by Sean Gibson
The Part About The Dragon Was (Mostly) True
Sean Gibson
Copyright © 2020 by Sean Gibson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by Rebecca Milhoan, Alyssa Barber, Mary Westveer
The Parliament House
www.parliamenthousepress.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
A Request…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Parliament House
Chapter 1
A CLASSIC BEGINNING…
Few indeed know the paralyzing terror of a mighty dragon’s roar or the skin-blistering heat of its fiery breath. Few, I say, for most who do experience such things know them for but the briefest instant before they are consumed by flame, burned beyond all hope of recognition, their hopes and dreams turned to smoke and ash.
Such was the horrible fate of many who called the village of Skendrick home on the fateful day when the great red dragon Dragonia first painted the evening sky red and orange with searing gouts of fire, raining death upon men, women, and children without distinction or hesitation, the tallest and smallest alike unable to withstand the dragon’s terrible fury.
One small girl huddled in the corner of her family’s home, a wooden structure made from loose planks held together by crooked nails and covered with tarpaulin, shivering and shaking with fear. She clapped her hands over her ears as she tried in vain to silence the screams and wails of agony that knifed through the air and pierced her heart. Her mother must surely be among them, for the woman had gone to the market that morning, and the girl knew that the dragon would strike there first, at the heart of the village. On market day, half of the villagers gathered in the town square to trade goods and gossip—a teeming mass of conveniently clustered humanity that would make an irresistible target for an insatiable wyrm.
The girl cried and prayed, beseeching aid from gods she had never believed in but turned to now in desperation, hoping against hope that divine intervention might spare her life and, somehow, someway, bring back those who had died so horribly.
Her prayers went unheard, or at least unanswered, for it was only moments later that her own ramshackle dwelling was engulfed in flames, and the girl, clutching her most beloved doll, wailed in agony as slithering tongues of fire kissed her feet and proceeded to consume her, leaving nothing behind but a bleached pile of bones and the ashy corpse of a blond doll.
The dragon left some alive that day—it would never kill them all, not when it wanted survivors to spread the word far and wide of what had happened, how the town had burned, how the people had suffered, and how no one could resist its awesome fury. For then, perhaps, the encroachment into its territory would cease, the disturbances to its slumber would end, and it could sleep, finally, in peace.
The great wyrm wheeled and turned overhead, leaving the smoking crater of the village behind as it flew north to its lair. The raging beast had no doubt that some foolhardy adventurers would soon come calling in the hope of righting this terrible wrong, but it would be ready.
Those brave souls would die in agony just as the villagers of Skendrick had died that day for daring to defy it, and for the simple crime of living too close to the home of an angry dragon.
Chapter 2
…IS NOT HOW IT ACTUALLY WENT DOWN
Being in the business of barding, one must not be bothered by blurting bull…excrement. (Though one should occasionally curb one’s love of cursing.)
I mean, it’s our job. Every once in a while, though, the truth turns out to be far more interesting than the tales bards tell in taverns; it’s just rare that bards actually know the truth behind the songs they sing, and so the ale-swilling public misses out on some truly epic—or, at least, epically weird—stories.
Hi, my name’s Heloise. I am, if not the most well-known bard in Erithea (yet), arguably the most talented, and unarguably the cleverest. I also wouldn’t quibble if you suggested that I’m the most beautiful, but that’s just because I’m very agreeable (and beautiful). I’m no stranger to telling a tall tale or two. However it just so happens that I know the truth about what happened that fateful day in Skendrick when the dragon attacked and the shocking events that followed, and let me tell you: the tavern version, even though it’s superbly written and exquisitely melodious, isn’t half as entertaining as the truth.
Because I’m an ethereally gorgeous (not my words, mind you—that’s how noted seer Llendarlin Wayfender once described me, and even though he’s blind, he’s a venerated font of knowledge, so who am I to argue?), half-elf, I may not look it, but I’m approaching one hundred and forty years of age. Over the years, I’ve had more than a few adventures. Decades ago, I was sworn to secrecy regarding the true story of the great and terrible “Dragonia,” but recent developments have released me from that promise, and so I can finally tell the tale.
I’ll warn you up front, though—those of you who think you know the story will scarcely believe the truth. You’ll be shocked, stunned, surprised, and staggered. The faint of heart should stop reading right now, close the book, and proceed to the nearest public garden or quiet pub to watch butterflies or enjoy a hoppy pint. Or maybe both.
