by Dave Higgins
A few swishes later, she realised he was awake and stopped. “Hello. I’m Daffodil.”
Edmond rubbed his eyes and sat up.
Daffodil’s blue eyes pressed into him like cheerful glaciers. Even her gaze was stronger than he was. She looked about five, but her biceps already stood out from her arms like rocks, and her legs looked like small tree trunks. Noticing the scorch marks spattered across her smock, he swallowed hard. “I’m Edmond.”
“Are you the new kid?”
“Obviously. You’d recognise me otherwise.”
“You’re rude.”
“I don’t mean to be. My Charisma’s very low.”
“Mine too.” Daffodil thrust out a hand like a sack of rocks. “We should be friends.”
Edmond wasn’t sure he wanted to be friends with a girl four years younger than him. The village was tiny, though, and Daffodil seemed enthusiastic. Besides, she looked strong enough to knock him out if he said no.
“Do you want to see the caves?” Daffodil bounced on the spot. “They’re haunted by a witch.”
Edmond had seen plenty of landmarks supposedly haunted by witches, ghouls, ghosts, and goblins. He’d even helped his mother spread rumours about some of them. All of them had turned out to be harmless, filled only with rumours.
On the other hand, it would be somewhere that his father’s forceful bumbling wasn’t.
Leaving his parents snoring in the other corner, he followed Daffodil through a gap in the planks. The dawn air wrapped around him, stealing what heat he’d gathered overnight.
“Your Dad’s big,” Daffodil said.
“Almost all his points are in Strength.”
“Mine too.” Daffodil bounced up and down at the connection. “Strength, Dexterity, and Constitution. Dad was blind drunk when I was born and thought I was a boy. So he gave me the attributes of a hero.”
“What about your mother? Didn’t she protest?”
“Mum died in childbirth.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I never knew her anyway. What about your points?”
“Luck,” Edmond said. “All my points are in Luck.”
“Really? Really, truly?” Daffodil’s eyes lit up. She pulled a small bone dice out of her pocket. Peeling something sticky off the four, she held the dice out. “Make it come up six.”
Edmond took the dice and crouched down, rolling the dice along the ground. It stopped against a rock, showing six dots on the top. He rolled twice more, coming up six each time. The fourth roll bounced back off the rock and hit his shin.
“One.” Daffodil grabbed her dice. “Your Luck can’t be that high.”
“It is. But that means things don’t go a little wrong for me, they go a lot wrong. Or things go bad in the short term, but are good in the long term. Like a cart of manure upending over me meaning the bullies who wanted to beat me up then throw me in a lake don’t see me. Too difficult to work out which is which till it’s happened though.”
“Not with our intelligence and Wisdom, anyway.” Daffodil grinned.
Edmond nodded, but didn’t smile back. Everyone was so convinced he couldn’t learn anything with his attributes—but he was going to be a great scholar, he just knew it. He wasn’t smart enough to know how he knew, but he did.
They reached the edge of town and kept going. The rocky path wound up into even rockier hills. As they got higher, Edmond realised the fields stretched around the village in every direction but the one they were going. Which was a little odd; usually this sort of terrain was used for sheep.
“So why did your parents put your points into Luck?” Daffodil asked.
“They wanted to win at Scratchums,” Edmond said.
“Wow,” Daffodil said. “They messed up your attributes for that?”
Edmond shrugged. He’d given up being angry about his attributes long ago. What were they worth anyway?
Ahead, the patchy grass surrendered to dull grey rocks and gravel. Huge boulders littered the area, dotted with some kind of yellow moss. Beyond them, a cliff rose up, twice as tall as the tallest trees yet somehow smaller than Edmond had expected. In the centre of the cliff, a cave gaped darkly.
As they approached, Edmond realised the cave was almost square, less like a mouth and more like someone had dug it out. But what could cleave solid rock like that?
“There are tunnels inside,” Daffodil said, “that lead to where the goblins live; and the witch lives with them. She’s human, but the goblins treat her as their friend. It’s to do with her witch powers.”
