The First Dragoneer

by M. R. Mathias

  He slung the pack over his shoulder and was about to reach for the torch, but a glittering sparkle underneath the dead man’s neck caught his eye.

  Bren, seeing his friend reach back down to the body, yelled out in frustration. “COME ON!... On... on.” His voice echoed down the cavern.

  “Just a moment,” March growled back up at Bren’s impatience.

  He groped through the dust where he’d seen the flashing reflection and found a small chain with his fingertips. As he pulled it out from under the dead warrior, he could feel the substantial weight of something that dangled from it.

  “Light, Bren!” He ordered. Bren sighed and held the torch forth so that he and March could both see what it was.

  The firelight reflected so brilliantly off of the thumb sized gem mounted in the dirty medallion that it nearly blinded them.

  “Wow,” March gasped, turning to his friend. “Its--”

  His voice was drowned out by the sudden angry growl of something very big and very close.

  March pulled the medallion’s chain over his head and grabbed the torch back from his friend.

  “Let’s go!” Bren yelled again. His bow was instantly drawn and his arrow trained at the area of darkness where the sound had come. “Now!”

  March gave no argument. He immediately began backing through the cavern towards the entrance, holding the torch out toward the sound they had heard. They awkwardly tried to stay side-by-side as they continued moving backwards as quickly as they could.

  They heard the thump of heavy footfalls pounding rapidly towards them from the darkness. A strong alien scent filled the air. Whatever it was, it was four legged, and it was closing in on them.

  A deep rumbling growl began and quickly turned into a screechy roar. It was right there, just outside of the torchlight. March could see several glistening reflections in the darkness, all of which were at least a head taller than he was. He was sure it was eyes and teeth, or maybe scales that he was seeing.

  “Loose, Bren!” March yelled. An arrow thrummed by his ear from his friend’s bow.

  A viscous screech filled the cavern then, and the head and wing claws of a snarling young wyvern charged into the torchlight. Its scales were pale, almost pink. It was dragon-like, but not nearly as large as even a young wyrm was rumored to be. It’s long sinuous body was the size of a small horse, or a big tree cat, and it’s toothy serpent head was already lunging. Two huge fangs curled up from its bottom jaw and jutted above plum sized nostril holes. Behind them, eyes that looked like cherry walnuts glowed with indignant rage. Menacingly, the strange reptilian creature roared at them and crouched to strike. The arrow Bren had fired protruded harmlessly from creature’s shoulder. Bren didn’t hesitate to fire again, this time aiming for the vital chest area between the creature’s stumpy forelegs. The arrow sank deeply, but didn’t even slow the bursting charge. A huge raking claw lashed out at March and though it barely missed his flesh, it hung in the thick leather sword belt he had taken from the corpse. He, and the torch, were slung violently into the cavern wall.

  Bren fired two more arrows at the beast, but the force and speed of the attack on March, and the way the torch had gone flying across the air, had been dizzying. Even still, he had struck the sun starved creature well enough to stop it in its tracks. The dying torch was behind the wyvern now, near where March was stirring. The creature was perfectly silhouetted and Bren went to fire another arrow. Reaching in, he found his quiver empty. He looked down at it in shock. He never retrieved the arrow he had loosed at the white stag. At that very moment of realization, a razor sharp claw ripped down his hip tearing his leg wide open.

  He crumpled to the ground without a sound. When he looked up, he saw stars swirling around the blackness. Then there was nothing, nothing at all.

  With a lustful triumphant roar the wyvern’s serpentine head lunged toward Bren’s limp body. The victory growl was cut short though. The sound quickly turned into a horrid pain filled screech as the smoldering end of the torch came down on its pink scaly back. The brand sizzled and popped back to life, flaming hotly before it rolled off and hit the ground. The torch rolled to a stop just under the raging beast’s underbelly. March instinctively reached to his belt for his knife, but it was not there. He had dropped it when he was smashed into the wall. He didn’t panic though; instead he reached back over his head and grabbed hold of the ancient sword’s hilt in an effort to pull it from the scabbard. At first it wouldn’t come free, but with his second try, it did. The heavy metal hand guard cracked him in his ear and sent him stumbling head first across cavern floor towards the creature. The razor sharp blade sliced across his scalp, cutting him to the bone as it slipped free. March had to grab the sword by the blade to turn it around so that he could hold it correctly. He cut his palms open in the process, but not so badly that he couldn’t grip the hilt.