For those who have the stomach—and I realize I’m mixing my metaphors here, because it’s entirely possible to have a weak heart and a strong stomach, in which case I leave you to make the decision whether to proceed at your own peril, or, at least, after consultation with the nearest physician, witch doctor, or oracle—however, you’ll enjoy a tale the likes of which has never been told before, and is unlikely to be told again. Well, not until I get paid to write another book, anyway, or at least booked into the pub nearest you.
So read on, brave souls…adventure awaits. And shenanigans. There will definitely be shenanigans.
Chapter 3
HOW IT ACTUALLY WENT DOWN
There was a lot of dragon fire that day, and there really was a terrified little girl clutching her dolly, and it actually was market day, so all of the residents of Skendrick were standing around like cattle in the middle of the town square, just waiting to be turned into crispy sticks of human bacon. But, no one actually died, and the only casualties were Farmer Benton’s livestock, a development that, understandably, upset him.
“Away wi’ ye, ye durn ha’-wit gi’nt beastie! Ye guin druve me durn unta th’ pur hus!” screamed Farmer Benton at the departing dragon after it had torched his fields and barns. I should note that Farmer Benton’s accent was so thick that not even his mother could understand him, and I’m really only speculating that he was unhappy with the dragon based on his gestures and facial expression.
This wasn’t the first time the dragon, which the very practical residents o
f Skendrick referred to as “the dragon” (and not “Dragonia,” which was an invention by a very literal-minded bard somewhere along the way), had wheeled through the skies over Skendrick and rained down fire, and it consistently attacked the farms that circled the village like a very delicious donut.
Livestock were frequent casualties, as were the fruits and vegetables that the townsfolk relied upon for both sustenance and trade with other villages. No one could say why the dragon seemed to have such an obsessive need to destroy Skendrick’s food supply, but the residents had mixed feelings on the subject: on one hand, it would have been nice to have a bacon cheeseburger every once in a while without having to pay an entire gold piece for it because the scarcity of the components needed to make a bacon cheeseburger—namely beef, cheese, and bacon—had driven up the price to insane levels; on the other, the townspeople generally preferred to want a bacon cheeseburger and not have one than to not be able to want one at all, on account of having been immolated by dragon fire.
This particular attack caused the good people of Skendrick to reach something of a tipping point, however. Exhorted to action by the furious Farmer Benton, the village council held an emergency meeting at the town hall to figure out what to do.
You may have noticed, and possibly been driven crazy by, the fact that I’m referring to Skendrick as both a “town” and a “village.” First and foremost, if you did notice and are bothered by that fact, you are an insufferable pedant and the type of person I like to affectionately refer to as a “kremlaut’s face:” kremlauts being a unique kind of horse found in the southern regions of Erithea whose faces look like the hindquarters of other varieties of horses, only without the tail. But, I don’t want you to get the idea that I’m imprecise with language, so, for those of you who are not tremendously obnoxious kremlaut’s faces, please indulge me as I explain why I keep going back and forth.
It all began with an event that took place in Skendrick about 200 years ago known colloquially as “The Word Fightin’” (in order to distinguish it, of course, from “The Pointy Things Fightin,’” which occurred some two hundred and fifty years ago, and which cost more than one Skendrickian an arm, leg, eye, or other doubled-up body part). The real reason for the rift is now lost to time, but the primary point (no pun intended) of the argument (The Word Fightin,’ that is) was whether to incorporate the living area now known as Skendrick as a town or village. There were, to be fair, logical reasons for doing both—towns generally have larger populations than villages (requiring at least twenty thousand or so residents to officially obtain that designation), but villages possess more farmland within a twenty-five-mile diameter. Each status confers certain benefits—towns, for example, are all highlighted in guidebooks to the region, thereby enhancing tourism, while villages receive special subsidies from the crown in order to grow more food for the kingdom. Some settlements meet the criteria for both designations, but they have to be one or the other on the royal tax rolls, and their location may make one a more logical choice.
Skendrick, however, was well-positioned for tourism—being less than a day’s ride from Bethel, which draws thousands of pilgrims each year to its shrine to Helvetica, the goddess and patron deity of printers (an odd bunch, those typesetters), and having a proud printing history of its own—and farming, with its vast tracts of highly productive land, which accounted for a third of the region’s barley crop and supplied some of the area’s finest whisky distillers. That said, far be it for me to judge anyone who…
No. Screw that. I’m judging. The people of Skendrick are morons. Or, at least, the people who were on the town council during “The Word Fightin’” were morons. This type of decision is worth about ten minutes of discussion at a town hall meeting, and that includes pauses for participants to shove donuts into their mouths, with the end result for those on the losing side being a win-some, lose-some shrug and the consumption of another donut. Instead, three straight days of heated arguments ensued, broken up only by brief periods of rest for the verbal combatants to sleep and feed their pet chickens (which tells you something, perhaps, about which designation Skendrick should have chosen). For a brief moment, cooler heads prevailed and someone pragmatically suggested the portmanteau “townage” as a solution. He was promptly shouted down, however, and the battle raged on. Pitchforks were raised in anger (again, pointing toward “village” as the obvious solution; no angry town-dweller has ever threatened someone with a farm implement), though I should note that I always have a hard time telling the difference between a pitchfork being raised in anger and one being raised in joy.
