by Bruce Leslie
The man’s leg bent back in an unnatural position and he fell.
The dragon rumbled forward into the chaotic mass of people in the road. It opened its fanged mouth wide and snatched up a soldier. The footman’s iron mail was no match for the dragon’s teeth. The poisoned saliva oozed between the rings of the armor and the soldier screamed in agony.
Other footmen slammed their halberds against the monster’s thick scales. Loud clanks rang out from the blows, but they had no effect on the beast, save for angering it.
The dragon twisted its body and sent its tail crashing through the soldiers. Panicked shouts filled the air as soldiers flew about.
The Lump brought down his sword in a powerful overhead slash. It crashed against the Baron’s upraised longsword. The big man bared his teeth and said, “You’re supposed to be in the Needles!”
The Baron pulled his sword down in a motion that swept the Lump’s smaller blade aside. “And you should be a corpse in the Saddle Pass!”
Four footmen gathered behind the Baron and brandished their halberds at the Lump.
The Baron held up a hand, shoulder high. “Stand back, men. I will make short work of this southern brute.” He pulled his sword up into a furious backslash.
The Lump spun out of the longsword’s path and prepared to lunge. “Why are you sabotaging us?” He thrust his blade forward.
The Baron parried the strike. “It would be pointless to stage an invasion if the King doesn’t launch it.” His sword tore the air in a high, wide arc.
The Lump brought his sword up to meet the oncoming steel. The blades collided, and he asked, “You’re not working for the King?”
The Baron flashed a sinister grin while the blades pressed together. “I’m working for him, he just doesn’t know it!”
“That don’t make sense!” The Lump shoved his blade, and the men separated.
The Baron held his sword low and showed an impending lunge. “Wisdom seldom does to fools like you.” He feigned a lunge, then pulled his sword into a slash across his body.
The Lump grimaced and deflected the blow with a clumsy motion of his sword.
The Baron slashed again with a powerful two-handed strike.
The Lump blocked the attack and the force of the blow pushed him back a step.
The Baron pounded against the Lump’s upraised sword two more times, in rapid succession.
The Lump struggled to block the hammering blows. The vibrations from the strikes coursed through his arm. He winced with each collision of steel against steel.
The Baron pulled his sword in close and lunged. This time it was no feint, the point of the longsword drove toward the Lump.
The Lump scrambled back to avoid the strike at his belly. His heel slid over loose dirt and he stumbled. His feet flew up and he landed hard on his back.
The Baron stood over the Lump with a two-handed grip on his sword. He pulled the blade back over one shoulder and held it there for a moment. “It seems your time is up, Aard.” The blade slashed down at the big man on the ground.
The Lump raised his left arm. His boiled-leather bracer caught the longsword’s strike. The blade’s edge bit through the boiled-leather and cut into the flesh and muscle of his forearm.
The Lump clenched his teeth and ignored the pain. He slung his meaty right fist, still clutching the hilt of his tiny sword, at the Baron’s hands. His punch smashed into his adversary’s wrists and the longsword dropped to the ground.
The Baron opened his eyes wide and gasped.
The Lump rolled back on his broad shoulders and thrust both his big feet at the Baron. His boots crashed into the man’s chest and tossed him back.
The Baron landed on his rump and stared at his empty sword hand in shock.
The Lump allowed the momentum of his kick to carry him into a roll. He bounced to his feet and pointed his sword down at the fallen Baron.
“How about that?” said the Lump. “It looks like I won this scrap.”
“Yes, it looks that way,” answered the Baron. He looked over his shoulder and up at the Footmen. “Now, you can kill him.”
The soldiers lowered their halberds and closed in on the Lump. The intimidating black iron spikes atop the weapons were inches from the big man.
A big ball of ice-cold mist screamed out of the trees and struck the Lump in his chest. A chill cut all the way to his bones as the force of the mist carried him several paces back in an instant. He came to rest flat on his back and looked up.
The ball of white mist darkened to gray and took on form. It stretched out and four long legs appeared beneath it. The ball of mist became the spectral mule that saved him in the Needles. The mule was different this time, now she had a rider atop her. The translucent, gray form of a small, but wiry, man sat on the back of the otherworldly mount.
The figure held out its ghostly hand. “Throw me the sword, boy.” The voice sounded more like an echo than a true voice, it was felt more than heard.
The Lump tossed his sword up to the figure.
The ghost-rider caught the hilt, and the blade took on a faint, gray glow. The strange voice said, “Feels good to have it in my hand again.” His spectral heels tapped the flanks of the ghost mule and they streaked off.
A gray streak whipped around the Gallisian soldiers. The heads of halberds snapped off as the little blade slammed against them. Strikes from the footmen passed through the misty construct of mule and rider. A pale hue washed over the Gallisian’s faces with the realization that they were clearly outmatched.
