Becoming the Dragon

by Alex Sapegin

  His animal instincts kicked in; killing the wolves no longer seemed like a dream. Everything inside him naturally flooded with animal feelings, strangely mingling with his human intellect. Andy remembered that it shouldn’t be that way; that didn’t happen to humans. But his human psyche was quiet, buried deep. In order to survive and get his revenge, he needed a human’s intellect and an animal that knew the woods.

  The blast of the hunters’ horns sounded; he could tell they were close. Andy flattened himself against a fat branch. I’m not here! I’m not here! he repeated the three words in his head like a mantra. The bushes nearby began to rustle and crack before a pack of hounds burst into the open air. They turned around a couple of times on one spot, sniffing, picked up the scent of orcs and dashed off in the direction of the thicket. They hadn’t caught his scent. Thank you, Gynug!

  A dozen riders followed the dogs onto the field. There were men and women in equestrian costumes with short hunting bows in their hands. Each one also had a long knife; the men had shoulder belts with swords. The saddles were equipped with sheaths for javelins. Two of the riders had eight-pointed medallions bouncing on chains around their necks. I’m not here, I’m not here, Andy continued his silent mantra, clinging to the tree.

  The jolly company wasn’t in a hurry to leave the field. Servants in green livery appeared bearing tables and foldable chairs. The Cavaliers helped the ladies down from their horses and began to pour wine into goblets. They’re having a delightful picnic, the turds! I hope the ants eat you instead! I’m not here, I’m not here…

  The hunters’ horns now sounded from all sides. An explosion came from the depth of the ticket, and the dogs screamed hysterically. He heard a human cry, and someone blew into a big hunting horn. He heard another boom, and the horn went quiet. A dog seemed to go mad, then came another boom as if someone had set off a grenade. The picnicking party darted from their places, knocking over the little table with wine and hors d’oeuvres. The screeching of the dogs was replaced with the hysterical cry of whoever or whatever had been blown to pieces. Yet another hysterical wail, full of pain, was followed by the sound of cheering.

  Parting the bushes with his chest, at a measured pace, a hass stepped onto the field with a scruffy rider. The new hunter’s clothes were full of holes, his cloak was smoldering, there were crimson scratches on his cheeks, and he had twigs and leaves in his hair. Despite all that, he wore a self-satisfied smile. On the end of a long rope trailing behind the hass, stuck with arrows like a porcupine, he was dragging Gynug by the feet.

  I’m not here, I’m not here…

  The hunter was met with gleeful congratulations and a full pewter trophy. One of the young men removed the orc’s fangs and handed them over to his lucky companion.

  The dogs started barking again nearby. The bushes at the edge of the field began to rustle before a tall hunter, dressed like a dandy, waved his hand. An orc shot onto the field. The handsome fellow took down his prey by throwing a heavy knife. Applause broke out all around, and the dandy walked over to the orc to extract his knife and then the orc’s fangs. He returned to the party and presented these trophies on one knee to a buxom green-eyed huntress.

  Andy was quivered with rage. I’m not here, I’m not here…

  A new crackling sound came from the other side of the field. From his branch high up, Andy could see the dogs chasing another five orcs. The hunters hopped onto their horses and took off after the fleeing prey, cornering them against a 20-foot-long fence. The field was empty except for the happy hunter who had caught Gynug. He rode over to the tree, taking refuge in the shade from the oppressive sun.

  A satisfied growl sounded from Andy’s chest as the tip of his spear pierced the man’s back. Gynug’s killer stared in disbelief, wheezed and fell off his saddle.

  Then Andy noticed a bow and a quiver of 20 arrows. He pulled the leather glove from the left hand of the man he had killed and removed the sling holding a knife from the man’s belt. Could I have killed so calmly like that, just one week ago, and then raided the corpse?

  Andy’s concentration was broken in a moment, and he darted to the side. A javelin hit the ground right where he had been sitting. Flying over the bushes in a single stride, a horse jumped onto the field with an elderly mustached hunter on its back. He had a green, slim-fitting costume, a double-pointed hat with a long feather, and high boots. Andy leaped forward to take down the horse, which crushed the old man’s right leg. Andy finished his enemy off with the sword, which then got stuck in the ground. An arrow whizzed past.

