by Simon Haynes
The halfling had a stick in his hand, and tied to the end of the stick was a scrap of off-white fabric. Runt would liked to have torn the rag from the underskirts of a willing maiden, but had settled for a dishcloth.
There was a rustle of leathery wings, and Runt waved the flag like crazy. A shadow passed overhead, then vanished. Runt swallowed. The shadow wheeled around at the far end of the main street, just out of the light. Then it approached at speed and flashed overhead, all scales and teeth and sharp claws and leathery wings. Runt took one look, dropped the stick and ran. At least, that's what his brain told him to do. Somehow the stick was glued to his hand and his feet were rooted to the ground, the air around them misted with iridescent blue-green. He shot a venomous look at the tavern doorway, where Father M was peering at his spell book.
'Got any protection from fire spells, too?' yelled Runt.
'Be brave, little one. The Desolator returns.'
Runt ducked as the dragon whistled past, then watched in awe as the huge creature turned in its own length and dropped to the muddy street on all fours. The ground shook with the impact, and Runt shook with it.
Then the dragon emerged from the shadows at the far end of the main street, moving towards him one step at a time. As it got closer Runt stared at the huge diamond-shaped head, the narrow muzzle and the laid-back ears. One side of the dragon's face was chiselled, flat planes with fine scales around an inky-black eyeball the size of Runt's head. The other was a mass of ancient scar tissue, a clenched knuckle of skin surrounding an opaque, milky eye.
The dragon's head twisted and turned as it scanned both sides of the street with its good eye. Runt clutched the collar behind his back, his hand slick on the leather as he waited his chance.
Suddenly the Desolator tilted its head back and belched fire into the air with a bellowing roar, then thrust its face forward until its smoking nostrils were a short arms length from Runt. Which was very close, because Runt had very short arms.
'What issss it?' hissed the Dragon.
'Wh-wh-what?' stuttered Runt.
The dragon tried again, its hard lips and narrow tongue striving to form the words. 'What issss it you are sssshaking at me?'
Runt lowered the flag. 'Th-th-this?' he stammered, his slack lips and furry tongue also giving him problems in the speech department. 'It's a-a …' he thought for a split second. 'It's a flag.'
The dragon's eyes narrowed, the milky one almost completely hidden by folds of ravaged skin. 'I can sssee it'sss a flag, but why are you sssshaking it?'
'I wanted to talk to you.'
'I have better thingsss to do than talk to halfwitsss,' said the dragon sternly.
Runt frowned. 'I'm a halfling, not a halfwit.'
The dragon sat back on its haunches. 'You're ssstanding in the open, waving sssticks at a marauding dragon. That makesss you a halfwit.'
Runt silently agreed. 'Why are you attacking the town?'
'It'sss part of being a dragon. They don't call me the Desssolator jussst because I sssteal sssheep.'
Out of the corner of his eye, Runt saw the cleric motioning him towards the dragon. He gestured right back. 'Er, you know there's something you could do to make yourself really, really scary?'
The Desolator's good eye stared at him. 'I'm not sscary already?' he growled. 'Haven't I sizzzzled enough people yet?'
'Y-yes, but you could improve your visual, er, scariness.'
'I could, could I? And you are an expert on thiss scaring businesss?' The dragon belched. 'That one thought I was sscary enough.'
'But it's just terror-munch, terror-munch. No long-term effects.'
'You think I sshould employ mental tacticss?'
'Precisely. And I've got just the thing to help, right here behind my back.'
The Desolator craned its neck, but Runt backed away. 'No peeking.'
'You try my patience,' hissed the dragon. But he kept trying to look. 'Why do you do this?'
'I'm a halfling - teasing dragons is in my nature.'
'No, why do you offer me thisss? You could make thingss worse for the town.'
Runt cast his eyes down. 'I was hoping you'd spare me if I gave you something valuable.'
'A deal?' the dragon began to shake. 'I could ssnap you up and I'd have your preciouss gift for free.'
'No, you wouldn't.' Runt held up the collar, and the silver studs glistened in reflected light. 'You couldn't do it up.'
'Ahhh, clever,' said the dragon. It peered closely at the Collar of Taming, and Runt heard it sniffing. 'Who wore thiss? No, don't tell me… it'ss coming to me… Wyvern branch, possibly a Great Newt, or …'
'Just think how fearsome you'd look!' exclaimed Runt, tilting the massive collar so the dragon could see the fine stitchwork. 'Hand crafted, this was.'
'Hmmm, I don't ssee the harm,' mused the Desolator. 'You're barely a ssnack in any case.'
'If you bend your neck down, I can fit it without climbing on your wonderful scales.'