Edmond nodded, only half listening. The ticklish feeling on the bottoms of his feet was back. He grabbed Daffodil’s elbow and dragged her behind a giant boulder, so used to the feeling he didn’t need to think.
A mournful lowing drifted nearer, as the shaking increased. Moments later, the dragon lumbered into view with a cow hanging from its mouth. The cow mooed again; but didn’t struggle, as if resigned to its fate.
The dragon paused at the mouth of the cave and sniffed the air. Then it tossed the cow into the air, caught it, and snapped the animal’s neck with a shake of its head. Satisfied the cow was dead, the dragon lumbered into the dark cave.
Daffodil turned pale. “That was—”
“A dragon.” Edmond sighed. “It been chasing us for two days.”
“I should fight it. Before it attacks the village.”
“How old are you?”
“Five.” Daffodil’s shoulders squared like a small rockslide. “Why? How old are you?”
“Nine. We should tell an adult.”
Edmond and Daffodil sprinted from their hiding spot toward the village. Sunrise over, all the villagers were out, milking goats, collecting eggs from their chickens, or undertaking other mundane tasks. Daffodil led the way past all of them, to the largest house in the village.
In front of it, Reg stood listening to a thin man quivering next to him.
“Reg, there’s a dragon,” Daffodil panted.
Reg patted her on the head. “I know. Malcolm here’s telling me. It took one of his cows. Where did you see it?”
“It went into the witch cave,” Daffodil said. “We saw the cow, too. It took it inside.”
The scared man moaned, shaking his head. “That was my prize heifer.”
“Now, now.” Reg gripped Malcolm shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”
Reg fixed Edmond and Daffodil with a stare. “Fetch everyone in the village, quick as you can. We need to discuss this.”
Edmond followed Daffodil’s lead, but soon ran out of breath and was left behind. Staggering back to the barn, he roused his parents. Both of them peered at him blearily.
“The dragon is here,” Edmond said. “It stole a cow and went to hide in a cave.”
“You’re sure?” Patty asked.
“It walked by me, only ten paces from where I was crouched.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone we led it here?” Patty asked.
“No.” Edmond blushed as he realised he’d told Daffodil exactly that. “Definitely, utterly, no one.”
“Good,” Patty said. “We’re safer in the midst of this village. If we run, it might follow our scent. The village elder will organise someone to go into the cave and fight it.”
“And you’re just going to let them go?” Edmond asked. “Isn’t this our fault?”
“No,” Patty said. “But don’t tell anyone we know about it. Try to act surprised.”
Edmond and his parents went back to the square. The other villagers had already assembled. Reg stood in the middle on a wooden box. “Everyone, there’s been a troubling development.”
“That’s right,” Malcolm said. “A dragon ate my cow.”
A rumble of confusion ran around the square.
“Please, Malcolm.” Reg waved his hand down. “Let me tell them.”
Reg held his hands up for silence. “That’s right. A dragon has moved into the witch’s cave north of the town. It ate one of Malcolm’s cows, s
o it should be full for a while. But we need to figure out what to do about it.”
“You’re the elder,” someone called. “You’re meant to tell us.”
Reg stood for a moment, frowning. “We’ve no idea where it came from.”
Patty’s hand clamped across Edmond’s mouth. He shook his head, trying to keep her dirt-stained fingers out of his mouth. He hadn’t been about to say anything. Twisting away, he spat on the ground and wiped his mouth clean.
“There’s only one way to deal with a dragon,” Reg said. “We need a hero. Or ten. Ten heroes would be best. Are there any brave volunteers?”
The square fell so silent that, if Edmond had had his eyes closed, he wouldn’t have known there was anyone there. Even the chickens seemed to have stopped their clucking.
“Come on now,” Reg said. “Some strong men and women could easily deal with a dragon. It’s not even that big.”
“Yes it is,” Daffodil shouted. “It’s as big as that house.”
