by Sean Gibson
“Gods willing you’ll get killed right now,” I shot back. “Your festering corpse might actually make the room smell better.” Sometimes adventuring is really, really not glamorous.
“Focus!” roared Nadi again, picking up her sword.
Whiska responded by loosing a purple bolt of energy at the minotaur, who grunted when it hit him in the chest, but it didn’t seem to do much damage. He did, however, glare at Nadi and, in a thick, heavily accented voice that sounded like pebbles slowly rolling down a hill, said, “I have irritable bowels—it’s nothing to be ashamed of!” He raised his axe and hurled it.
Whiska tried to dive out of the way, but the broad side of the axe clipped her on the shoulder. She screamed and tumbled onto her back.
“Bad move, swamp cheeks!” I shouted, hurling my own knife at the minotaur’s back. He turned his glare on me as the knife bounced off his tough hide. He looked kind of mad.
“I was talking about your butt cheeks, by the way,” I said quietly. “Not the cheeks on your face. Which are, um, just lovely.” I smiled sweetly, but even though that same smile has brought emperors to their knees, saved (and destroyed) kingdoms, and gotten me a ten percent discount on coffee, the minotaur didn’t seem even a little bit impressed. Maybe he was blind in addition to being flatulent—that would explain all the squint-glaring.
The minotaur took an intimidating step toward me. I backed away slowly. Okay, well, not that slowly—pretty fast, actually. Unfortunately, I quickly ran out of real estate and had my back literally up against the wall. “Flatulence is cool!” I said, desperately. “I mean, it’s pretty hot! The ladies love it! Wait—are there lady minotaurs? There are, right? Because they must love the smell of rotting fish mixed with severed, gangrenous fingers! It’s nature’s aphrodisiac!”
Look, I’m generally pretty good under pressure. I once did my nails while sitting on the rim of the Palador Volcano, which is the most active volcano in all of Erithea (it actually erupted three times before I finished my pedicure). But, I had a little breakdown as that minotaur bore down on me. I’m not proud of what I did or said. For the record, I really don’t think farts that smell like burnt sloth vomit are even a little arousing. There are a lot of heroes who refuse to compromise their values to survive. Most of them are dead. If I need to tell some hairy cow that his rectal halitosis gets me all hot and bothered in order to make him pause just long enough before he cuts my head off to give the weird rat wizard in my adventuring party an extra minute to hit him with an ice storm so I can escape, I’ll do it every time. Every. Single. Time.
Thankfully, that’s exactly what happened—the axe came up but paused as the minotaur considered my incoherently steady stream of fawning praise recognizing the glory of his gassiness (I can really sling it—and sell it—when I need to; it’s all part of being a performer). At that moment, Whiska hit him with a cone of ice, which, it turns out, minotaurs are highly susceptible to. The beast fell backwards and, mercifully, the cold snap managed to blunt, albeit not eradicate, the stench. Nothing short of an exorcism by the world’s most powerful cleric might manage that, and, even then, my money was on the stink.
The minotaur stumbled and fell hard onto its backside, though the hard landing produced both a grunt and yet another cloud of noxious gas, which quickly overpowered the cold air around the minotaur and raged around the chamber, turning the simple act of respiration into an endurance test the likes of which would leave even the most hardened of mountathoners gasping and crying and begging for the sweet release of painful evisceration. (Mountathoners, incidentally, are those questionably sane health enthusiasts who routinely run—at full speed—up, over, and down mountains that are at least five miles high for no reason other than that it allegedly makes them feel good; not a single one of them is any fun at parties.)
Nadi, however, didn’t hesitate, proving her courage a dozen times over by bursting through the green haze of gut-watering stench, mouth unwisely open in a battle cry, and raising her sword over her head before bringing it crashing down on the minotaur’s neck. At the same moment, Borg sprang into action (I say “sprang” for dramatic effect, “deliberately sauntered” being a more accurate descriptor), grabbing a massive rock from the cavern floor and bringing it down hard on the beast’s face.
From its prone position, arms splayed out wide, the minotaur couldn’t defend itself, and both blows struck home at the same time. Nadi’s blade plunged into the creature’s neck while Borg’s bash blew the beast’s nose to bits, splaying it across its hairy, and now painfully contorted, face.