The dragon shot him a glance. 'You can take the ssoft ssoap too far, halfwit.' But he bent his neck and laid his massive head on the ground. 'Fassten it, then, and I will sspare you.'
Runt gulped, then walked past the milky eye and the scarred face until he was alongside the thin, scrawny neck. He closed his eyes, counted to three, then threw the loose end of the collar over the dragon.
The collar had barely touched the scales before the Desolator reared up, snarling, with Runt clinging to the ends of the collar. Then the dragon flapped its massive wings, and Runt found himself dangling from its neck, his eyes fastened on the rapidly-receding ground.
'Tricksster!' screamed the Dragon. 'It'ss a magic collar!' One of the short, stubby forelegs swished past Runt's stomach, and the dragons's head turned this way and that as he tried to see the halfling with his good eye.
Runt ignored the leg and looked up, cursing the stickler who'd created the damn thing. Near enough apparently wasn't good enough. His hands were slick with sweat, heat and wind tore at him, the dragon's rough claws kept slashing at him, and he was dangling hundreds of feet above the ground. But somehow he got the pointed end of the collar through the buckle, and with a feeling of savage joy he pulled the thing tight and shot home the catch.
The claw stopped slashing. The dragon stopped twisting and turning. The fiery breaths ceased.
'Desolator?' called Runt.
'Yess, halfling?'
'Let's go take a look at your treasure, shall we?'
*
The dragon landed on the side of a craggy mountain, and Runt unhooked his aching fingers from the collar and stood up on shaky legs. He shivered … the air was cold, and the hillside was strewn with the bleached bones of many unfortunate meals.
'Follow me,' said the Desolator, leading the way between two large rocks. The dragon breathed twin flames through its nostrils, lighting the dark passageway admirably. Runt staggered after it, his heart thumping.
As they turned the corner, Runt stopped. Laid out before him was a gleaming lake of treasure - drifts of gold coins, sprinkled with gems the size of his fist. Wooden chests overflowing with pearls, necklaces, diamonds. There were magic weapons, fine armour, musical instruments and some really nifty antique clocks.
'Mine,' yelled Runt. He ran forward and dived into the treasure, surfaced and began throwing handfuls of coins into the air. 'All mine!' He grabbed gems and kissed them, picked up weapons and sighted along their gleaming blades, dropped jewelled crowns over his head until he could barely peep over the top of them.
He turned to gloat at the Desolator, then felt his blood turn to ice. Alongside the scarred dragon was another, her scales sleek, polished green and her wide eyes a deep, dark jade.
'Runt, meet my daughter,' said the Desolator calmly. 'Daughter, meet lunch.'
'Holy cow,' breathed Runt, as priceless treasures slipped from his incontinent fingers. 'I-if I take the collar off, will you let me go?'
'No,' said the dragon. She glanced at her father. 'You look like
you need to lie down.'
'You're right. I've got a ssplitting headache.' The Desolator ambled into the piles of treasure, curled up and immediately began to snore.
The green dragon gazed at the Desolator fondly, then turned her attention back to Runt. After regarding him for a moment or two, she began moving towards him purposefully. Slowly.
Runt closed his eyes, bracing himself for either a fiery breath or a quick snap of the teeth. Instead, he felt himself embraced warmly, and when his eyes blinked open he found himself staring into the beautiful face of a female halfling. 'I can't thank you enough,' she said. 'He won't take his pills, gets himself all worked up then charges up and down attacking things. That collar is perfect.'
'Huh?' said Runt, lost in the halfling's jade, green eyes. 'Hey, you're the dragon!'
She smiled. 'I thought you'd die of fright if I hugged you in my natural form.'
'But …'
The halfling put her head on his shoulder. 'You saved my father's life,' she said. 'It was only a matter of time before some two-bit wannabe hero—' she stopped, pulled away. 'Someone's coming.'
Runt heard the clink of steel on rock, followed by a muttered curse. 'Hurm!' he cried.
There was a hissing sound. 'I am Hurm!' boomed a voice, echoing around the cave like a fairground caller's cry.
'Shut up, you moron,' hissed a second voice. 'The little twit might not have fixed the collar properly.'
'Friends of yours?' asked the dragon.
Runt shrugged.
'Would you look away while I change?'
Runt did so, although he sneaked a peek and saw the curvaceous halfling morphing into the dragon - strong, green and very large. 'Hurm's got a sword,' whispered Runt. 'He's the big one. The other one's fast with the spell book. Don't hurt them too much.'
The dragon regarded him for a moment before nodding. Then she backed past the tunnel entrance and waited.
Father M's voice range out suddenly, close by. 'Runt, trusted companion, how fares it with you?'