Edmond considered the small cottage with a thatched roof she pointed at. He had to agree.
“Bigger,” Malcolm added.
“You want us to fight a dragon as big as a house?” someone called from the crowd. “Forget that. It was nice living here while it lasted, but we’re off.”
A rumble of agreement went around the square and about half the people began to leave.
“You can’t,” Reg called after them. “This is our home. You’re going to be driven out by a minor pest problem? What about your farms?”
“I don’t own the land,” Malcolm called over his shoulder. “I only rent it… from you! And I didn’t ask you to add a dragon. I’m with them; I’m going to take my cows and go.”
Villagers filtered from the square, until only about forty remained. Edmond guessed they were freeholders. Even they seemed reluctant to stay, but leaving would mean losing their livelihood.
“So, no heroes?” Reg asked. “If we’re not going to fight the dragon, we need to build somewhere to hide. Jon, your basement is made from bricks, isn’t it?”
“It is,” a man with black hair and a scraggly beard said.
“If we put a strong door on it, we can hide whenever the dragon comes,” Reg said. “We’ll need a lookout near the cave to ring a bell when the dragon comes out. Volunteers?”
The crowd fell silent again.
“How much does it pay?” Patty asked.
“Much more than being the village idiot,” Reg said. “Maybe a silver a month?”
An off-putting gurgle filled the silence as Patty sucked air through her teeth. “Plus brown bread every day and a proper house.”
“Done,” Reg said. “You’ll have your pick of houses in a day or so, when those traitors leave.”
Edmond wasn’t sure having someone who thought pig farmers would buy shit minding the cave was a great choice. But he also didn’t want a slap across the back of the head, so he stayed quiet.
Chapter 8
Preparations
It only took a week for the villagers to finish the dragon shelter in Jon’s basement. With the walls already a metre thick, the only weak point was, in Edmond’s opinion, the wooden door. Suggesting flammable objects wouldn’t keep a dragon out might suggest he’d met one before though, so he didn’t.
Reg was as good as his word, giving Edmond’s parents an entire house with stone floors and wattle walls. It wasn’t a big house, but it had two downstairs rooms and two bedrooms. Which, to Edmond was a palace. With a bedroom of his own in a proper house, Edmond slept comfortably (and warmly) every night.
He spent his days minding pigs and his evenings planning adventures with Daffodil. Quite often, that meant pretending to be a dragon as she tried to slay him with a long stick.
The game always ended badly, though. Every time she tried to actually hit him with the stick, it would break, a crow would fall on her head, or he’d slip and fall in a cowpat while the stick whistled harmlessly over his head. She seemed to take it all in her stride, though.
Weeks passed and Edmond found a book in Mr Winchow’s junk shop: 100 Years of Legal Battles. Mr Winchow leant it to Edmond in exchange for a few hours of work tidying the shop. When Edmond got it home, however, it didn’t have any wars in it. Instead, there were strange words like litigation and outsucken multure.
Edmond had never been happier in his life.
* * *
Edmond wiped the palms of his hands on his singlet and lifted the pigpen gate. Left knee pressed against the top hinge, he twisted at the waist, forcing the gate into place. The first time Reg had shown him the technique, Edmond had expected something to break; however, while the mess of mismatched planks and bailing twine made a sound like Dobb walking into a windmill, the gate held.
Pigs back in the pen, he stood for a moment breathing deeply. Taking them for a walk every day made little sense to Edmond, but Reg insisted it made the meat taste better. The first day hadn’t been too bad; however, when most of the villagers fled, Reg had somehow acquired any livestock they couldn’t take with them. Now, he owned dozens of sheep, goats, pigs, and chickens.
Edmond considered leaning on the fence for a while; leaning on fences was a good rural activity. But even with his singlet open to the waist, the summer sun boiled the sweat away as fast as he could sweat it. If he headed home now, he could pull a bucket of water before Dobb got back from his shift watching the cave.
