Bentwhistle the Dragon Box

by Paul Cude

  As the spider landed on the grass with a thud, the arachnids the old shopkeeper still had hold of all looked on, instantly becoming less volatile after having seen what had happened to their friend. With the seeds all gone, Gee Tee shoved the remaining spiders into one of the hidden pouches around his waist, smiled at his young friend and very slowly headed further into the passageway on the seed path, seeking the mysterious vault.

  Eventually they reached part of the tunnel where grass met rocky floor, having left both streams behind them. It was impossible for Peter to tell if they were the right way up, given all the times they'd circled the walls and floors, up to this point. Twice more, dandelion puffballs had hurled their seeds into the air at them, with Gee Tee plucking out and sacrificing spiders from his secret pouch, as before. Both times worked the same as the first, with the deadly arrow-like barbs of the seeds splintering the poor arachnids. Having reached the pure rock floor, the shopkeeper found the three remaining spiders and released them in quite a heartfelt, apologetic manner, given what he'd done to their friends, something Peter wouldn't have believed possible had he not seen it with his own eyes.

  Without a word, the old shopkeeper continued on round a sharp bend in the now rocky tunnel, no more than twenty yards from where they'd exited the grass. As the passageway opened out effectively into some kind of underground courtyard, Peter let out a tiny gasp at what lay before them.

  Deep within the recesses of Rome's famed dragon library, a lone, human shaped figure sat at an out of the way terminal, concentrating hard, focused on one goal and one goal only... finding out about her friend's parents. Just a single clue would have done, something so remote that it would barely have meant anything, but so far she'd found absolutely nothing. Having already scoured the library's physical shelves, delving deep into little known tomes and ancient texts, not one single record of either of Peter's parents appeared to exist. And that was odd, because they were known to have existed and Peter himself was proof of that. Whoever had wiped their information from the system had been a professional. But a professional what? So many things just didn't add up. Hacking into the library's mainframe, not at all concerned about being caught, after all, what more punishment could she possibly face, above what was already headed her way? There and then she vowed to find something, anything, that would help her friend on his quest to find the answers that so eluded him.

  19 SUB-Version

  Thick, swirling mist nestled lazily above the water's surface. Unseen wildlife occasionally sent out tiny ripples across the fluid's exterior, all of course hidden by the unnaturally dark clouds obscuring the moon on this eerily quiet night. The wooded area around the bank of the lesser known tributary was quiet... almost deathly so.

  Waiting above a shallow bank, nestled between a quartet of large, gnarled trees, the group was camouflaged by brush on all sides. The stolen vehicles in which they'd made their way there had been dumped almost two miles away. By the time the authorities, or anyone else for that matter, ever worked out quite what had happened, they would all be long gone.

  A delicate splash echoed out of the mist across the tributary, putting the entire group on guard. Weapons were drawn as two dark coloured nagas slithered down the bank before slipping effortlessly head first into the water in their natural forms, their vicious looking tails disappearing from view almost instantly.

  Manson stood, one arm supported by his walking stick, the other wrapped around Troydenn (his father), to support him in what had become a rather frail human disguise. Caressing the top of the stick with the palm of his hand in the cloying darkness, briefly a wave of reassurance washed over him at having the weapon to hand. Not just because of the razor sharp blade that could be brought to the fore with just a single thought, but also due to the exquisite sea crystals that ran along its entire length, boosting the range, and more importantly, the potency of the wicked dark energy inside him. With little choice but to revert back to the form he totally despised, Troydenn sincerely hoped it would be the last time he'd have to take on this wretched guise, the thought of long awaited revenge keeping him focused on the challenge ahead. As a group they'd thought, planned and brainstormed long and hard about how to get across the Atlantic and back to the main power base of dragon society. Their takeover depended upon it. At this stage, with not all their assets entirely in place, it was deemed necessary to use the stolen submarine. (Using the monorail or any other part of the dragon domain presented too much of an unwarranted risk to their well conceived plan, much to the elderly dragon's disgust.) And the only way he was going to fit into the tight confines of the submarine was in his much smaller, alternative form.

