by Paul Cude
"What on earth are you talking about?" asked the old shopkeeper, puzzled.
"You mean to say you don't know about the explosion?"
"I haven't a clue what you're going on about," replied Gee Tee, none the wiser.
Tank went on to explain what had happened and how Flash, at this very moment, was on a mission for the king, almost certainly investigating it in some way, shape or form, at least that was the conclusion that he and Peter had formed on their way home from Pudding Lane station. Gee Tee was so taken aback that Tank had to help him into the workshop so that he could sit down.
* * *
Leaning against the wall, he watched the last of them leave, despondently, all looking devastated, broken almost. It was odd. He'd thought that on some level they'd be pleased; after all, it wasn't every day that you got to stay in one of the most upmarket dragon hotels, the bill for everything picked up by the council. But they weren't pleased... far from it in fact. Drawing the only conclusion possible, that they couldn't take any of their belongings with them and that it was the middle of the night, perhaps the cover story, the reason for them having to move, was playing on their minds as well, much as it was on his.
Pretty routine, that's how his evening had been, up until the call anyway. After that, it was a non-stop blur. But when the king himself gets in touch, what else can you do? So he'd gotten himself over to Westchester as quick as was dragonly possible. It hadn't taken long from the New York office he'd been in. Once at the apartment block, he'd roused all the residents of the eighth floor, all bar one, anyway. On his way there, he'd cast a little mantra. It was nothing fancy, well... not for him. Quite dull in fact, and mainly used as a distraction, with it designed to make random noises, some soft, some loud, banging, clicking, clonking, whizzing... almost every sound imaginable. With this in place, he set about convincing the residents that an infestation of African transmorphic millipedes had taken over the eighth floor and that their lives were in very real danger. It hadn't taken long to convince them, not with his credentials. And so they left at a moment's notice, not allowed to take anything with them, escorted to one of the best hotels in the area. Shaking his head knowingly, it wasn't the first time he'd used the old 'African transmorphic millipede' routine. Of course they weren't real... there was no such thing. But if you dug deep enough into the dragon database, it was possible to come up with some information on them, particularly how deadly they were... even to dragons! Ruses just like that played an important part in backing up some of the necessary cover stories that the King's Guard would occasionally have to put out.
Making sure all the occupants had left, he checked the mantra surrounding the only apartment that had not been evacuated, as he'd been asked to do by the monarch himself. It was solidly sealed.
'Whoever cast this,' he thought, 'certainly knew what they were doing.'
With that, he checked that the lift was powered down and then headed off to make sure the guards on the stairwell understood their orders that no one was allowed on the eighth floor, no one but the king himself.
* * *
It had been quite a dizzying half hour for the old shopkeeper. Laminium ball and bombs... he'd never heard anything quite like it. But given everything that they knew... vote rigging on the council, nagas, dark dragons and prisoners in the Antarctic... nothing should have surprised him. Still... it did! It was a bold move from the nagas, if indeed it was them, and one he considered particularly hard to pull off.
The smell of freshly boiled charcoal preceded Tank into the workshop, forcing Gee Tee to sit up in his chair, his long, discoloured tail wriggling about on the floor behind him as he did so. Tank handed him one of the swirling mugs of steaming hot charcoal. Inhaling deeply, the master mantra maker savoured the aroma, before a frown creased his forehead.
"What else is in here?" he enquired quizzically.
Tank looked up at the ceiling as he replied,
"I'm not sure."
"Hmmm," muttered the shopkeeper, sticking a long, scaly finger deep into the dark, churning liquid.
Tank shook his head at the old dragon's impatience.
"Ahhhhhh," uttered the master mantra maker, pulling out a perfectly formed, pink marshmallow, the size of a tennis ball. "Lovely!" With one quick flick of his finger, the marshmallow rocketed up into the air, performed a sedate loop just below the ceiling and, once gravity had got hold, headed back towards the gaping chasm that was now the shopkeeper's wide open mouth. As soon as it was in reach, his jaws snapped shut.