Nadi didn’t relent, pulling her blade out and plunging it right back in a few inches to the left. Blood spurted, and though the beast roared in rage, it was an impotent rage, like when a raving old misogynist who loses his town council seat to an eminently more capable young woman can’t stop decrying the dissolution of family values (in that instance, I suppose it’s redundant to say “eminently more capable” when I’m saying “woman”; I apologize for the unnecessary, if correct, words). The minotaur shuddered and twitched, hands flailing, and managed to clip Nadi in the left thigh, which sent her stumbling backward. The damage was done, though, and the foul cow stopped moving a moment later, blood still slowly pooling beneath it. A stray tunnel goblin, the last one in the cavern, shrieked and doffed its cap (why it was wearing a cap, I have no idea) before racing down the tunnel from which we’d entered the room, leaving four conscious but very tired and one unconscious but presumably better rested adventuring companions and one minotaur corpse alone with our thoughts.
Whiska reached Rummy first, reaching into one of her pouches and producing a small vial filled with bright blue liquid. She popped the stopper off and poured the contents into Rummy’s mouth. She tipped his head back and plugged his nose, forcing him to swallow. He coughed and sputtered and, miraculously, sat up a moment later, eyes wide. “That stuff tastes like…well, like the air in here smells.” He wrinkled his nose. “What in the name of Goolydar’s dangled digit is that?”
(Goolydar is a halfling god who…you know what? It’s not that interesting of a story. It’s a stupid colloquialism that’s meaningless. Trust me.)
“That,” said Nadi with a satisfied smile, “is the smell of victory.”
Rummy’s face soured. “I hate to be so crass, especially when we apparently won, but, well…victory smells like minotaur diarrhea.”
We made a unanimous decision to relocate to another chamber that smelled slightly less fragrant. We found one not too far away. Unfortunately, the mobility and endurance of minotaur farts is ungodly, so it took a few tries to find a spot where the air was at least moderately fresher. Of course, then we realized that the stench had permeated our jury-rigged clothing, which made burning it a necessity, beyond the obvious crime against fashion we committed each additional moment we spent in them. Unfortunately, that would have to wait.
Once we’d found a spot we could sort of breathe, we brought Rummy up to speed and kicked around options for what to do next. We still didn’t have much in the way of food, and we still didn’t know where to find the dragon. Fortunately, adventurers have a high incidence of fate intervening to help them, if only because fate so often wants to kill them.
Just as we began to debate which way to go, a tunnel goblin wandered in, nonchalantly gnawing on a strip of jerky (I shuddered to think what animal that jerky came from; my guesses included pony, giant spider, human, and, most disgustingly of all, cow). We jumped to our feet and grabbed for our weapons, but the goblin seemed in no hurry to engage. It took another bite of jerky, swallowed hard, and said, “You go left,” pointing to the right.
We traded confused (and, in Whiska’s case, murderous) looks. “Excuse me?” replied Nadi.
“Left,” the goblin said again, pointing more emphatically to the right.
“Always struggled with that too,” said Rummy cheerfully. “I think you mean ‘right,’ friend,” said Rummy, pointing helpfully in the same direction.
T
he goblin shook its head vigorously. “No! Left! You need to left this place and go that way!”
“Ah, so more of a tense issue than a directional one,” said Rummy with a nod. “Makes sense.”
“No it doesn’t, you goat-touching half-brain!” said Whiska.
“I’ve never actually touched a goat,” mused Rummy. “I bet they’re not very soft. Well, maybe the babies are. They’re cute, at least.”
“Why would we go that way?” said Nadi before Whiska could unleash another stream of invective.
“Find dragon! Go left. Secret passage.” The goblin paused to bite, chew, and swallow again. Then he made a gesture that either meant “find a secret passage” or “I have incredible constipation.”
“Why would you help us?” asked Nadi.
“Want you get dragon eaten! Then goblins rule tunnels with stinky minotaur dead.” It laughed, a shrill bark that sounded like a hyena on laughing gas getting goosed by a candlestick.