  From out of the darkness a sliver of light grey appeared, floating steadily in their direction. Instantly, weapons on the bank converged on the movement, but their concern dissipated as a dinghy, with two nagas swimming either side of it, rolled out of the mist.

  "About time," grumbled Troydenn quietly, to no one in particular.

  "It's all going to plan," whispered Manson in his father's ear, eager to put the old dragon at ease.

  Slowly, the dinghy rocked up on the shallow bank while the nagas remained in the water. A man clad entirely in black let go of the oars and carefully made his way to the front of the tiny craft.

  "If that's what you're bringing on board," he murmured, pointing at the pile of stacked equipment on the bank, "then we'll only be able to carry three of you and we'll have to make two trips!"

  Manson withdrew his arm from around his father's shoulders and purposefully strolled forward.

  "One trip will suffice," he exclaimed. "The others here will accompany us in their natural forms, at least out to the sub anyway."

  Nodding, the sailor agreed, more than a little creeped out by most of the things that had gone on recently. However, he was being paid more money than he'd ever hoped to see in any single lifetime, so he just carried on regardless. Together, everyone started to load the equipment onto the dinghy, with the exception of Troydenn who just stood and peered wistfully into the darkness, thoughts of soon-to-come retribution consuming him wholeheartedly. With the dinghy loaded and Troydenn securely sitting between Manson and his female companion, the sailor shoved off from the bank, took up the oars and started rowing back out into the tributary where the waiting submarine sat in the very minimum amount of water it needed to stay afloat. All the time, five dark and fearsome shapes circled noiselessly in the water around them.

  Five minutes later the equipment had been transferred, along with the passengers, and the water borne beasts had once again taken human form. With that, the submarine battened down its hatches, dropped silently through the misty haze and disappeared effortlessly beneath the surface of the murky water, on the start of its momentous journey.

  20 Dragon Lord's Hoard

  Gobsmacked at what lay before him, he could barely believe what he was seeing. Bearing in mind that in his relatively young life he'd already visited the king's private residence and the library attached to it, thumbed through some of the scrolls there and actually seen with his own eyes the fabled prophecy agreement (something so secret that most dragons don't even know that it exists,) being put into his current state by the hoard of dragon relics in front of him was quite something.

  Lying there for all to see, the large, terracotta rock vault that faced them had no door, it was just out there in the open, on display for everyone.

  'Well,' he mused, 'not exactly for all to see. I mean... you have to get this far, I suppose.' Nooks and crannies cut out of the walls housed the most beautiful, intricate, gaudy, powerful and frightening things he'd ever laid eyes on. From dozens of feet away he could feel the raw power of the amulets, rings, charms, wristbands and even a tiara that looked absolutely terrifying.

  Shelves that ran horizontally and vertically were stuffed to the brim with spell books, layers of parchment, rolled up magical scrolls, one off mantras and thick dust covered tomes. One such shelf, overflowing with scrolls, looked like
the end-on view of a neatly stacked log pile.

  Rows of worn metal hooks adorned the back wall, and hanging precariously from them were dozens and dozens of leather belts, some with swords hanging off them... some stunning and bejewelled, others old, worn and rusty. There were belts with ancient pistols, one with the finest looking foil, its delicate handle looking as though it were made of glass. Further along, a rather raggedy, off-white, ancient looking canvas rucksack, huge in size, adorned with worn leather straps and golden buckles that had long since lost their shine, with cleverly disguised drawstrings and much shinier metal clasps for pockets, littering its circumference, hung across two of the hooks. Most amazingly, well to him anyway, was a gun belt with a six shooter from the old Wild West. An old, very ordinary looking rifle from the same era stood up against the wall beneath it. Mixed in with all the belts, bandoliers of all sizes hung motionless, deadly looking grenades adorning their entire length. Taking it all in, Peter stood mouth open, looking like a very well behaved dentist's patient.