  Holy moly! Lying flat on the ground, howling fiercely, he threw himself into the bushes, grabbing the bow and quiver as he did. Horns hooted behind him; dogs began to bark somewhere in the distance.

  Tearing through the fallen trees and thick underbrush, Andy came upon two watchmen. The first stared at the strange black and green apparition with a knife and bow in his hands. He died in his stupor, and Andy turned to the second. With one big leap, he increased the distance between them and chose to retreat. The watchman grabbed a horn and blew, communicating the prey’s location. A feathered arrow, quivering slightly, put an end to the man’s career. He should not have forgotten about the bow.

  “Aaah!” A sharp pain stabbed Andy’s right foot. He had run too much, not carefully enough. A sharp little stone had pierced his sole. He wasn’t giving up. If I have to lose my life, let it be for the highest price possible!

  He heard the pounding of hooves from the field. He knocked the first rider off his saddle, dead from the arrow’s blow. The second broke his neck, knocked from his horse at full-speed; Andy had put two arrows in his chest.

  The familiar picnicking party appeared from the other side. They surrounded me! Andy turned toward the new danger and started firing his arrows, one after another. One of the riders took an arrow to the chest and fell from his horse. That was Andy’s last stroke of luck. Blocking the green-eyed woman with his body, the dandy jumped forward. A glowing dome appeared in front of him, which swallowed all of the arrows.

  From behind, a heavy net covered Andy. Busy with the riders, he had forgotten the Watchmen. They knocked him down and kicked him from all sides. A strong blow to the chest by the handsome fellow, who had hurried over, knocked the wind out of him and made him gasp for air. A second blow, and he lost consciousness.

  ***

  “He shot at me, Nir, he shot at ME!” Taliza cried hysterically. Holding Nirel’s hands, the princess was shaking.

  “There, there. It’s over now. Calm down, Your Highness. He’s no danger to you now.” The elf hugged the princess and stroked her hair as if she were a little girl.

  “You saved me! You’re a real knight, you risked your own life!”

  “What are you saying? I wasn’t threatened at all!” Nirel leaned away from the princess a bit and retrieved a handkerchief from his breast pocket, then wiped her tears with it. Real knights don’t hunt people, he thought. I’m not a mage, not a master, but I can do a thing or two!

  Taliza smiled, left the embrace that was so pleasant to her, and walked over to the boy, tied by his arms and legs.

  “How many did he kill?”

  “Seven people, Your Grace. Another four were killed by others, orcs,” answered one of the watchmen who had thrown the net.

  “It’s a human, a boy!” she kicked him in disgust with the toe of her Morocco boot. “The horrid orc’s brat! I want him to pay! Let him understand what a great mistake it was to fire at me! I want him to suffer good and long, so he’ll know what he’s done!”

  “It’s a barbarian, Your Grace. He doesn’t speak Alat,” one of the mages stepped forward from the princess’ entourage.

  “That’s not a problem. I know a mage who can quickly teach the little beast to speak!” Nirel put in, and the corners of his mouth turned up into a slight, sly smile, which did not bode well for the boy.

  “Do it, Nir!” the Princess commanded, turning to her lover. Nirel bowed, accepting the task.

&nb
sp; Just then, the thumping of hooves came from the direction of the royal palace. A frothy stallion jumped onto the field.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” a herald called from the back of the snorting horse. “As a gift to His Majesty, a live dragon has been brought to Raston!”

  Part 4: Birth of the Dragon

  Raston. Nirel.

  The stream of visitors came to an end. The yard keepers entered the square in front of the caged dragon to clean the mess left behind. Many had come with spoiled fruits and vegetables; some brought rocks in their pockets, made bets on who could hit closer, and threw them. The winged creature growled and jerked, but the thick chains on its snout prevented it from opening its mouth and spitting fire. His Majesty, upon advice from the Head of the Treasury House, opened up his menagerie to the public. Ten silver coins got a look at the dragon, another five to throw fruits or vegetables at the creature, and the royal vendors peddled spoiled ammunition.