The other villagers waved as he passed, more out of habit than anything else. Apart from Daffodil, there were only two other children in the village: a pair of boys called Fink and Peter, who delighted in tearing the wings off insects. No wonder Daffodil had been so happy he’d shown up. If he’d been alone with Fink and Peter, he’d have married a pig if it meant having someone else to spend time with.
Edmond staggered into his house, then collapsed against the door with a sigh. A rickety set of stairs led up to the second level, but he knew he’d never make it. Between him and the stairs, his mother sat at the kitchen table peeling a turnip. “You’re late.”
“Pigs don’t follow a schedule.”
Patty’s gaze sharpened. Her head tilted as she rose from her chair and stalked toward him.
Too late, he realised what she was looking at and tugged his singlet closed.
However, Patty was too fast. Darting inside before he could do up the ties, she yanked his charm out. “What’s this?”
“It’s nothing,” Edmond said. “A piece of junk I found.”
“It looks like it’s worth something.” Patty tugged again, harder. A jolt of pain ran across Edmond’s neck as the string dug into his sunburnt flesh then snapped. “I could sell it to Winchow for a few coppers.”
“Don’t. I need it to help me read.”
Patty’s eyes lit up. “It’s a charm?”
Edmond’s gaze remained on the pendant. “Yes. It’s helping me learn to read.”
“Then it’s worth more than coppers. It might even be worth a few silvers.”
“It’s mine. You can’t steal my stuff and sell it.”
“I birthed you. I fed you and clothed you. And now you’re going to deny me a few silvers?”
A wave of guilt ran through Edmond as Patty focused her Charisma on him. Followed by a wave of irritation when he remembered that fed meant she didn’t steal all the food; and clothed meant the potato sacks they found, if she or Dobb didn’t want them. “It’s important! I need it to become a great scholar. I can’t read without it.”
“A great scholar?” Patty laughed like something going down a drain. Probably his future. “You think you can become a great scholar now? The castle’s gone. We’re not majesties any more and we put your points into Luck, remember? Some good that did us. You’ll be a village idiot, like your father and me. Or a pig herder. Or a chicken worrier.”
“No.” Edmond tried to grab the charm back. “I won’t. I’m going to learn to read and be a scholar. People will tell stories about me centuries after I’m gone. You’ll see.�
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“How will I see? We’ll both be dead by then, so what does it matter?”
“It matters.” Edmond felt deep down in his core that it was important. “Can’t you let your son have one thing he wants? Don’t you love me?”
“What are we, rich? Love’s for the wealthy, son. The poor have to do things for money or opportunity. Go to your room.”
Edmond glared at his mother, trying to make her drop dead with a look. There was probably a way to do that in a book. But he’d never find out, because his mother had stolen the only thing he cared about. “I hate you. You’re the worst mother in the world.”
That earned him a slap on the back of the head. Edmond rushed up the stairs before she could find something worse to do.
He slammed the door of his room, glad of a door he could put between himself and the abject stupidity. The bedroom wasn’t much: the boards of the floor were covered in splinters; the bed had thin patches in the straw. But it was his and his alone.
Retrieving his book from under his bed, he flipped to the first page. The symbols were blurred and foggy again. He couldn’t make any sense of them—or even see the difference between them. Now he’d never find out how to determine a fair multure for farms that crossed a boundary stream.
Not that he wanted to know—the book had only been a step to studying something more exciting—but not finishing felt wrong. Slamming the book shut, he punched the wall.
Pain shot up his arm, but instead of calming him down, it made the anger burn hotter. With his last inch of patience, he opened his window, and threw the book out.
How could his mother do it? How could she take away his future, his dreams, like that? He’d meant what he’d said; she was the worst mother in the world.
Fury spent, he curled up on his bed with his back to the door. After a while, his stomach grumbled. He vaguely recalled the kitchen door banging earlier, so his father was home and his mother should have headed off to take her turn. Not that she always did. And even if she had, he couldn’t face his father at dinner. Dobb would only say Patty was right. He always said Patty was right.