  Propped up in one corner stood a selection of fabulous looking wooden bows, some taller than him, made to look even taller by the line of quivers filled to the brim with arrows in front of them.

  A hulking great pile of human shaped armour towered high in the other corner, looking like some kind of modern art piece. Shiny boots, bracers, chest plates, helms and gloves mingled with their rusty cousins, no distinction made, no two pieces looking as though they came from the same set, with some having a smattering of what looked like dried blood splattered indiscriminately across them. Just the thought of this sent shivers down Peter's spine and even his nowhere-to-be-seen-today tail.

  Rock plinths the colour of the walls, inscribed with complex dragon runes ages old were dotted around, most with something incredible sitting upon them. One though, sat empty, looking almost sad and lonely amongst the glittering array of powerful artefacts. Huge, marble... what can only be described as bowls... sat on the floor, sprinkled between the towering plinths. Each one contained a gruesome pile of teeth, or individual scales, all different shapes, all different sizes. It was a sight to behold, and one that he would never forget for however long he lived.

  Thinking about taking a step forwards and entering the vault proper, he couldn't shake the dozen or so different scenarios playing out in his head right now, of how a strikingly horrible death from out of nowhere might suddenly appear.

  "Well?" exclaimed Gee Tee.

  "Well what?" replied Peter.

  "Don't you want to go and take a look?"

  "And walk into yet another deadly trap," ventured the young dragon sarcastically.

  A deep chuckle that sounded more like distant thunder reverberated from the master mantra maker.

  "That's it. That's all there is. If you get this far... then you're welcome to the lot!" he announced, spreading open his wings in their entirety, indicating everything there in front of them.

  'He does seem sincere,' Peter thought, waiting to be halted at any moment as he started to step forward. But to his utter amazement, he was allowed to continue onto the terracotta rock floor and up to the nearest plinth. Too nervous to actually touch anything, thinking that undoubtedly all the items were in some way booby trapped, he leaned in for a closer inspection of the items that were apparently on display. Given everything in here, what sat in front of him were no great shakes. Looking closer he tried to determine why on earth they were here. Still he had no clue. Nothing inside him could fathom out why a pair of old (very old... think Middle Ages old) just above the ankle, worn, scuffed and tattered, brown leather boots, with the tongues hanging out limply and the laces dangling untidily over each side of the stone tower, were given pride of place.

  "Boots of Fleeting!" came a voice from right behind him.

  Having nearly jumped, not realising the old shopkeeper could move so lightly on his feet, he turned to face the old dragon.

  "Boots of what?"

  "Boots of Fleeting youngling. Surely even you can't be that daft."

  Determined not to rise to the bait, the young dragon raised an eyebrow and waited expectantly for an answer.

  "Boots of Fleeting," started the old dragon, "were commonly, well, as commonly as can be amongst human shaped dragons, used during the Middle Ages. At one point, with the humans in their cities developing all sorts of siege weapons and whatnot, it became very inconvenient, not to say dangerous, for dragons in their natural form to travel over the populated and fortified areas generated by the creative apes. With more of our kind assuming ape form and blending in with them, some bright spark created these boots with a stunning alteration to a favourite mantra of mine. It worked a treat, and it was said that any dragon wearing Boots of Fleeting could travel leagues in just the merest of steps. That pair that you see before you are the finest example of their kind."

  Leaving the boots behind, still taking in what he'd been told about them, Peter wove past one of the marble bowls full of teeth, shivering as he did so, only to stop at a tiny, foot high plinth with a hole in the middle. From out of that hole stood a cracked and twisted length of wood that slightly resembled a staff of some kind. The wood itself was rampant with knots and had most certainly seen better days. It almost looked as though it would turn to dust at the merest of touches.

  'As well,' he thought, 'it just looks incredibly... ANGRY!'

