by Mark Acres
“The Council has before it,” he announced, “the old way, honored by tradition, that will surely lead to destruction for all; and a new way, untested, full of perils, that may or may not mean salvation for our kind. I, Elrond, oldest of living elves, slayer of the Ancient One, Head of the Council, shall set my feet on this new path, save the Council dissent. Let silence be approval.” Elrond then extended his right hand, palm up, and walked to the first council member seated on his right. He touched the elf’s chin, lifting his face, and said, “Speak.” The elf said nothing. This Elrond repeated around the full circle. When it was his time, the youthful elf gazed deeply into Elrond’s face. His pain was clear, but he said nothing.
“It is decided,” Elrond announced as the first rays of dawn began to peek through the forest canopy. “I shall go to Parona to begin negotiating the New Covenant. I will take with me Shulana and the two humans who have served this Council so well.”
Hunh, George thought. Leaders are the same, elves or humans. Always deciding what someone else is going to do.
Reunions
BAGSBY tossed a chunk of preserved beef that weighed at least twenty pounds onto a flat rock. The enormous red mouth seemed to inhale the flesh; the rows of sharp, pointed teeth snapped shut once, and the dragon swallowed. Quickly, Bagsby tossed out another chunk. The dragon’s seeming twin gulped it down. Two pairs of black lizard eyes turned to stare at Bagsby.
“More,” the dragons demanded in unison.
Bagsby jumped to his feet, hefted the sack of meat, and dumped the entire contents on the ground.
“All I’ve got,” he said, dropping the bag and spreading his arms wide. “See? All gone.”
The entire contents of the bag were devoured quickly; the only immediate response to Bagsby’s explanation being occasional soft slurping sounds.
“What do I do with them?” Bagsby gasped, watching the feeding spectacle with growing alarm.
“Well, my goodness, I am thinking that is for you to be deciding,” Ramashoon said, still chuckling.
“Why do you think this is so funny?” Bagsby demanded. The little brown man sat there in the glow of the firelight on the side of the desert mountain laughing! “These things may decide you’re a tasty morsel in about three more minutes!”
“Oh, my, I am thinking they will not be eating me. I am being very thin, and not very good of taste,” Ramashoon said, as though he were stating the obvious. “Look at them. Are they not being beautiful? Their like has not been seen on the earth for five thousands of years, and now here they are.”
Bagsby flopped down on the ground, disgusted. Shulana had been right—they should have destroyed these things before they hatched. Dragons! Fire-breathing dragons! Talking dragons! What would keep them from overrunning the whole earth once their race was replenished? Bagsby buried his head in his arms. What was to keep them from eating Bagsby, who, being a bit plump, probably looked more like a dragon’s dinner than dried-up old Ramashoon? And what difference would it make if they did? Bagsby had no treasure now, and he certainly had no future with Shulana, who would be furious with him for crossing her, abandoning her, and then allowing these eggs to hatch. Even Bagsby had heard tales of the great war between elves and dragons, when men were hardly known upon the earth. Now Bagsby, doing a commission job for the elves, had managed somehow to bring back their worst enemies.
Something heavy, warm, and prickly nuzzled Bagsby’s thigh.
The thief raised his head, saw the cold black eye of the one of the dragons gazing up at him, the great snout tucked under his knee.
“She likes you,” the other dragon uttered, lifting its neck to let the last of the beef slide down its throat. With its tiny forepaws, the creature began digging in the hard, sandy earth.
“She?” Bagsby responded, looking on with despair as the female dragon wrapped her tail around his body.
“She is Lifefire,” the female’s counterpart said, continuing to scrape out a deep, shallow, bowl-shaped hole. “I am called Scratch, after my father.” The dragon’s voice was raspy, and the words were sometimes mangled, but overall Bagsby could understand the creature clearly enough.
“I am Bagsby,” the thief said, his voice hollow.
“We know,” Lifefire murmured. “We have awaited you for a very long time.”
