Dragon In The Needles

by Bruce Leslie

  Wendy met his frown with a smile. “No chance, you’d have potatoes in my turnip patch before I reached the Oxhorn.”

  The Lump raised his fist and pointed a thumb in Flynn’s direction. “What about this pretty fellow over here? He’s agreed to do the job.” The Lump looked down at the ground, hoping to find some comfort in the dirt.

  Meena gave a short nod of her head in Flynn’s direction. “Flynn’s never been north of Molgadon, he’s not sure of the best way.” She lowered her head, scratched the back of her neck under her thick, red braid, then looked up again. “Going back the way I came, through Silverport, would waste days.”

  Wendy was resting both of her hands atop the broom’s handle. “Oh, Ollie here has taken turnips to Bleuderry before.” She turned her head to face the Lump. “It’s a long trip, but he and Tilley know the best way to take it. Isn’t that right, my boy?”

  The Lump felt his eyebrows move together. “You really seem eager to be rid off me. I know I eat a bit much, but I try to be handy.” He glanced at Meena, then back to Wendy. “The big ferry at Molgadon don’t cross no more, with Tilley we’ll have to cross at the bridge.” He raised his hand to his tangled hair and was aware that he had neglected to put on his cap.

  “See, you’re making things keener already.” Wendy lifted the broom onto her shoulder.

  “Are you sure you need me for this mess?” The Lump brought his hand down from his hair and let it rest on his belly. “Flynn here, he’s got good armor and a much better sword than mine.”

  “That does seem to be most true.” Meena curled her forefinger around the tip of her chin and rested her elbow in her free hand. “But if I ponder it,” she paused, “perhaps swords don’t slay dragons, heroes do.” Her finger fell from her chin and she crossed her arms.

  The Lump squeezed his teeth together, and felt his right eye draw closed. “No, I’d say fool’s do.” He felt his nostrils open wide. “Well, I think you have made me the fool.”

  “So you’ll be joining us?” Meena’s crossed arms dropped to her sides, and she rose up on the balls of her feet.

  “If I go with you and blue tunic on this fool’s quest…” The Lump felt like the inside of his head was attempting to ooze out of his ears. “…will you promise never to come to Windthorne again?”

  Meena’s eyes grew from narrow slits to big, round saucers. “Yes, I promise! I give you my word!” She spread her arms wide and stepped toward the big man.

  “Easy, now!” The Lump stepped back and held his hand out at arm’s length. “I only hug my mule.” He let his arm drop. “While we’re on the road, you have to leave me be.”

  “Of course,” Meena answered, “you’ll need to concentrate on the dragon.”

  “I’ll be excellent company for the girl.” Flynn, still atop his horse, joined the conversation. “She can ride with me, on Tracer here.” He ran his hand along the horse’s thick, brown neck. “He’s the finest horse Silverport has ever bred.”

  “I already like him better than you,” said the Lump.

  Flynn placed his free hand on his hip. “I can regale the girl with a great many tales of glory.”

  “Maybe with all that hot air, we should try to sail north.” The Lump felt his lips curl into a smile for the first time since he had left his bed. “What happened to your little helmet?”

  “I think the white haired fellow, the one who was under the table last evening, he took it.” Flynn placed his hand on top of his uncovered head.

  The Lump shook his head from side to side. “Marty? Well, he’s probably eating porridge out of it right now.”

  Meena interrupted the two men. “I swear to you that I’ll never set foot in Windthorne again.”

  “I just hope I do.” The Lump felt the muscles in his jaw grow tight again. I’ll get you fools out of Aardland, but I’ll fight no mud-kissing dragon. He turned back to the stable and started walking. “I can’t leave until tomorrow. I’ve got to fix a drafty barn.” He lowered his voice, speaking to himself aloud, “Marty, doesn’t even have any livestock, wants me to fix his barn.”

  Wendy called after him, “I’ll pack you some milk and fried bread before you set off.”

  Flynn sat up tall in his saddle and thrust his chest forward. “We shall depart at the first light of the morning.”

  “We shall depart when Tilley and me come out of this stable tomorrow.” The Lump went back into the stable and barred the door.