“Points for honesty,” said Rummy, nodding amiably at the goblin, who returned the gesture in kind before sauntering off on its way in the direction opposite where it said the dragon waited.
Nadi shook her head as she watched it go, then reached out to stay Whiska’s hand before she could raise her staff to blast the goblin in the back. “Let it go,” she said. Then, she looked at me. “Do we trust it?”
I shrugged. “What else do we have to go on?”
“The goblin’s laugh…hurts my ears,” said Borg.
“Heloise is right,” said Rummy. “We’ve got nothing to lose by trusting it.”
“Unless it’s sending us into a trap,” replied Nadi.
“Do you really think it’s smart enough to do that?” I countered. “And, even if it is, we have no idea where to go, and I am not staying down here long enough to be eaten by Whiska—or to have to eat Whiska, which is an even more distressing thought.”
“Agreed,” said Whiska.
“All right,” said Nadi. “Let’s go find that dragon.”
“And some new clothes,” I added. “I really don’t want to die in something that looks like haute couture in an insane asylum and smells like a butcher’s block in a restaurant that only serves obese cats.”
Chapter 24
THROUGH BLOOD AND FIRE OUR HEROES EMERGE TRIUMPHANT
After coercing an evil goblin, a foul servant of the mighty dragon, into giving them directions that were straight and true, our brave band of heroes soon found themselves at the entrance of the mighty wyrm’s lair. Heat permeated the heavy air in the surrounding tunnels, residual warmth from the sleeping dragon’s flaming snores—a reminder that, even slumbering, this was a creature to be feared and awed. The heroes hoped—prayed, even, to all the gods of Erithea—that they might take the beast unawares, but the dragon’s hearing was so acute that even Nadinta’s soft footfalls alerted it to danger and caused it to growl and stir. It bolted upright and attacked immediately, sparing not even a fraction of its awesome power as it blasted the entrance to the grand cave, melting rock and treasure alike in its terrible wrath.
“No one dares to enter my lair!” roared the great and powerful red, its thunderous voice shaking the walls and bringing a rain of stones and dust down upon our heroes’ heads—heads that remained unmelted only through the timely and powerful magic of Whiska, whose eldritch ice shield withstood the beast’s great blast.
Nadinta wasted little time in rallying her mighty band, running headlong into battle with her sword poised to strike and the battle song of Cordalain, the ancient elven sect of indomitable warriors, on her lips. She struck hard and fast, her keen-edged blade slipping between the scaly, armored hide of the dragon.
The beast roared in pain, whipping its head around and thrashing its tail, which connected with Borgunder Gunderbor and sent him flying into the wall with a sickening crunch, the force of the blow so powerful that even the rock giant’s nigh-unbreakable bones cracked and shattered.
“No!” screamed Whiska, whose tears streamed freely down the long contours of her face as she considered the prone form of her dear friend sprawled across the cavern floor, his arms and legs bent at impossible angles. She channeled her pain into rage and then into magic, waving her hands in arcane, intricate gestures while she invoked words in the language of magic.
Powerful bolts of energy leapt from her outstretched fingers and sped toward the dragon’s chest, striking with explosive force. The dragon’s head snapped up and it roared; the echoes of its rage could be heard for miles and miles, as far as away as the nearest village, whose residents suffered violent nightmares that night, with visions of fire and blood causing them to sit bolt upright in their beds.
The great wyrm turned its attention on Whiska and unleashed its mighty breath, intent on destroying the creature that had dared to cause it pain. Whiska moved quickly, diving away from the blast, though she did not escape harm entirely. Her tail was caught within the blistering flames, and she howled in pain.
Nadinta continued her assault, striking the dragon again and again, but despite the might of her blade, she could inflict only limited damage. Rumscrabble Tooltinker fared even worse, his little mace bouncing off the dragon’s tough hide as though it were made of rubber.
Things looked grim for our heroes. The beast was simply too powerful, too large, too vicious; what could they do against such awesome might?
The beast inhaled deeply, preparing one final blast of fire to immolate the irritating interlopers who had dared to intrude upon his domain.