  March looked up to see the slithery beast fighting to turn around and face him. It was trying to avoid the torch flames that were licking its tender underbelly. March’s heart hit the floor when he caught a brief glimpse of Bren’s torn and bloody body crumpled against the wall. He saw Bren’s thigh-bone fully exposed, and the huge pool of blood surrounding his friend. He feared Bren was dead.

  A deep rush of anger fueled adrenaline shot through his veins. He gripped the sword with both hands. The grip wasn’t very good due to the blood leaking from the wounds in his palms, but it was good enough for him to raise the blade over his head and charge recklessly into the range of those horrible, finger-long fangs. At least the albino beast was easy to see in the muted torch light.

  March was getting dizzy, and he could feel his warm blood sluicing down his back from the head wound. Luckily, his rage took over as he brought the gleaming sword down into the exposed flank of the turning creature. He felt the blade slice deep into flesh before it was yanked from his hands.

  The wyvern bucked wildly, slamming March and itself into the rocky wall. Then it hopped backward into the darkened cavern. It was too late for the wyvern though. The slam, into the unrelenting surface of the wall, had driven the sword deeper into its vitals. With a series of deep, guttural moans that resounded with a hissing wetness, the creature curled and thrashed until it finally stilled.

  March reached for the back of his head. His wound was bad. He could feel his bare skull. But, he quickly forgot his pain when he heard Bren’s familiar voice moaning from across the cavern. Stopping only to retrieve the still smoldering torch, he went to Bren’s side.

  A finger deep gash ran from Bren’s hip to just above his knee and a fat purple knot was forming on his cheek, from where it had impacted the rocky floor. He had lost a lot of blood, but was slowly regaining consciousness. March pulled the old pack off of his back and gently put it under Bren’s head. He then tore off his shirt. Using Bren’s skinning knife, he cut the cloth into wide strips. He wrapped the strips around Bren’s thigh, pulled the wound closed with them, then tied them tightly. Only after he was sure that his friend wasn’t going to bleed out right there on the cavern floor did he use the last strip of cloth to tie around his still bleeding head.

  When that was done, he poured a generous dollop of the brandy hooch along the length of Bren’s wound.

  “No… no,” Bren said weakly as the burn of the liquid shot through his leg like a length of forge heated steel. After a moment of wincing and clench jawed groaning, he hissed, “Drink.”

  “Here,” March tipped the flask to his friend’s lips and let him take the last of it.

  March shook the flask over his hands and let the last few drops sting the wounds on his palms. Then he rubbed them together. He cut off a piece of Bren’s shirt and tore it into two strips which he then tied around them.

  “You’re a damn giboon,” Bren said quietly. He adjusted his upper body and pulled a fist sized stone from under his arse.

  “Well, if you’d have been a better shot, maybe we could have avoided the ruckus,” March forced a chuckle as he staggered to his
feet.

  “Is it dead, or did it just run off?” Bren asked with worry. He started to roll over to look, but his wounds kept him from turning.

  “It’s just down there resting,” March answered seriously. “I’m gonna go get wood for a fire. Just yell as loud as you can if it comes back.” He then started off into the darkness.

  “March! Hey, don’t leave.” He choked as he rolled over despite the pain. He stopped yelling when he saw the albino wyvern’s pale lifeless bulk at the edge of the torchlight. Four arrows protruded from the thick, pinkish-white scaled body. The blood covered hilt of the sword March had pilfered protruded from the thing, as well. Below the sword hilt there was a gash big enough to crawl into, and a massive pool of black thickening blood. The creature would have been ten or twelve paces from head to tail if it was stretched out.

  Relieved, Bren lay back, closed his eyes, and slowly slipped into blackness.

  4

  March could never in his life remember being as relieved as he was when he finally saw the daylight shining at the mouth of the cavern. By the look of the sun, it was still only early afternoon. What had seemed like a day long ordeal had actually lasted less than a turn of the glass. Thankful to still be alive, he grabbed the rope and his skinning knife, and began to gather up pieces of dried wood. The medallion hanging around his neck gleamed brightly in the sunlight. He was compelled to pause a moment to examine it.