  5: Leaving Windthorne

  The sun was a quarter of the way across the sky when the Lump led Tilley out of the stable and into the mid-morning air. The mule required little goading after a morning meal that consisted of a bucket-full of mixed grain. The Lump felt wide awake after his own breakfast of fried bread, porridge, and warm, salted goat’s milk. He had two large leather bags filled with supplies tied together by a rope and slung over his left shoulder. The sun was bright, though not quite as bright as it had been the previous morning during the ruckus. He was pleased that there were few people milling about outside the tavern. The paucity of people allowed him to breath easily. As he looked around he saw Martin, ankle deep in the stream at the far side of the brown, dirt path. The white-haired man’s boots were on the dry bank.

  Martin whistled as he filled a pail with the cool, clear stream water. “‘Eh, Lump, thanks for fixing the barn!” He climbed up onto the bank with his bare feet, stumbling in the loose soil. “Stu’s still going to be mad that you left without chasing off his wife’s mum!” Martin sat the pail on a level piece of ground next to his boots.

  The Lump raised his hands shoulder high and answered. “If his wife had her way, I’d be chasing off Stu!” The Lump stopped walking down the path and watched Marty struggle to put on his boots.

  Martin picked up his left boot and thrust it on his right foot, struggled for a moment, then took it off. “These boots were never made proper.” He scratched the top of his head, at the wide, central area where very little hair grew. “Maybe there’s something in it.” He looked deep in the boot with one eye before turning it upside down and pounding on the sole with his palm. “Maybe that did it.” He tried putting the boot on the wrong foot again, to no avail, and dropped it to the ground with a growl. “If I ever see that cobbler again, he’ll regret it!” He picked up the other boot. “I’ll just have to make do with this one.” It slid easily onto his foot. “Well, that’s not too bad.” He looked at his bare left foot with a wrinkled brow. “I can’t just go around with one boot, that twisted one will just have to do.” He slid the left boot onto his left foot with little effort. “Well look at that, I must have fixed it!”

  The Lump chuckled under his breath at the ordeal, then shouted. “So you’ll be helping Wendy while I’m gone?” He put his hand on the back of his neck, imagining a plethora of unpleasant scenarios.

  “That’s right.” Martin walked towards the tavern with his pail of water, little bits splashed out with each step. “I’ll be the tavern’s man-about-tasks.” He passed the pail from his right hand to his left.

  “Good luck!” The Lump resumed leading his mule to the rendezvous point where he planned to meet Flynn and Meena.

  Martin raised his pail high in the air. “I don’t need any luck.” A small stream of water trickled down his arm and onto his shoulder.

  The Lump looked back at Martin and shouted. “I meant for Wendy!” He turned his attention back to the path ahead of him.

  The Lump saw Flynn and Meena waiting at the wide spot in the dirt where the Windthorne path met the Market Road. He tugged gently on his mule’s lead and went over to meet the pair. The sooner we start this badger-hugging trip, the sooner it ends.

  Flynn was sitting in the ornate saddle atop his horse, Tracer. In addition to the sword on his left hip, there was a length of coiled rope on his right. “This seems to be fine weather for embarking on our journey, Oliver.” He adjusted his leather gloves by opening and closing his hands one at a time.

  The Lump drew down his eyebrows and groan
ed. “It’s Lump.” He looked up at the mounted man who was still fidgeting his hands. “Oliver sounds like a name for some frail-bodied court musician.” He gripped Tilley’s lead firmly in his left hand.

  “My pardon, sir.” Flynn dipped his head low, then raised it. “I suppose a man has a right to be called as he wishes… short of titles, of course.” Flynn rested his hands in front of him on the horse’s back, at last satisfied with his gloves.

  Meena was sitting on the ground with her legs crossed, just in front of Tracer. “So, have you planned our route?” She stood and pulled her green cloak over her shoulders, leaving the hood off of her head. She reached behind her neck and pulled her thick, red braid forward over her shoulder.

  The Lump gave his mule a gentle pat on her gray neck. “I figure you took the Eastern Road down to Silverport.” He looped the lead line through Tilley’s makeshift rope bridle.

  “Yes, that’s true.” Meena looked up at the Lump with her head tilted, squinting her eyes.

  The Lump took off his leather cap and ran a hand through his hair. “And you probably ferried across the river, in one of those rope-pulled crates that take two at a time.” He put the thick, brown cap back on top of his head.