“Awaited me?”
“You will be our friend in these early days of our race’s rebirth,” Lifefire said.
“Wait a minute!” Bagsby howled, shaking the curling dragon off himself and standing up. “Wait a minute. How can you talk? How do you know my language? What makes you think I’ll be your friend?”
“A dragon counts as friend any who does him no harm,” Scratch said, beginning to dig a small, shallow ditch leading into the hole.
“Yeah, well, I’ve heard of dragons eating a lot of things that hadn’t done them any harm,” Bagsby retorted.
“What greater measure of friendship than to become one in the flesh?” Scratch said. He finished the shallow ditch, which ended by the cooling fragments of what remained of the dragons’ eggs. The creature climbed up to a rock overlooking both the ditch and the hole. “Stand back,” it said to Bagsby.
Bagsby took a few steps backward. Scratch inhaled, and breathed a roar of fire down the ditch into the hole. The flames scorched the ground for ninety feet. When they died, and the smoke cleared, the sides of the ditch and the entire surface formed by the hole were glazed, like a clay pot.
“Ready,” Scratch said to Lifefire. Lifefire rose on her rear haunches and opened her wings to the night sky. Back and forth she began to beat them, at first slowly, then more quickly, until the wind began to howl in the space around her. Then the creature gave a great shove against the ground with her powerful rear legs and, wings attaining a new speed, rose into the air. She hurtled skyward at an amazing pace, disappearing into the darkness. Seconds later, she was visible again, her form blotting out a tiny portion of the band of stars that stretched across the desert mountain sky. She hovered above the remains of the eggs, then breathed her own breath of fire upon them.
Bagsby flinched as the flames poured from her mouth.
Even though he was more than thirty feet away from the stream of fire, the heat was intense. The short man backed farther away.
The dragon poured her fire breath on the remains of the eggs until the gold coatings, already partly melted during the hatching, became molten. Gradually, the molten metal began to flow down Scratch’s ditch into the fire-hardened hole he had created. Bagsby could see the gemstones that had once adorned the great Eggs flowing into the hole along with the molten gold.
When the entirety was melted, Lifefire stopped her flaming breath and lowered herself gently to the ground near Bagsby. The molten mass had filled the hole, where it took on the shape of a sphere cut in half.
“It will harden as it cools,” Lifefire said. “Then you can carry it for us.”
“Carry it for us?” Bagsby asked.
“For Scratch and myself. It is the beginning of our treasure hoard.”
Ramashoon, who had been content to observe all this silently, laughed aloud. “Well, Bagsby, it would be seeming that your own time of testing is at hand. I am thinking you believed that the gold was yours!”
“Everyone’s entitled to a mistake,” Scratch responded. He and Lifefire burst into laughter, deep, growly, rumbling, dragon laughter, such as the earth had not heard for five thousand years. Ramashoon’s giggles tinkled high above the dragon sounds, and eventually, in the midrange, Bagsby’s laughter joined in, too.
Bagsby awoke in midmorning. He rose, strode out of the depressed area in the side of the mountain where he, Ramashoon, and the dragons had spent the remainder of the night, and looked out over the bustling city of Laga below. Shielding his eyes with his hand against the glare, he watched the puffs of dust that marked the steady stream of traffic into and ou
t of the great city. What would the people of Laga think, he wondered, if they knew there were two fire-breathing red dragons encamped on the mountain above?
He knew what they would think. They would think: kill the dragons, kill them while there’s still time, before they can breed, before they become a family or, worse yet, a race. Dragons had struck terror into the elves, and those two races had come close to exterminating each other in their death struggle. Then men had fought the elves and, for all intents, the men had won. Elves beat dragons, men beat elves. Men could beat dragons—maybe—if the dragons weren’t too strong before the struggle began.