Suddenly, Nadinta paused. A voice sang out, calling her. Without thinking, she turned and dove into the nearest pile of treasure, pawing at it frantically. She sifted gold to the side, flung bejeweled chalices behind her, and paused only briefly as she hefted a heavy metal candlestick before tossing it aside as well. For beneath that mound of nearly incalculable wealth lay the source of the song, a sword that sang so sweetly that it succored her in her time of stress.
She wrapped her hand around the hilt and it hummed all the louder and, vibrating in her hand, all but forced her to turn back toward the dragon. The beast had completed its mighty inhalation and opened its maw. As the first black belch of smoke issued forth, the prelude to a withering torrent of fire, Nadinta knew she was too late, that she and her companions were doomed to shortly become smoking lumps of charred flesh.
She did all that she could do in that moment, which was to hold the sword aloft and pray to all the gods of Erithea to spare the lives of her companions. Her life flashed before her eyes as the fire washed over her, the heat of the flame so intense that she felt her eyelashes melting.
The dragon finished its blast, the smoke from its attack obscuring everything in the cavern. The great wyrm coughed once, clearing its throat of the last of the steam, which then puffed out through its cavernous nostrils. It gave a satisfied nod and turned its thoughts toward sleep, intent on resuming its nap.
Those thoughts were interrupted, however, by a sharp stab of pain in its gut. For there stood Nadinta, unharmed by the great gout of flame, undaunted by the size of the beast, unbowed by the challenges and trials that had come before. She thrust her sword forward with all of her might, and the magic blade—a legendary blade, in fact, the very sword once borne by Uthremegar the Rager, the mightiest warrior of the northern Camerian tribes, and the weapon with which he slew the terrible green dragon Porthaxatus—caused great pain to Dragonia.
The beast roared and thrashed, trying desperately to escape the sting of that blade, but Nadinta held fast to the pommel and drove it in deeper, knowing that the lives of her companions—who had been spared a fiery death by the sword’s protective nimbus—depended on her to strike hard, strike quickly, and strike decisively.
And strike she did, over and over, until the great Dragonia, the scourge of Skendrick and the surrounding territories, the terrible tyrant responsible for so much pain, suffering, and death, gasped one last gout of flame and fell backward, stone dead, on a pile of treasure so large it d
warfed the royal treasury of the ancient kingdom of Celenia, one of the wealthiest kingdoms that had ever existed.
Nadinta waited a moment before she withdrew the sword. She turned to her companions and nodded, and, as one, they let forth a triumphant yell—for, at long last, the brave band of heroes had vanquished the mighty dragon, and never again would the good citizens of Skendrick feel the pain of its fury.
Chapter 25
NOPE—IT WAS ABSOLUTELY (MOSTLY) NOTHING LIKE THAT
It turns out that the tunnel goblin’s directions were good, and we found the dragon in pretty short order.
You know by this point that one of my main goals in telling this story is to show that the adventuring life isn’t all it’s thought to be. It’s mostly boring, frustrating, dangerous (though not excitingly dangerous), smelly (dear gods, so smelly), and not particularly lucrative. Occasionally, however, it’s exactly how the songs make it sound, and in those moments, it’s easy to see why people—even smart, capable people like Nadi—would devote their lives to doing something so irrational. Let the record show that entering a dragon’s lair for the first time is one of those moments, and it’s fair to say that each member of our intrepid band experienced more than a frisson of excitement as we crept across that threshold.
Side note: “frisson” is one of those fancy words that I normally eschew (not unlike “eschew”), but, in this case, it’s really the only word that accurately captures the feeling. I’m all in favor of using the people’s vernacular, but sometimes the people should get a bigger vernacular and know what words mean. Also, the people should tip more, and maybe bathe a little bit more frequently. I should stop there. I have a lot more recommendations for the people that they probably won’t like, but I’d like them to buy the book, so…you know.
We knew we were getting close when we heard the low rumbles of the dragon’s snores echoing through the narrow corridor that led to its lair. Nadi silently called a halt and then did her scout-ahead thing, returning a few moments later looking pale but resolute. She nodded her head and then spread her arms like wings and pantomimed breathing fire. Or, maybe having eaten something spicy.