  “Yes.” Meena turned her head away for a moment, silent, then looked back to him and spoke. “Is that how you plan to take us back?” Her eyebrows were drawn together, her forehead wrinkled.

  “No, there’s no ferries anymore that can handle a horse, let alone Tilley here.” The Lump scratched Tilley behind the ear as he spoke. “We’ll have to cross at the Oxhorn Bridge. It’s the only bridge across the big river.” The Lump adjusted the little sword on his hip and took the large leather bags off his shoulder, placing them over the mule’s haunches.

  Flynn raised his eyebrows and spoke. “I’ve heard tales that the bridge is perilous.” The pitch of his voice sounded half an octave higher than usual.

  The Lump felt himself grin. “You’re looking for your glory, there you have it.” He coughed just a bit as the small laughs escaped him. “You will be forever know as Flynn, the bridge crosser.” He looked down at the dirt and shook his head.

  Meena inspected her cloak. “Why is there only one bridge?” She brushed a small spot of dirt off the side of her garment, then let it fall around her and looked up at the Lump.

  The Lump lifted his gaze from the ground to the girl. “The ferries work just fine for people and turnips. Not many mules have a reason to cross the Oxhorn.” He paused for a moment to stroke his short, brown beard. “Ferries put coin in the pockets of ferry men, bridges don’t.” He let his hand drop from his chin to his side. “Besides, there hasn’t been a bridge builder in Aardland since before the great war. There’s probably not an Aard alive who knows how.” He turned his attention back to his mule and adjusted the bags draped over it.

  Meena spoke again. “In the Common Lands we have scores of fine rope-bridges to get us across the Needles.” She leaned over to tug at the top of one of her boots. “I bet I could build a bridge. I could build one from Aardland all the way to Gallis.” She stood up straight and twisted her foot a few times in the dirt.

  “Well, I’m not sure people on either side want that bridge.” The Lump wiggled his toes in his own boots to make sure the fit was right. “Enough babbling about bridges.” Satisfied with the comfort of his boots, he held his palm in front of him like a book and pointed at it. “Here’s the way we go, we take the Market Road from here to Molgadon.”

  “I know the Market Road!” Flynn smiled broadly with his statement, looking at Meena, then the Lump, then back to Meena.

  The Lump looked up sideways from his palm, never taking his finger off of it. “Well, aren’t you just a map in a flowery tunic.” He looked back at his open hand and continued. “Then we’ll follow the river west, on the herder’s path —“

  “A herder’s path? For heroes such as us?” Flynn spat out his words, as if they were morsels of bitter fruit.

  The Lump grunted and looked up at Flynn again. “The difference between herders and heroes is that herder’s have sense enough to mind their own business.” His thick finger was still firmly planted in the same spot on his hand. “The path gets us to the bridge, and just across it lies the road to Bleuderry.” He finally took his finger off of his palm and let his hands rest at his sides.

  Meena spoke. “Let’s hope we don’t stay long in Bleuderry.” She wrinkled her nose and continued. “The folk there didn’t seem to know any hospitality when I was seeking help.” Meena looked away from her companions, toward the sky.

  Flynn sat up tall on his horse. “They’re northern Aards. My nan always said that cold weather breeds cold hearts.” He placed a thumb under each side of his breastplate and shifted it a little.

  The Lump grinned up at Flynn. “And I guess in Silverport the Empty Sea breeds empty heads.” He circled his finger in the air next to his ear.

  The slight smile on Flynn’s face melted into a frown. “If we are traveling together, there is no need to be rude.” He turned his face away from the others.

  Meena snapped her finger’s sharply in the air. “Flynn’s right! If we leave you be, inasmuch as the journey allows, you’ll hold your bitter words.” She pointed her finger at the Lump. “I suspect you grossly overestimate the cleverness of your insults.” She gave her head a sharp nod in the Lump’s direction. “If you want to make a sport of browbeating, You’ll find me more than your match.” She crossed her arms in front of her and raised her eyebrows.

  The Lump raised his own eyebrows. “I don’t want your burrs in may cap. I guess I’ll need to work on my courtesies, m’lady.” He bowed deeply then rose.