  It was palm-sized and disc-shaped, formed from a heavy metal that he had never seen before. Not gold or silver, but easily as shiny and as beautiful. It was finely worked with runes and symbols that he did not recognize. In the center, a thumb sized, teardrop shaped, diamond was mounted. Turning it over, he saw that both sides were identical and that the jewel sparkled with a million prismatic colors. The chain appeared to be made from the same metal as the medallion. When he tucked it into his shirt he found that it hung perfectly below his collar between his pectoral muscles. It felt as if it had been fitted for him. He decided that it would be his good luck charm since he’d worn it while defeating that slithery beast. It could be magical like the artifacts from the old world he had heard about. If not, it was surely worth its weight in gold. Enough to buy a small farm he figured. Silently he swore to never sell it, or give it away. He also vowed to try to find the meaning of the markings on its surface.

  The scream of a distant predator bird pulled him from his musings. He still had to get his badly injured friend home. It wouldn’t take the wolves long to pick up the scent of all that blood, and Prominence was a long way away.

  After gathering some wood he started back into the darkness of the cave. He could see the dim torch flame flickering ahead and he carefully continued in that direction. His arms were full, so it was hard to step over the lifeless lump of the dead creature, but he managed. He marveled at the size of it. It was easily three times as long as Bren. Maybe he would cut off the head and some claws. He could make himself a trophy, and make Bren a necklace with the teeth.

  “Marcherion?” Bren called out weakly. “Is that you?”

  “Who else would it be, you big giboon!” March laughed. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like a tumbler at the fair.” Bren smiled broadly, but he gasped and turned a sickly pale color when he tried to sit up. Through clenched teeth he said, “My leg is pretty bad off, March!”

  “We will get you home,” March reassured. “If I can get you back over the ridge to our camp before dark, I’ll have you back in your bed by tomorrow night.”

  March talked on as he built a fire. “Getting back over the ridge is gonna be hard on you.” He looked at Bren seriously. “But if you can grit it out that far, we’ll be home free.”

  “I don’t think I can stand,” Bren said with more than a little worry in his voice. He knew the way the wolves had tracked and attacked other groups of hunters when they hadn’t gotten their fresh kills into the lower valley fast enough. He also knew that he smelled like a fresh kill, and that the wolves would surely come for him. March was a great hunter, and a superb woodsman, but no match for even a small pack of hungry wolves.

  “I wish I had something to make a splint with,” March muttered. Then he cursed himself for letting the medallion dazzle him from his wits while he was outside. He was about to start back through the cave when he noticed the sword’s scabbard lying on the cavern floor. An idea struck him then, and even though the cuts on his hands hurt badly, he went over to the white scaled wyvern’s side and struggled to pull the sword free. He screamed loudly as his hands slid roughly off of the hilt. The sword hadn’t budged and the cuts on his palms were reopened. He stood there grimacing, with his palms held to his chest, as fresh blood trickled down his arms and dripped from his elbows.

  Bren positioned himself to where he could see March. He saw the blood soaked band around his friend’s head and watched him wince as he wiped his bloody hands on his pants. Bren started to worry. They wouldn’t stand a chance if they got stuck in the woods in the dark. With both of them lame and smelling like a feast, all sorts of hungry things would come sniffing. He felt little relief when March tried again and grinned proudly after finally pulling the sword free of the wyvern.

  March searched the cavern for something to wipe the sword’s blade clean. His gaze finally landed on Bren, who was staring straight back at him with true fear in his eyes. March disregarded the look and walked over and pulled the dead man’s pack out from under Bren’s head. He opened it, and luckily, right there on top was a rolled up woolen cloak. It was exactly what he needed to save his friend. As he pulled it free, a fat leather pouch fell out of the roll. It chinked to the floor just beside Bren’s ear. Bren struggled to grab it while March went about rummaging through the rest of the backpack.

  “March look!” Bren said excitedly. He rolled to his side and poured a pile of shiny gold coins onto the floor. “We're rich!”

