The Part About the Dragon was (Mostly) True

by Sean Gibson

“We’ll get revenge!” shouted Whiska gleefully.

  “Nadinta—I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” I reached over to pat her shoulder. She started to draw back, but then leaned forward and allowed me to comfort her.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “None of you knew.” She narrowed her eyes. “I certainly wouldn’t object to paying a visit to this encampment before we go to Skendrick.”

  “Good.” I nodded. “It’s settled. Be sure to tell the good people of Skendrick that Heloise sent you. And that maybe they should pay her more.”

  “You’re not coming with us?” Nadi looked crestfallen.

  “Orcs make funny…noises when…you squish them,” said Borg.

  “It’s a beautiful sound, isn’t it?” I replied. I looked at Nadi and shook my head. “Places to go, stories to tell, I’m afraid. You guys will do great, though.” I stood up and stretched. “Turns out it was a pleasure after all. Good luck.” I stood up to go to my room, but was stopped before I could get more than two steps.

  “Heloise.” Nadi stood and grabbed my arm. “Wait. I have…I have an idea.”

  I arched an eyebrow, an expression that has quailed emperors, frightened children, and aroused dwarves (though not simultaneously, because that would just be weird). “I’m listening.”

  She blew out a deep breath. “I haven’t discussed this with the others, obviously, but…what if you came with us—to, uh, tell our story?”

  Rummy looked curious. “What are you thinking?”

  “Well,” replied Nadi, rubbing her forehead, “one of our problems is that we don’t have a reputation as an adventuring band yet, right? If we slay a dragon…that’s the big leagues. That’s legitimate legend territory, but it’s not enough just for the people of Skendrick to know what we did—not if we want to become as well known as we want to be and get the kinds of quests we want to get. Everyone needs to know, and what better way for that to happen than for our legend to be spread by a beaut…er, talented bard?”

  “Beautiful would be accurate, too,” I said magnanimously.

  “We don’t need the dead weight,” said Whiska. She looked me up and down and then focused on my hips. “Emphasis on weight.”

  “Whiska!” Nadi looked furious.

  “It’s okay,” I said, motioning for Nadi to stay calm. “Body image issues don’t plague me. Unlike, say, the plague, which plagues a lot of people, and thanks for that, Whiska.”

  More than anything, Ratarians hate being associated with the pestilence rats spread, mostly due to the (allegedly) mistaken belief that it was a Ratarian, not a rat, who brought the fleas that caused the Great Plague of the Year of the Crooked Spear into the port city of Dagobar. You can always count on it to be a sore point with them, and I wasn’t disappointed as Whiska flew out of her chair and reached out her hands to throttle me.

  “Stand down!” yelled Nadi, stepping between us and grabbing Whiska’s hands. Whiska fought her for a second before sitting down with a huff, grumbling something about elf kabobs under her breath.

  “I like this plan generally,” said Rummy, “though I see one major issue, apart from the possibility of Whiska trying to kill Heloise.”

  “What’s that?” asked Nadi.

  “Well, if I was a bard that a relatively inexperienced adventuring band had just asked to accompany them to fight a savage red dragon that will probably kill them (and me) so that I could tell their story afterward on the off chance that they survive, I’d probably want to be paid something. And we aren’t really in the position to make that kind of, what do they call it in the merchant world? Capital investment, I think.”

  “The assless dwarf makes a point,” I said.

  “What if,” said Nadi slowly, “we offer you an equal share of the treasure? One-fifth for all of us. You don’t have to fight—just bear witness.”

  “Deadweight sits around and diddles her strings while we get burned to a crisp and gets the same amount of treasure? Not a chance!” Whiska crossed her arms, which, as short as they were, made her look both ridiculous and uncomfortable.

  “Body shaming…isn’t nice,” said Borg. “Don’t do it…again.”

  “Thanks, big guy.” I patted him on the shoulder. “What happens if you guys get melted like candles before you get to the treasure? Or offed by orcs? That doesn’t work out so well for me.”

  “I know it’s a gamble,” said Nadi, nodding. “I won’t pretend that it’s a sure thing you’ll get paid out. But, if your claims about the treasure are true, you’d come out of this with considerable wealth for doing nothing more than writing a song.”