  He opened his hand and pointed at it again. “From Bleuderry we should be able to find a trail to the Peddler’s Pass.”

  “That leg of the trip, I know well.” Meena looked at the Lump and smiled, her arms still crossed. “And I don’t even have to point at my hand to find it.”

  Flynn turned his face back in the direction of his soon-to-be fellow travelers. “Oli— I mean Lump, sir, thank you for guiding us on this journey.” Flynn reached a gloved hand to Meena and helped her perch on his horse behind him. “If you get us to the Needles, I’m sure my sword will remedy the Common Folk of their dragon malady.” With his passenger secure in her seat, Flynn’s hand was free to grip the hilt of his sword and rattle it in its scabbard.

  “From what I saw in the tavern the other night, I’m sure you’re fool enough to try.” The Lump groaned as he pulled his heavy body up onto his mule, then twisted at his waist several times to get comfortable on his unsaddled mount. “I was hoping, that maybe, that thump on your head gave you some sense.”

  From her place at the rear of the bay stallion, Meena looked over at the Lump and scowled with her mismatched eyes.

  Flynn took in a sharp breath through his nostrils, held it for a moment, then let it out. “You know it wasn’t a fair fight, I was expecting you to strike at me with your sword, not your hand.”

  The party was silent as the horse and the mule began walking down the well worn Market Road.

  6: Tilley

  The Lump watched the big wagon, laden heavy with unseen goods, plod along in front of him. It was the only other traffic on the Market Road, but it had been in front of him ever since Windthorne. Behind him Flynn and Meena were atop Tracer, where they chatted about topics he was happy enough to ignore. The traveling was slow but uneventful. The Lump was enjoying the peacefulness of the trip when a voice called to him from behind.

  “Why do you carry such a small sword?” Meena asked. Her voice bounced in time with the horse’s steps.

  The Lump heard the hoof beats behind him move more quickly as Flynn brought Tracer up beside him.

  “You really care about my sword?” the Lump asked, now able to see his companions.

  “It’s just that you’re a large man.” Meena’s hands were behind her, holding on to the rear part of the horse. “It seems to me that you might prefer a la
rge sword.” Her head swayed back and forth with the steps of the horse.

  “I’d probably prefer no sword,” said the Lump, “but the one I have was my father’s. I’ve carried it since I was a little fellow.” He paused for a moment, then spoke. “It’s good for digging turnips.”

  “It’s hard to believe you were ever a little fellow,” Meena said. “Why did your father have a little sword?”

  “That’s an easy one. He was a little man.” The Lump stared at the wagon in front of him as it lurched over ruts in the road. “By my estimation, that must be why he became such a vicious scrapper.” He glanced down to his sword, then back to the wagon in front of him. “I suppose he was too small to cut much wood, or work with stone.” He drew in a long breath and held it for a moment before releasing it. “I don’t know why he had to try to be a hero. A little man can be a good herder, or a farmer…a potato farmer.”

  Meena waved her hand forward at the wagon in front of them. “I don’t know why that wretched heap has to be in front of us.” She bared her teeth and growled. “We’ll never make it in time to help at this pace.”

  “Don’t worry about that wagon.” The Lump took his eyes off the wagon and looked at the girl on the horse beside him. “It’ll be off the road at Molgadon. We will make up time on the herder’s path, won’t be no wagons there.” He looked down at his mule and rubbed her coarse, black mane. “Besides, it’s not like Tilley here can gallop.”

  Flynn leaned back in the saddle. “So, who trained your father at arms?”

  “I believe you could say he taught himself, the way Wendy tells it.” The Lump looked at the clouds above him. “Being a little guy, the rough types thought he would be easy sport.” He smiled and continued. “He had to scrap a lot, Wendy says he got pretty good at it.” He lowered his eyes back to the road. “Wendy says that if his temper hadn’t been so hot, he could have been an acrobat.” He looked at Flynn. “She said he could do flips, and climb to the top, skinny branches of a tree.” He turned away from Flynn and looked back at the road. “I think being an acrobat’s son, at court and all, that could have been a good life.” The Lump paused, then sighed. “But he found a smithy that made him this odd sword.” He placed his hand on the weapon at his hip. “I think a sword you can hold in one hand has some advantages. It leaves your other hand free, it’s easier to move around.”