  March found a wine skin and was sniffing the spout to try to see if it held water or wine. It turned out to be some sort of liqueur. It probably had a fruity aroma at one time, but now it smelled of nothing but pure grain. He braved a small sip as he turned to see what Bren was carrying on about and nearly choked. Whether from the strength of the drink or from the sight of the pile of golden coins, he would never know. He forced himself to swallow and felt the burn of the liquid all the way down his throat and into his belly. He nearly choked again when he saw that Bren had only dumped out a small portion of the contents from the pouch. Bren was holding the heavy bag of coins in his hand and grinning ear to ear.

  Without hesitation, and with the eagerness of a small child reveling under the Giver Man’s tree on full winter’s morn, March dropped down to his knees and began rummaging through the rest of the contents. To his disappointment only two items remained. Neither was as glamorous as the bag of coins.

  “What’s left?” Bren asked excitedly.

  “Only an old book and a scroll tube,” March said flatly. “It’s all for nothing if we can’t get you back home. The wolves don’t take bribes.”

  He regretted saying it as soon as it came out of his mouth. It wasn’t right for him to scare Bren like that. It would be hard enough to get Bren over the ridge, even if his idea worked, and all the harder if either of them panicked.

  After giving Bren the skin full of the liqueur, March laid out the cloak and began cutting it into strips. After that, he gently took off the blood soaked pieces of the shirt he had tied around Bren’s leg. The cut looked like a long black gooey line. March wished he had a way to stitch it up, but the nearest needle was back over the ridge with their other gear. He thought about leaving Bren here and making the trip alone, but thoughts of what could happen to his friend lying defenseless in the cave made up his mind for him.

  “You pouring, or me?” March asked, pointing from the wine skin to the gash.

  “I’ll pour it,” Bren sounded reluctant. “You have to hold my leg still so I don’t pull it all back open if I jump.”

  “All right
,” March couldn’t help but laugh. “But you’re such a giboon. I ought to just leave you here, take all this stuff and go buy myself a castle.”

  Bren tried to laugh, but the anticipation of the pain to come kept him from it. March put one hand on Bren’s knee and the other on Bren’s hip. Then he nodded that he was ready. Bren took a big swig from the skin. Then, before he lost his resolve, he poured a generous amount of the liquid down his thigh just as he swallowed.

  To March’s surprise Bren just looked at him stupidly. It seemed as though he wasn’t feeling any pain at all. Then, Bren’s face slowly flushed pink. It quickly graduated to a bright reddish color. Soon it looked as if Bren’s head would burst. Then the scream came.

  It was long and loud, and it was followed by several quick sharp huffs that sent spittle flying from Bren’s mouth in every direction. He looked pleadingly at March and started to scream again, but mercifully his eyes rolled back into his head as his body succumbed to the pain.

  March wasted no time. He first padded the wound with a folded piece of the cloak. He bound it once more with strips so that it wouldn’t pull open on its own. Then he bound it again with a second layer of strips. After putting the sword back in the scabbard, he laid it along Bren’s wounded leg. He made sure that the ball of the hilt was jutting just past the bottom of Bren’s boot heel. He was glad to see that the tip of the sheathed blade was above Bren’s hip, nearly at his armpit. He strapped the sword to Bren’s leg with more strips of the cloak and some lengths of rope. He tied a fancy knot around Bren’s foot and the hilt, so that the sword couldn’t come sliding out of its scabbard. Finally, he slipped the thick leather sword belt under his friend’s waist then buckled it tightly around Bren and the sword’s blade. He hoped that most of Bren’s weight would be on the tempered steel and not on his leg.

  March took a moment to rest after his labors. He wanted desperately to be back over the ridge and in their camp before dark. He rounded up everything he could find, including the coins from the floor of the cavern. He put them all into the backpack. He strapped Bren’s bow and quiver around his shoulders, and took the time to remove three of the arrows from the body of the beast. Then he decided to take some proof of the kill. With his skinning knife, he cut the fore claw off of the creature, and after wrapping it in what was left of the cloak, he forced it into the pack. He shouldered the load, and after a quick look around to make sure that he had gotten everything, he went to wake Brendly.