  Well, this certainly put me in an awkward spot. I had no idea whether the treasure was as big as I claimed; I was taking the word of two barely functional semi-adult men, neither of whom had seen it themselves. On the other hand, it was an attractive—and exciting—opportunity, and I didn’t really have anything else going on. If nothing else, I figured I could start out on the road with them and, if they seemed incompetent, bail before we got to the dragon. They weren’t paying me, so it wasn’t like I had any obligation. And, besides, I thought—it might make for one heck of a story (spoiler alert: it did).

  Still, I didn’t want to seem too eager.

  “It’s possible,” I said, casually, “that you’ll earn other treasure along the way—if you take out the orc encampment, for example, you’ll probably stumble into a few gold coins. Or, at least copper. Maybe just some old bits of fuzz. And human ears. But, something.” I looked at Nadi. “How about if I get a one-fifth share of anything you find along the way, not just in the dragon’s lair?”

  “No. Absolutely not!” growled Whiska. “This is ridiculous.” She stood up. “Good luck slaying a dragon without me—I’m gone!” She started to walk away, then realized she’d already done this once before today. “Again! And for good!”

  “You don’t…have any…gold,” said Borg.

  Whiska stopped. She glared at the rock giant, but didn’t say anything.

  “The dragon…does. You are…powerful. We…need you.”

  If Whiska were an actual rat instead of a race of creatures that just happen to look like rats, I might have thought she was preening, the way she suddenly began to groom her whiskers. Given her apparent love of smiting things, however, I decided not to point this out.

  The rock giant’s words mollified Whiska in a way nothing else had. She sat back down, looked at Borg, nodded, and then downed the rest of her drink.

  “So…Skendrick?” I asked.

  Nadi looked at Rummy, who nodded, then at Borg, who did the same. When she looked at Whiska, the Ratarian just licked her lips to get the last of her ale off of them, but we all took that as a sign of assent.

  “To Skendrick,” replied Nadi. “With a detour through the orc encampment.” She looked grim. “We leave at first light.”

  Chapter 13

  SO WERE SLAIN THE FOUL ORCS OF THE GLOOM FOREST

  The heroes set off on their journey to Skendrick to lay claim to the quest of slaying the foul beast Dragonia, but not before first stopping to destroy the encampment of orcs deep in the heart of the Gloom Forest, whose vile presence was a threat to all of the goodly folk of the area.

  After three days’ ride, our heroes, saddle sore but spirit strong, reached the edge of the wood and did fierce battle with the orc outriders, defeating them handily and preventing them from giving their foul kin warning of the heroes’ coming. With stealth and poise did Nadinta lead her charges into the heart of the encampment, shying not from the combined might of the orc forces, knowing that the righteousness of her cause and the combined might of her company would be proof against all resistance the wretched orcish forces might muster.

  The heroes crept in under cover of darkness, and the mighty Whiska woke the foul creatures with a display of raw power, sending bolts of lightning and great balls of fire springing forth from her staff, such that many perished before they could even rise from their filthy bedrolls.

  Whiska’s companion
s were not idle in the midst of this maelstrom of destruction, for Nadinta’s sword rose and fell a hundred times, and a hundred orcs lay dead at her feet afterward. The mighty Borgunder stood as a bulwark against those orcs who tried to fight, deflecting blow after blow and sheltering his companions as they rained death upon the orcs. Even Rumscrabble struck repeatedly at the terrible creatures with his mace, his fury driving him on and giving him power that he had never known he possessed.

  Through it all, an unassuming bard witnessed their display of courage and sang out at the top of her lungs (showcasing impressive octave range), exhorting and encouraging the adventurers to new heights of glory, her music giving them strength and stamina to ease the strain of a battle fought so long and so hard.

  When the sun arose many hours later, when the first of its pink rays dared surmount the horizon to bathe the world in the soft glow of predawn, our heroes finished their virtuous work, a blow from Nadinta felling the last of the despicable monsters.

  The companions paused, each laboring to draw breath after their exertion, but knowing that their efforts would save the lives of countless individuals, for never again would these base marauders raise their rusty and wicked blades against an innocent.