'I put the collar on the dragon,' said Runt.
'Firmly, I trust?'
'Oh, yes. He's quite docile, no trouble from that angle.'
'Splendid,' said Father M., stepping out of the tunnel. His eyes widened at the sight of the treasure. 'Skewkeep's foreskin, that's a goodly haul.'
Hurm emerged behind him, clutching his trusty sword. His mouth dropped as he saw the sleeping dragon curled up on the piles of gold. Then, before anyone could stop him he charged forward towards the slumbering beast. 'Long will be the tales of my valour,' he said, skidding to a halt in the coins and raising his sword.
'That's not a good idea,' said Runt.
'None shall stay my hand,' declared Hurm, raising the sword higher and getting a good grip.
'Hurm, put the sword down. Slowly.'
'I am HURM!' yelled the fighter, driving the point of the sword towards the Desolator's head. Suddenly there was a hissing roar and a jet of flame boiled across the cave from the hidden, crouching dragon, blasting the blade into molten droplets. Hurm stared at the hilt, his face white.
'Now you're for it,' said Runt. 'And there's not an elf in sight.'
The green dragon came forward, squashing gold coins under her feet. Her eyes were sharp, her ears flat against her skull.
Hurm fell to his knees. 'Oh great one, spare me. I beg of you.'
'It's ok, she's on my side. Hop up before you get gold rash.'
Hurm struggled to his feet, brushing away Father M's hand. 'From this day, I shall fight no more.'
'More?' snorted Runt.
'Gentlemen,' said the dragon suddenly, making the three companions jump. 'My father will no longer trouble the town of Yendour, and the three of you will therefore return as heroes.'
Hurm's downcast expression changed to one of hope.
'However, I will not have foolhardy idiots making their way here, tempted by treasure and rumours of a slumbering, docile dragon.'
Runt gulped.
'So I will give each of you a gift and a warning. The gift is as much treasure as you can carry.' The companions looked at each other in astonishment and glee.
'Wh-what about the warning?' asked Runt.
'Come here,' said the dragon.
The companions stepped forwards, against their will. When they were lined up in a row, the dragon breathed soft, lilac flames into their faces.
'Ow,' said Runt, rubbing his forehead.
'You will never return to this cave, nor reveal its location to others.'
'Never,' said the three companions as one.
'Now take your treasure and go.'
Father M and Hurm dived for the hoard and began stuffing gems and coins into pouches and pockets. For several minutes the cave echoed to hoarse breathing, clinking metal and the sound of pouring gems.
'And you, Runt?' asked the dragon. 'Do you not share their lust for riches?'
'It's just treasure,' said Runt, with a sidelong glance at the dragon. 'You make a great halfling, you know.'
The dragon's eyes twinkled. 'But I cast a spell on you, forbidding you from returning to this cave.'
'I haven't left yet.'
They were interrupted by Father M and Hurm, who staggered up draped with necklaces and bulging with coin. 'We'll be off then, ma'am,' said Father M. He tried to raise his hand to his forehead, but the weight of a chain mail vest slung over his arm prevented all but the tiniest of movements. 'Coming, Runt?'
Runt crossed his arms. 'I can't say that I am.'
'Ok, see you around,' said the cleric. He turned and staggered up the passage with Hurm close on his heels. Runt watched them go, wondering whether they'd get as far as the village of Yendour before they were beaten and robbed.
He turned at a rustling sound, and saw the dragon changing back into halfling form. 'Do you think we're compatible?' he asked, eyeing her curves with rising interest.
'I don't know,' said the dragon, with a smile that lit up her deep, jade eyes. 'But we can have some fun finding out.'
*
About the author
Simon Haynes was born in England and grew up in Spain, where he enjoyed an amazing childhood of camping, motorbikes, mateship, air rifles and paper planes. His family moved to Australia when he was 16.
From 1986 to 1988 Simon studied at Curtin University, where he graduated with a Bachelor of Arts in Film, Creative Writing and Literature.
Simon returned to Curtin in 1997, graduating with a degree in Computer Science two years later. An early version of Hal Spacejock was written during the lectures.
Simon has four Hal Spacejock novels and several short stories in print. Sleight of Hand won the Aurealis Award (short fiction) in 2001, and Hal Spacejock: No Free Lunch was a finalist in both the Ditmar and Aurealis Awards for 2008.
Simon divides his time between writing fiction and computer software, with frequent bike rides to blow away the cobwebs.
His goal is to write fifteen Hal books (Spacejock OR Junior!) before someone takes his keyboard away.
Simon's website is www.spacejock.com.au
Table of Contents
The Desolator
Table of Contents
The Desolator