After far too many arguments, threats, and breaks to feed the ingredients of a future bowl of chicken noodle soup, the stalemate was finally broken when one enterprising young council member proposed an external designation of village (to settle the benefits question in a way that was more advantageous to the settlement as a whole), but, in a concession to the highly cosmopolitan “Townies” (as they came to be called, as opposed to the “Villains,” which was not a term those who supported the village designation particularly appreciated), suggested that, internally, they use whichever term they preferred. To sweeten the pot, he got the village/town’s leading farmers and bakers to agree to provide a steady stream of kellgaso, the village/town’s most well-known delicacy (a delicious mixture of pears, pastry, pecans, and persimmons…as for why the name of the food itself doesn’t start with ‘p,’ well, consider the collective brainpower of the governing body), to the owners and operators of the town’s most touristy attractions as a means of further attracting visitors. (“Come for the boring lesson on the history of printing, stay for the sticky bun!”)
Finally, some semblance of logic had prevailed, but only after the Townies insisted on formally memorializing in writing that, despite Skendrick’s official designation as a village, they, and their descendants in perpetuity, would be able to refer to it as a “town” as long as they were within the village limits, and that the gathering place of the village council be called the “town hall.” The Villains agreed to this provision, a deal was struck, and perhaps the most ridiculously stupid three-day town hall meeting in the history of stupid town hall meetings came to a close.
Now you, like me, have the burden of knowing far more about Skendrickian politics than you ever cared to, and, if you’re like me, feel considerably less bad about the prospect of a dragon digesting and subsequently defecating each and every resident. At the very least, you now have some understanding of the level of competence of the august body that gathered to discuss what to do about the dragon.
“I don’t see as how we have much choice,” said Alderman Wooddunny, the leader of the council, after he called the meeting to order following much harrumphing from the villagers. “That dragon keeps destroying our crops, we’ll have nothing left for trade or to eat. We need to, ah, take action.”
“Ye kin hoowel and scram ull ye’re wantin’; we’ll gae no peece like we ha’ way bick win we was gooin’ a lick ‘em but good,” added Farmer Benton.
Alderman Wooddunny looked at his fellow council members and, seeing blank looks on their faces, around the room at the gathered villagers, who showed not even the faintest flicker of recognition that what they’d just heard had in any way constituted human speech. He licked his lips. “Ah, yes, Farmer Benton. Of course. Well said.”
Farmer Benton nodded vigorously.
“So,” said the Alderman, “in light of Farmer Benton’s stirring, ah, words, I propose that we put to a vote our options.”
“You haven’t given us any, you nitwit!” shouted the Widow Gershon, maybe a little more disrespectfully than was proper.
“The Widow Gershon have the right of it, she does!” shouted an indignant and nameless Skendrickian whose only contribution to the historical record was that grammatically regrettable outburst.
“Right,” replied the Alderman, “I was getting to that. Patience, good people, patience.” The crowd quieted as the Alderman held up two fingers.
“Now then, as I was about to say, we need to put to a vote our options, and I see those as being two in number.
“The first is to assemble a band of hearty villagers to confront the dragon when next it descends upon us.”
This option was greeted with boos, hisses, and a cry of ‘sign me up!’ from one man who sheepishly declared that he thought the Alderman had said to assemble “randy, horny pillagers” instead of a “band of hearty villagers.” Given the slim chance that a group of men in need of erotic fulfillment would deter the dragon, most of the villagers agreed that it would be good to hear the second option.
“The second is to hire a crew of brave adventurers to seek out the dragon and slay it in its lair. What say you? Option one or option two?”
A chorus of responses rang out, with most seeming to shout “Two!” except for a few lusty, and apparently still confused, fellows shouting “One!” The resulting cacophony made it impossible to definitively declare a winner.
“Call for a show of hands, you brainless goatherd!” shouted the Widow Gershon helpfully.
Alderman Wooddunny, who was, in fact, a goat herder (one amongst many of his talents and occupations), cleared his throat and held up his hands for silence. “The Widow Gershon is, once again, correct.” He bowed to the frowning woman. “Thank you, Widow, for your, ah, helpful suggestion.”