"So... what do you think?" reiterated Tank.
Forgetting all about his delicious sugary treat, the old dragon considered the question carefully before he replied.
"From what you've told me, that bomb was clearly designed to cause maximum devastation, and if not for... whatshisname...?"
"Steel," put in Tank.
"If not for Steel's brave actions, then by all accounts it would have succeeded."
Both paused momentarily, taking long draughts from their dragon sized mugs. Tank looked ill at ease in his human form (something Gee Tee had now come to accept in the shop, despite his initial protests), holding in his lap a mug twice the size of his head.
"What I can't understand is why any dragon would do such a thing. The death toll could have been catastrophic."
"To spread confusion, chaos, fear and panic no doubt," replied the old shopkeeper. "Why else?"
"But what sort of dragon could do such a thing?"
Waving the index finger of his free hand at his young employee, he began to shake his head.
"Think, my boy. You so nearly had it."
Tank's brow creased fervently, so much so that the lines across it resembled furrows ploughed in a field. Across the room, his boss was still admonishing him.
'What sort of... dragon?' Tank thought to himself. And then it came to him, well... sort of.
"Oh, so if not a dragon... then who?"
"Not necessarily 'who' youngster, but... 'what'?"
Pausing, Tank thought hard about what the old dragon had just said.
"What on earth could possibly threaten the dragon domain in such a way?" The more he thought about it, the more impossible it seemed.
"Put the pieces together," whispered Gee Tee cryptically. "Your friend is the key."
This practically gave it away.
"PETER! So you think Manson's behind it all?"
Pulling in a shallow breath, the master mantra maker took another slurp from the giant mug in front of him.
"Interestingly, I was talking about Flash. But now that you come to mention it, perhaps Manson is behind it all."
"I'm not quite sure I follow."
"I was thinking that the whole laminium ball thing seemed so un-dragon-like. And as you so rightly pointed out, what kind of dragon would do such a thing? But what if it wasn't a dragon at all? So, if not a dragon... who, or what, else could it be? I'm inclined to recall Flash's not so happy encounter in the Antarctic."
"You think the nagas were responsible?"
"It does kind of make sense, well... from a certain point of view. But now you've mentioned Manson, I do wonder if they're not in it together."
"How so?"
"Well, think about it. Almost certainly the nagas would have no qualms about using a bomb to wreak havoc on the dragon population. It would probably be relatively easy for them to co-opt a dragon by blackmail or some other means, given that they have little in the way of morals. Once that's done... BOOM!"
"But what about Manson?"
"Remember what Flash told the king, youngster. The naga king is being held against his will in the Antarctic. What if Manson is in some way blackmailing the nagas in an effort to make them do his bidding, using them as tools to attack the dragon domain? It wouldn't be totally beyond the realms of possibility."
Picking all the pitch black boulders of charcoal out from the bottom of his mug, Tank slipped them between his lips. Because they'd been in the drink, they dissolved seductively on
the journey from his mouth to his stomach, creating a kind of slippery bliss. After much consideration, he turned his attention back to his employer.
"I suppose it does kind of fit. But if that's the case, does it mean that the nagas are here amongst us? Can they take on dragon form? That seems unlikely, doesn't it?"
"I grant you unlikely, but nevertheless... possible. There are areas in and around the larger dragon cities across the world where they could disappear without any real trouble. Given the right contacts and enough money, pretty much anything's possible."
"And if the nagas were behind the laminium ball bomb, shouldn't we contact the king, or at least try and investigate it ourselves?"
"I'd bet a year's supply of top notch charcoal that young Flash is doing exactly that, even as we speak."
Nodding in agreement, the more Tank thought about it, the more everything the old shopkeeper said fitted perfectly into place. Wondering about whatever Flash was up to, he truly hoped his friend was okay.