  For a few moments they rested, reflecting upon their mighty deed, and then, with a deep breath, they continued on the road to Skendrick, knowing that each moment they delayed was another moment that the dragon might strike.

  Chapter 14

  OKAY, FINE, SO IT TURNS OUT THAT THE ORCS WEREN’T REALLY ALL THAT FOUL

  Full disclosure: I was pretty much raised to hate orcs.

  Elves and orcs are like fire and ice, salt and wounds, or Janiperian turnip plants and codswattle bugs. The whimsical, nature-loving tendencies of the elves contrast sharply with the literal-mindedness and casual disregard for the world around them orcs tend to display. But, there’s a chance that orcs’ bad reputation is as much a result of the fact that there are very few orcish storytellers (most orcs can’t read or write and wouldn’t have the faintest desire to learn how to do so even if they had the opportunity) and very many biased elvish (or, in the case of your lovely narrator, half-elven) bards and poets as it is because of the orcs’ own actions.

  So, while I don’t like the fact that the orcs may not come off as evil and disgusting and gross as I would like them to in this story, I promised you the truth, and so the truth you shall have, even if it ends up making you feel kind of bad about how much you used to hate orcs, and making people hate orcs less is about as much fun for me as getting stabbed in the stomach with a fondue fork. (Side note: yes, I have actually been stabbed in stomach with a fondue fork, and no, I didn’t enjoy it, though I do like fondue very much, and still do, though maybe not as much as I once did, and I’ll never have fondue in Plorigen ever again.)

  It turned out that “first light” for this crew meant just before midday, which was just fine with me, but clearly annoyed Nadi. Whiska was not an early riser, Borg took a solid two hours to eat breakfast (I stopped counting after he ate his thirty-seventh egg, which he claimed was not a record, but was “a pretty…good effort”), and Rummy kept saying he had “forgotten” things from his room, only to make them “magically” appear somewhere. To be fair, it was pretty impressive to watch him pull his mace out from behind Nadi’s ear, but she seemed less wowed by the trick than the rest of us—even Whiska, having knocked back a stiff Bloody Lindy, applauded. (A Bloody Lindy, incidentally, is a twist on a Bloody Mary wherein the mixer is not tomato juice and a combination of spicy seasonings but is, instead, clam juice and lime, and it tastes as awful as it sounds.)

  Eventually, however, we hit the road, only, unlike in the heroic version the bards sing, we went on foot—gold being in short supply, we were in no position to purchase (not to mention feed) mounts. So, the journey to the orc encampment took almost two weeks, and absolutely nothing of interest happened along the way. You hear about the high points of the adventuring life in songs, but most of it involves walking down a dusty road in the hot sun singing “Ninety-Nine Pints of Ale on the Wagon,” or maybe beating whoever in your party keeps singing “Ninety-Nine Pints of Ale on the Wagon” (Rummy) in the kidneys with a bar of soap wrapped in a cloth, in an effort to trick your brain into forgetting how incredibly bored it is.

  On the plus side (mostly), I had plenty of time to get to know my new companions.

  Despite his relatively undwarf-like appearance, Rummy grew on me quickly. He was unfailingly (and sometimes irritatingly) cheerful—even when something bothered him, he got over it in less time than it takes most dwarves to chug an ale, which is approximately three seconds (not that I’ve ever timed it). He was clearly both smart and clever (there’s a difference), but tended to purposefully obscure that fact behind a stream of inane chatter. He was basically your favorite (if occasionally annoying) uncle, who would alternate stupid, punny jokes with playing the “got your nose” game—only in Rummy’s version, instead of tucking his thumb between his fingers to make it look like he was holding a nose, he would use his sleight-of-hand skills to produce a schnoz fruit, which looks remarkably like a human nose, save for the fact that it’s purple. He also had a habit of stealing things from you in the midst of all the patter and prestidigitation, though he always gave everything back immediately (he said that it was necessary to “stay sharp” while on the road, though I think he really just enjoyed how much his taking things annoyed Nadi).