  Visitors could order a table and drink wine, supposedly from the royal cellars, or taste some exotic dishes prepared by the royal chefs. They’d opened a real tavern near the beast. The treasury made 3,500 weighty golden pounds on the first day. On the second day, they made seven thousand. In the space of two weeks, the treasury made a hundred thousand. It wasn’t a dragon; it was a goldmine.

  Nirel looked at the dragon, trying to seem calm. He mustn’t let his feelings show. Like all Forest-dwellers, he harbored an insane hatred for the winged beasts who destroyed the Great Forest and Mellorny Tree Crowns, but here, he might be misunderstood. For humans, the flying creature was nothing more than an entertaining attraction. Revealing his thirst for revenge would be giving himself away. Close your eyes and slowly exhale, that’s right, calmly now.

  Two weeks had gone by since the dragon had been brought in. It was time to get used to this—an ancient and now harmless enemy being nearby. The previous night, he had subtly hinted to Taliza that he would be fine with taking care of the dragon, once the people had had their fill of the funny beast. The princess promised to speak to His Majesty so that he might entrust the black beast into Nirel’s loving hands.

  An enclosure had been opened next to the dragon exhibit that contained yet another living attraction—a wolf-man. Shaking off his nervous irritation at the dragon, Nirel walked up to the fence, picked up an onion that someone had dropped and chucked it at the half-wolf. Bulls-eye. With a loud thud, it hit the scruffy monster’s head and broke to pieces. The freak shackled in chains of notrium bellowed something incoherent; the shackles clinked dully. Hmm, that’s a little better. There was a good pile of apple cores, stones and spoiled vegetables around the less-than-human. Throwing something at him cost just a half a silver coin, a low price many boys took advantage of.

  The sharp-sighted elf noticed that the half-wolf’s right ear was coming off. Nirel called the caretaker over. “Re-glue the mongrel’s ear and change the fur on the back and tail. That’s coming undone, too. How often do you renew the muteness spell?”

  “Every two hours, sir,” the shabby peasant replied, bowing. Fawning in front of his bosses and the high-born nobles, the caretaker turned into a cruel tyrant with his subordinates.

  “How much have you swindled today?” Nirel asked in a neutral tone. The caretaker went pale. “Don’t be afraid, I’m not going to take your personal gains away. How about this—I’ll look the other way from your petty schemes, and you’ll repay me by your services. Is that a deal?”

  The caretaker’s pale color turned red. He nodded in agreement. Better that way than losing both his money and his head. Royal investigators have no great love for their neighbors. They take everything and then send you to the scaffold.

  The shabby man turned out to be quite a sly character. Realizing that trade in sub-standard goods might bring great profit, he quickly worked out a deal with a couple of market traders who brought the fruits of their gardens to the city. Now, a third of the rotten food sold by the vendors was of questionable origin, not coming from the royal vendors with profits not going to the treasury. The average gain from the illegal trade was about 150 pounds a day. It was good money, even for a wealthy resident of the capital.

  One of the vendors had ratted the caretaker out, a guy who felt he hadn’t gotten his fair share of the profits. Nirel found paper laying on the floor near a desk in the Security House after the boss’ clerk had stepped out. He read the report, slipped it into his pocket and threw it into the sewer on his way out. He had decided to take the shabby peasant under his control. The vendor fell violently ill.

  “So, how much? You didn’t answer my question,” Nirel said.

  “A h-hundred an’ seventy, sir,” the caretaker got goosebumps all over and began to tremble. He knew who Nirel was. The court was buzzing with vague rumors about him and the heiress to the throne…

  “Well, well! I think some of your services might then be quite substantial!” Nirel flashed a dazzling smile at the hustler, who had gone white as a sheet and hopped over the fence.

  The wolf-man turned around upon hearing footsteps. Andy’s face and body were bloody and bruised. Dodging rocks in shackles had proved difficult. He glared at the elf.

  “How’s it going, little wolf? Cat got your tongue?” ‘A-rei,’ the White Wolf, now a royal attraction, famous indeed! Why should he speak with mere mortals?