  "Ahhh... Merlin's staff," stated Gee Tee from the far side of the vault, his back to Peter, rifling carefully through a huge pile of parchment.

  'Merlin's staff,' he thought. 'You've got to be kidding me.'

  "I can assure you it is," confirmed the master mantra maker, almost as if reading the young dragon's mind, his words bouncing off the walls in the dead end they found themselves in.

  Slowly and very carefully Peter walked around the plinth, examining the staff from every possible angle. It looked hopeless. If there were a thousand staffs to choose from, no matter how bad the others were, this would be the last one you would pick. But maybe that was the point. Certainly he could feel power radiating out from somewhere inside it. Letting out a short sigh he reluctantly moved on, hoping to examine as many things as possible before his time was up, knowing that this might well be his one and only chance to see the wondrous relics and artefacts kept here, given how often it was the old shopkeeper himself came to visit.

  It was no good, he just couldn't resist any longer; it had been drawing him in since he first set eyes on the vault, and he just had to get a closer look. Seemingly, hovering in mid-air of its own accord, a foot or so above the plinth, situated smack bang in the middle of the vault, hissing and spluttering as it did so, was the single most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Longer than a dagger, but not quite sword length, the blade was almost futuristic in design and could have come straight out of the latest sci-fi film at the cinema. A moving pattern of frost continually circled the blade, giving off a cold and chilly feel, whilst the whole of the weapon itself was surrounded by an eerie blue glow. Simultaneously he felt both awe and fear. Awe for whoever, or whatever, had crafted the weapon... for it was truly a masterpiece. But fear at what it could be used for. There could be no doubt that this weapon was a dragon killer, its nature almost screamed out at him. It wouldn't even need to find a dragon's weak spot, it would just carve them up regardless. Just as he was about to move on and try and put the sheer beauty, magnificence and deadliness of the weapon out of his mind, the master mantra maker called out again, still facing away, still rummaging through the parchment.

  "It's a vision of true splendour isn't it?"

  "DEATH wrapped up in a pretty parcel," replied Peter.

  That got Gee Tee's attention.

  "Who's a cynical dragon today then?" he replied sarcastically.

  "Well... isn't it?"

  Gee Tee lowered himself off his tiptoes and turned to face his young friend across the vault. Peter started to wonder just how wise his comments had been.

  "THAT, youngster, is not just one of a kind, but is p
robably THE most amazing weapon you will ever come across in the whole of your dragon life."

  Instantly his thoughts turned to Aviva's laminium dagger, tucked safely away in his own home. Having given his word to the king that he wouldn't tell anyone about it, particularly the old shopkeeper, he fought off the desire to mention it now, with all his self restraint.

  "But it's so much more than that," continued the old dragon. "This," he said, "is my most prized possession. It's the only one of its kind, and was forged by a Chinese dragon more than two thousand years ago. Nobody's ever been able to recreate that feat, despite many having tried. It was thought to have been crafted by a master weapon smith, by the name of Fu-ts'ang. So revered was Fu-ts'ang that he was written into ancient Chinese mythology, given special responsibility for the minerals of the earth, and is sometimes known, even to this day, as the Dragon of Hidden Treasures. Hence, the weapon is known only as Fu-ts'ang. You should refer to it as if you were referring to a person. It has been claimed by some that the weapon smith's soul is encased or bound within the weapon itself, seeking out kindred spirits, eager to help those it feels worthy."

  'And I bet it does magic tricks and performs at children's parties,' mused Peter, his thoughts becoming ever more sarcastic with every second that passed. But the tiny mature part of him knew not to say this out loud for two reasons. One... it was just plain rude, something he most certainly wasn't. And two... he could see how much the weapon meant to the master mantra maker, and didn't want to hurt his friend's feelings. Nodding while glancing over at the old shopkeeper, he continued his tour of the vault, determined to move on to the other main thing that had captured his attention. Carefully, he made his way to the back wall.