"Speaking of the king," piped up Gee Tee, totally interrupting his employee's train of thought, "I've had an idea about counteracting the vote rigging that would appear to be going on in the council."
This piqued Tank's interest as it was something they'd been working on for some time now; creating a forgery of the ring was proving incredibly difficult.
"Go on," suggested Tank, keen to hear what the old dragon had come up with.
"If we are to assume that one of the 'dark' or 'light' outlawed objects in that room is responsible for what is happening, and is stealing the power it needs to operate by hijacking it from the king's ring, then what would happen if another, more powerful item were put on that particular shelf? One that would supersede the object already stealing power, one that would give the ring no choice but to offer up all of its power."
"Sounds great. Where on earth are we going to find such an object?"
Bursting into laughter, the shopkeeper's resonant booms bounced off the workshop's walls.
"Look around my boy," urged the shopkeeper, spreading his wings and opening his arms. "We have a veritable treasure trove of magical items, all of which can be adjusted to meet our needs."
Letting out a little chuckle, Tank knew the old shopkeeper was right. However, there was still one particular little problem.
"But how on earth do we get it into the council chamber?" he asked sceptically.
Flashing him a smile that was as wide as it was cunning, the old dragon replied,
"I do believe we're long overdue for one of our King's Guard inspections."
Shaking his head more in admiration than anything else, it was at times like this that Tank just sat back and marvelled at the true genius he knew his employer to be.
32 Tough As Steel
Clear liquid bubbled away inside a huge glass jar on a sterile white table. At the bottom of it lay half a dozen or so unrecognisable objects, looking like tiny black leaves which had been rescued from a forest fire. Where once they would have been flat, thick, strong and slightly pliable, the delicate objects were now curled right up, flimsy and thin. Unbelievably, they were scales... dragon scales! And they were the only ones remaining from the famous, heroic laminium ball playing dragon called... STEEL! Rescued by one of the on duty medics on that fateful day, he'd spotted them drifting on the surface of the furious bubbling lava, alongside the laminium ball star's broken and battered body. Recognising them for what they were, the quick thinking medic had scooped them up and immediately placed them in a sterile container, before helping to cart the barely living hero back to the medical centre. Now the scales remained locked away in this rarely visited room, part of a pioneering new experiment using new and untested mantras by the most eminent scientists from across the globe, under the direct orders of the king himself.
Two rooms down, in another deeply sterile room, what remained of the courageous laminium ball playing dragon clung limply onto life, his body a wreck, despite the ministrations of some of the best dragon physicians in the world. His scalded and burnt frame looked like the charred remains of an animal caught up in a burning building. Only the bones from the wing radius remained; the tissue from the wings themselves had disintegrated completely. Ribs were exposed and warped out of shape, as well as the caudal spade (the end of his tail that controls advanced aerobatics and in his case, used to hold and move the laminium ball) had been totally shattered and was missing. How he was clinging onto life was a mystery to all the medical staff. But somehow, against all odds... he was. And that was enough for now. All of them... surgeons, scientists, nurses, cleaners... were working around the clock, deep inside the secluded London medical facility that he'd been transferred to only days after the match. Things were looking bleak, bleaker than any of them had ever known. But they were buoyed and impressed with his desire to live and just hoped that they, like him, could live up to his name.
33 In Need of a King Sized Bed
Soft snoring echoed throughout the aisles in the single most magnificent library of its kind. Sitting slumped at a beautifully carved oak desk, situated in a tiny alcove off one of those aisles, the source's left hand was hanging limply down by his side, while his right hand had the slightest of grips on an exotic looking fountain pen made from brushed laminium, coloured blood red. Once a gift from an emissary to the current writer's predecessor, it had just finished writing the word 'urgent' on an expensive vellum sheet, nestled snugly on the table beneath tousled long grey strands of hair, before the writer had clearly dropped off, exhausted.