  “I’ll kill you,” the boy wheezed, and the gray wolf’s ear fell off. Nirel looked at the caretaker maliciously. He had been stingy with the glue it hadn’t held. And they’d have to do something about the muteness spell, or think of something else; he learned to counter the spell too quickly. They’d have to work him over today, too. He didn’t seem unhappy and suffering enough for Her Highness, who had visited him yesterday. “Do something about it,” she had commanded her love.

  Nirel turned to the obsequious caretaker.

  “Two weeks have gone by, and nothing has changed. The same words. Remove the mongrel’s chains and deliver him in one hour to the executioner’s chambers.”

  ***

  Raston, Nirel. Two weeks prior…

  Nirel remained in excellent spirits. His meeting with the Head of the Foreign Relations House had ended brilliantly. It was a lengthy interview beside the burning fireplace with a glass of sumptuous wine and superb light hors d’oeuvres in Count Ramizo’s personal office.

  He had had to prepare himself thoroughly in order not to fall face-first into the mud. He needed to clearly formulate all the suggested innovations he had mentioned at the ball. He had to compose a detailed note with personal conclusions about the Duke of Lere. He had to add to the paper a host of comments on Meriya’s political school and points of view on this or that issue that had led him to draw such conclusions, and to indicate his sources of information. Everything had to be done just so, shipshape.

  Before leaving, he stood for a long time in front of the mirror and checked his aura disguise, which meticulously hid any traces of his origin. It turned out it was time well spent; he had had to undergo a magical verification three times on the way to the Count’s office, and there was no guarantee that he hadn’t been controlled in the office itself as well. The meeting ended with his being given the title of Independent Consultant. The artful old fox had picked up on the subtle court breeze that blew between the Princess and his guest. The Count took preventative measures, so as to please the heiress to the throne and his guest, galvanizing the position by procuring her father’s approval of the young man’s endeavor.

  No one in the kingdom’s inner circle had any doubts that Taliza would be a tough ruler, and no one knew how it would play out with this executioner.

  ***

  Whistling a happy tune, Nirel went down to the lowest level of the dungeon for political prisoners. Hurga the orc stomped dully behind him.

  “Which cell is Alo Troi in?” he asked the floor supervisor, who bolted upright. He was sleeping, the cur! Nirel thought, eyeing the red traces of his palm on the skinny man’s right cheek. Blinking his beady,
deep-set eyes, he glanced at the list hanging on the wall and pronounced enthusiastically, “In Cell Eight, Your Honor!”

  “Open it!” Nirel ordered.

  The long-nosed man took a key chain from his belt and began to amble off toward the cell. As he opened the door, Nirel walked through.

  “Hello, Alo,” the elf said joyfully as if addressing a beloved relative. The gigantic orc cracked his knuckles loudly as he slid through the narrow door after Nirel.

  A primal fear flashed behind the prisoner’s eyes when he saw the visitors. He curled up into a ball and cowered in the far corner of the cell. His thin, dirty feet scraped up against the rotten hay.

  “Troi, my friend, I need you!” Nirel continued just as merrily. The prisoner’s fear turned to horror.

  “No, you don’t! I’ve told you everything! Everything!” Tears ran down his sunken, scruffy cheeks. A fearsome trembling overtook him. Ye-e-es, I have broken him thoroughly.

  “Hurga, aren’t you ashamed? You’ve frightened the poor mage so? Bad orc,” Nirel teased. The orc chuckled. “You’re a sharp-wit, aren’t you Alo?” The wretch quickly nodded in reply. “Excellent. We have a little task for you then, shall we?”

  “What is it?”

  “Oh, nothing at all, really. You have to teach a barbarian to speak Alat. He doesn’t understand a word, the nasty thing. I’ll give you one day.”

  “I’m dying! My brain is shutting down! I don’t have any reserves left at all! I would have to formulate all matrices and embed them directly using direct visual and tactile contact. I would collapse from physical exhaustion before I had time to do anything!” the prisoner began to protest quickly, now addressing a topic that was in his element.