That was one option, Bagsby thought. He lifted a dagger, studied its short, gleaming blade in the morning light. It would be simple: the dragons were still young, and although they seemed to know a fearful amount for newborns, they were still vulnerable physically. A man of Bagsby’s cunning could trick them, get them to lower their guard, then ram the blade up into the space between a couple of scales, or drive it through an eye straight into the brain. Dead dragons. End of problem.
Bagsby wondered why he wasn’t going to do that. He honestly did not know—it wasn’t that he was squeamish about killing. He’d slit many a human throat in his day, and for much less reason than he had for ridding himself and his race of this potential threat. And killing the dragons would stand him in good stead with Shulana—after all, she’d wanted to destroy the eggs before they hatched.
But he wasn’t going to kill them. Maybe that was because Ramashoon simply assumed he wouldn’t. Maybe it was because there was something about them—something strange, mysterious, powerful and beautiful—that appealed to him on some level that he could not talk or even think about. And maybe that was just the way it was supposed to be.
Bagsby shrugged. He was not going to kill them. Then what? He’d have to feed them. Given that he didn’t want to kill them himself, he certainly didn’t want an armed mob coming out from Laga to hunt them down with sword, spear, and bow. And that would happen, certainly, as soon as the beasts were hungry enough to go hunting on their own. Dragons needed meat, and lots of it. Laga had lots of meat—all the livestock brought in by the nomads, not to mention the populace themselves. All the same to a dragon, Bagsby imagined. Couldn’t let them hunt—not here.
That left only one alternative.
“Ramashoon,” Bagsby called back up the mountain. “Ramashoon, wake up.”
“Oh my goodness, the sun is already being high in the sky,” Ramashoon called back. “I am much thanking you for waking me.”
“I’m going to Laga,” Bagsby announced. “Will you stay here and watch... Scratch and Lifefire?”
“We are watching each other right now,” the holy man’s voice lilted back.
“You mean they’re awake? We were up almost all night. Don’t dragons sleep?” Bagsby shouted, exasperated.
“Not when we’re hungry.” The raspy reply came from Scratch, whose head popped up from behind the dip in the mountainside.
“Get back down,” Bagsby called, turning and running back up to where Scratch lay. “Don’t let the townspeople see you.”
“They would come for us?” Scratch asked.
“Almost certainly.”
“Then we must stay hidden,” Lifefire said, slithering over by Scratch, “until we are larger, stronger, and have many eggs awaiting the hatching time.”
“We must go north,” Scratch declared. “The northern mountains are full of food and hiding places. We will grow and breed there.”
“Ah, well, that would be very good for your friend, as well,” Ramashoon volunteered.
“What? Why is that?” Bagsby asked. “I’m getting pretty tired of you making these little surprise announcements about the course of my life.”
Ramashoon stood, smiling, and bowed. “I am not meaning to offend. But my spirits spoke to me last night, in the visions in my mind,” the holy man began.
“Yes, yes, you had a dream,” Bagsby said, impatient. “What did you dream?”
“Your friends are headed north. They seek the great court of Parona, and will try to bring Parona to the aid of the elves in the war against Heilesheim.”
“What war against Heilesheim?” Bagsby demanded, ready to strangle this bizarre little man.
“Oh, that you must be learning for yourself. My time to spend with you is almost being ended.”
“No!” Bagsby exclaimed. “You can’t leave me now, not with all... this... to take care of!”
“Oh, you will be doing very well. If you are not doing very well, you will be dying—either way, it will soon bring you rest, is this not so?”
“Let me get this straight,” Bagsby said. “The dragons want to go north. If I go north with them, I can meet up with my friends at the court of Parona. You, Ramashoon, are going to do a disappearing act and leave me with some inscrutable statement that’s supposed to encapsulate ancient mystical wisdom.”
“Ah, how wonderful!” Ramashoon replied, smiling, bowing and chuckling. “I marvel at your understanding! Oh yes, but first, I must be giving this to the little dragons.”
Ramashoon reached into a hidden pocket in his white breeches and produced another small, cloth bag. This he handed to Bagsby. “Please to be mixing this with their next feeding,” Ramashoon said.
