that the blast of wind had finally extinguished his head. His favorite weapon, a quick tongue and blustering threats, were useless to him.
For a moment there was silence, then the rending sound of metal signaled the wyrmling had burst free from its cage.
That sound was followed by another roar from the blue dragon, causing them all to clutch their ears. One heavy claw from the blue ripped open the wagon, revealing a ruined cage and an unconscious Nollo lying amidst the debris. The blue had no appetite for the human boy, and snapped its head at the sound of clawed feet that scurried across the floor.