  Whiska was almost as powerful as she was offensive, which was saying something, because she was easily the most offensive creature I’d ever met. She seemed incapable of making a statement without insulting someone, and her ability to work a slight into a response to even a simple question like “Can I offer you some breakfast?” was truly impressive (example: “You could, but you’d still be a poorly dressed tree humper.”). Interestingly, she didn’t seem to care one way or the other whether you were offended by what she said, which made her insults seem more like a verbal tic than a genuine attempt to hurt feelings. It quickly became apparent that she was as loyal as she was rude, berating a guardsman in one of the towns we passed through for suggesting that Borg was, perhaps, not the swiftest rabbit in the warren. When she finished, the man not only apologized profusely, but broke down in tears and sobbed hysterically. When Nadi thanked Whiska for standing up for their companion, she insulted Nadi for suggesting that she would do anything other than defend her friends.

  Speaking of Borg, he most certainly was not the swiftest rabbit in the warren (to be fair to the now-emasculated town guardsman), but nor was he the dumbest rock in the box—far from it, actually. It was like he lived two minutes in the past and was having conversations with our past selves in what was, for him, real-time. Throw in the fact that the common tongue was his second language and Borg seemed simple, but he was actually fairly intelligent, highly empathetic, and, like Whiska, very loyal to people with whom he hadn’t been traveling for all that long. I couldn’t help but like him, even if I didn’t particularly enjoy his near-constant need to defecate at inconvenient times.

  That leaves Nadi. Nadi was clearly competent, strong, and a natural leader. She was quiet and thoughtful, but when she spoke, she spoke with authority. Nadi was more reserved than the others, so I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what made her tick. I figured her father’s death at the hands of orc raiders had spurred her desire to become an adventurer, but she said that had little to do with it, though she wouldn’t tell me what had. She rarely lowered her guard, though she sometimes loosened up around Rummy, who she clearly adored despite frowning upon his habit of taking things that didn’t belong to him. She also had a very bad habit of staring a hole right through your head, though she did it to me more than the others, so maybe she just took a while to get used to new people. And, it’s not like I’m not used to being stared at, both as a performer and as a “paragon of ethereal beauty” (again, not my words—that’s how Kenneth the Pretty Okay Sometimes Wandering but Usually Sedentary Minstr
el once described me; I should note that Kenneth was much better at sweet-talking than he was at marketing himself).

  By the time we neared the orc encampment, I had a much better understanding of my new companions and, for the first time, at least a vague sense of hope that they might actually be able to defeat the dragon. I hadn’t actually seen them in battle yet, though, so I was reserving judgment until after our encounter with the orcs—assuming we survived it.

  “I realize that my job on this journey is to act as a chronicler,” I said, “but, just out of curiosity, do we have any sort of plan for when we actually encounter the orcs?”

  “Besides turning them into orc jelly?” asked Whiska.

  “Please tell me that’s just a particularly graphic way of describing how violently you’ll kill them and not a Ratarian toast topper,” I replied.

  “Why can’t it be both?”

  “I need to get a better sense of how the encampment is laid out,” interjected Nadi (thankfully). “Do you know how close we are?”

  “We’re still a few miles away, I think,” I replied. “Maybe a little less.”

  “Let’s go another half mile or so—after that, I’ll go ahead alone to scout things out.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” asked Rummy.

  “Sending more than one of us would increase the chances that we’re seen, and I’m the best choice for this sort of thing, given my ability to move quietly and, ah, not necessarily kill everything I see.” Nadi looked at Whiska. “No offense.”

  “Why would I be offended by the truth? Personally, I think not killing everything you see is a sign of weakness.”

  “Remind me to remain unseen by Whiska,” said Rummy.

  We continued on for another ten minutes before taking shelter in a copse of trees well off the main road that would provide cover while Nadi undertook her scouting mission.

  With nothing to do but wait, Rummy decided to cook dinner. Borg lit a fire while Rummy busied himself slicing up vegetables and dropping them into a pot that looked far too large to have come out Rummy’s pack. When he started pulling out an array of jars and bottles containing various oils and spices that clearly would not have fit into his bag, at least not without constantly clanking, I raised an eyebrow and gestured toward the absurdly large collection of cooking paraphernalia.