“Will it do me any good to ask why?” Bagsby said cynically.
“Well, it is not for me to be saying what will be doing good for you, is it?”
“That’s what I thought,” Bagsby replied.
By midafternoon Bagsby was in the streets of Laga, fully dressed in the armor of a Heilesheim minor officer, a leader of a hundred. The former owner of that particular armor and livery had no further need for it, nor did the brothel owner who would be stuck with the soldier’s burial expense.
A few well-placed inquiries among officers of the same rank had soon led Bagsby to his goal, the home of one of the young recruits whom he had encountered on his journey to Laga. The house was typical for those of its class, the outer walls whitewashed to reflect the heat of the sun. The structure was two-storied, with balconies extending out over the street from the upper-story windows. The house looked to be reasonably large; there was probably an interior courtyard inside.
Bagsby approached with a bold stride and pounded loudly on the door with his mailed fist.
“A messenger from Hans Frisung with news of the son of this house, who is now engaged against the enemies of Heilesheim in far Argolia,” Bagsby said to the startled house servant who threw open the door.
The fine home did have an interior courtyard with a small garden, and even a tiny fountain. Bagsby was shown to a bench by the fountain to await the master of the house.
“Well, well,” the plump man called as he came bustling into the courtyard. “You are a messenger from the army? You have news of my son?”
Bagsby took in the man’s entire appearance at a glance. He wore colorful breeches of red silk, a large gold sash about his waist, and a patterned blouse of rich, soft material imported all the way from the Five Ports of the Rhanguilds in the far northwest. The man was unarmed. His home was tastefully yet sparsely furnished. His hands were soft and fat, and his face did not yet show the severe lines that would be normal for a man of his fifty-some years. The man was obviously wealthy, but not as rich as a minor noble. Bagsby all but calculated the man’s cash value before he replied.
“Sir, I have the honor to bear news of your son. He is in Argolia with his unit, where there is some fighting against scattered resistance,” Bagsby began.
“Is he well?” the man cut in. “Why are you here?”
“Your son is well,” Bagsby said, reassuring the troubled soul. “The fighting goes well. It is said your son distinguishes himself,” Bagsby reported.
“It is?” the man said, surprised. “I am amazed. My son did not even want to go into the army.
But I told him it was his duty....”
“Then you have done well, as he does now,” Bagsby said.
“Ah, ah, my manners. You would care for some refreshment?” the man said, clapping his hands for his servants.
“No time, I fear. My business in Laga must be completed quickly. I have come to tell you how you can help your son.”
“What? He needs money?”
Bagsby paused. It was too easy. But he decided to stick to his original plan. “No,” he replied. “Not exactly. As you may know, the supply lines for the army are overburdened. The lands of Argolia proved less wealthy than we had thought. The army there often wants for food.”
“I have heard, I have heard. And I see the huge orders that leave Laga every day for the Argolian lands. Wagon after wagon of….”
“Yes,” Bagsby interrupted. “Now, I have been sent by your son’s Hundred to raise funds for the purchase of livestock to be driven to Argolia for the benefit of the troop.”
“Well then, you shall have my cooperation. How much have the other families contributed?”
“Sad to say,” Bagsby responded, “my time is very short, and I have not yet been able to contact the other families. I need assistance....”
Shortly after sunset Bagsby, with the help of ten soldiers he’d dragooned from the local grog houses, set out from Laga at the head of a flock of livestock that included twenty sheep, a dozen cattle, and a small horse-drawn cart loaded with crates of chickens. He waited until the sun was fully down and the first stars were visible in the sky before ordering his column to turn widely to the left, leaving the road, and eventually heading eastward to the mountains. Once they were in the open plain at the foot of the steeply rising desert mountains, Bagsby released the men under his command, sending them back to the pleasures of the city. Then, tying the horse to some scrub brush, Bagsby climbed upward.