An hour or so later, he awoke with a start, the first thought running through his mind being exactly how terrible he felt. Sitting up, he dabbed at the drool that had spilt onto the vellum, with the sleeve of his robe. Rubbing his neck, it felt stiff, tense and knotted. Whispering a curse as he struggled to his feet, the muscles in his back and legs started to spasm. Casting the pain aside as a mere inconvenience, he picked up his precious pen and the beautifully crafted piece of vellum and headed for the nearest staircase. Reaching the ground floor, he headed on through to his private residence, briefly considering seeking out his bed. But there was too much to do, doubly so since that dreadful explosion at the laminium ball match. Since then he'd hardly had any sleep, hence his little visit to the land of nod, in the middle of replying to important correspondence.
Entering the expansive kitchen, he flicked the switch on the coffee machine and waited patiently for the caffeine boost that he so desperately needed. Despite everything on his mind, his thoughts turned to one bright light, the one being in all of this he was convinced he could trust... Flash! Despite his rather unfortunate human shaped condition, the ex-Crimson Guard had proved his worth many times over; in the brief time he'd been investigating the stadium bombing, he'd achieved more than the King's and Crimson Guards put together. With the apparent vote rigging, and now this, the world seemed to have turned on its head. Having Flash metaphorically by his side gave the king hope, hope for the future, hope that whatever evil was being perpetrated, it could be summarily defeated and banished for good.
Swigging some of the very strong coffee, he brushed his wavy, grey hair back behind his ears and ran through the list of things he had to do in his head, a list that got longer as each hour passed. Deep down inside he longed for the day when the list was but a distant memory, when he could saunter out amongst other dragons, and experience life as it should be.
34 Whistle While You Work
Brilliant bright sunshine set against the backdrop of a stunning blue sky, reflected every which way off the windscreen on his rather happy drive to work. For the most part, he liked being behind the wheel, often thinking that if he couldn't do the job he was in, he would have liked to have done something that involved driving. Not anything big, like container lorries or large vans, mind you. Just something that meant he could chauffeur a nice car around. On occasion, he'd found himself chatting to the engineer who regularly visited his office to repair and maintain his printer. From the man's descr
iption, it sounded like his job would suit Peter down to the ground: a company car, all that driving, not necessarily being your own boss, but being left to your own devices and able to use your own initiative. He could just see himself cruising along the motorway on a hot summer's day, window down, blazing hot sun warming the skin on his arm as it hung effortlessly out of the window, radio tuned to his favourite station.
Daydream slipping away as he flicked the indicator down to signal a right turn into Cropptech's main entrance, his smile remained as he gently applied the car's brakes, stopping directly in front of the red and white striped barrier. As a burly guard stepped forward, Peter fumbled with one hand for the security pass that had gotten tangled around his neck, while winding down the window with the other. By the time he'd completed those two relatively simple operations, a large grinning head much the same size as a basketball, loomed into view.
"Must be quite tricky, a man of your position, multitasking," stated a very formal voice, noticing Peter's lack of dexterity.
Fingers flapping about in a panic, Peter gazed up at his would be inquisitor... and let out a low chuckle.
"Fancy you being out here this morning. Aren't you supposed to be on toilet cleaning duty?" he replied, trying to remain as deadpan as possible.
"Nope! Checked all the toilets earlier. The cling film's all in position as it should be."
Covering his windscreen with spittle, Peter burst out laughing. The 'cling-film-on-the-toilet' trick was a renowned hockey player prank, as he'd found to his cost at a house party to which he'd been invited on first joining the hockey club, and he'd been on his guard at parties ever since. At least he'd managed to laugh about it... eventually. On one lonely nightshift that he'd helped to cover, that story and a few others, had come out, with his colleagues finding the whole incident hilarious, and not a week passed when it wasn't mentioned in some way, shape or form, particularly by the individual now leaning halfway through the car window, Peter's friend... OWEN!