The Lump watched the streaking ghost-rider in awe. Awareness of the situation returned to him and he thought of the remaining peril his friends faced. He scrambled, unarmed, to aid Flynn and Meena.
The dragon tore through the mob indiscriminately. It lashed out at acolytes, Hill-Folks and footmen alike. The combatants seemed to forget about the people they were fighting amid the fury of ghosts and a dragon.
A cluster of footmen gathered around the Baron to protect their commander.
In the chaos, two acolytes grabbed Flynn. They dragged him to the far side of the road and held him down. They called out for the dragon, trying to draw its attention to their captive.
The Lump punched a soldier that charged him with a pole that was once a halberd. He looked over at Meena. “You have to help Flynn!”
Meena gave a sharp nod and looked across the road. “I’m on my way.”
The Lump put a big hand on her shoulder. “No. I mean call for help.”
Meena opened her mouth to protest.
The Lump held up his hand. “I know you don’t want to, but it could turn the tide of the scrap.”
Meena narrowed her eyes and nodded. She pulled up her hood and gripped her staff tight.
The Lump looked back to the skirmish. He saw the gray streak rush into the footmen surrounding the Baron. The soldiers scattered at the threat and left the Baron alone.
The Baron turned and ran toward the forest.
The Lump Grunted. “Help Flynn, I’ve got a rat to catch.” He bounded of after the fleeing Baron.
A masked Green Acolyte rushed Meena. She swept her staff through the air without looking at the man. The wood crashed into his head and he fell back.
A family of four plump, brown woodchucks waddled out of the forest and toward the men holding Flynn.
One of Flynn’s assailants laughed and looked down at him. “Is this the best your witch can do?”
The woodchucks lifted their heads and emitted shrill hisses. They pulled back their lips to expose their long, front teeth. The four furry creatures leaped up and dug their sharp front claws into the cultists’ cloaks.
The men shrieked and jumped back. They pounded at their cloaks in fruitless attempts to dislodged the attacking animals.
The Lump threw his weight forward and hurled his body at the Baron. He caught the man’s shoulders, and they both crashed to the ground.
The Baron squirmed beneath the weight of the big man.
&nbs
p; The Lump smashed his fist into the back of the Baron’s head. “That’ll teach you a lesson.”
The Baron whimpered and stopped squirming. He said, “I submit, you have me.”
The Lump sat on the Baron and watched as the spectral mule and its ghost-rider approached.
The rider held out the small sword and its glow faded. His otherworldly voice said, “I need to return this.”
The Lump wrinkled up his forehead. “I was hoping you would tangle with the dragon.”
“I can’t.” The gray figure shook its head. “It is forbidden to strike back against the one who killed you.”
The Lump’s eyes opened wide. “So it is you?”
The ghost laughed. “I’m nobody, that dragon’s killed a lot of fools.” It tossed the sword down.
The Lump caught the sword, but his gaze remained fixed on the spectral pair.
The ghost-rider said, “Don’t lose it, boy. That sword can get you to the mule, and the mule can get you to me.”
The corners of the Lump’s eyes drooped. “What about my mum?”
“She’s proud of you,” answered the ghost-rider. Rider and mule began to fade away. “Don’t just sit there! Finish the job!” With those words, the spectral mule and its rider were gone.
The Lump scanned the road. The defeated footmen fled back to the city. The previously corralled Itchy-Legs were scattering about to subdue what remained of the acolytes.
Flynn held his bow in one hand and crawled toward the forest. He slid past Six-Toe’s remains.
The Lump’s chest tightened. The moment of victory was fleeting, the dragon still loomed large and angrier than ever. He looked down at the man beneath him and frowned. He would have to let him go.
The Lump stood and lowered his head. He drew in a deep breath, tightened his grip on the sword, and charged the dragon.
The monster’s head rushed at the Lump. He wrapped his thick arms around it and absorbed the blow. He held on to the dragon’s face and rode it as it swung. His weight seemed to slow the swing ever so slightly.
The Lump jabbed his sword at the beast’s face, hoping to stab it into a nostril. He was unsuccessful.
Flynn grabbed Six-Toe’s stick, the end of it still smoldered. The tiniest tendrils of smoke wafted up from what remained of the burning bane.
Flynn nocked the stick in his bow like an arrow. It was an awkward fit, it had no notch to grip the string and no fletching to guide it.
The Lump groaned while he road the dragon’s head back and forth. He gripped the scaled lids over the sunken socket where an eye had once been.
Flynn shouted, “Lump, get out of the way! I’m going to loose an arrow!” He pulled back the bow’s string.
“Don’t think I can!” the Lump shouted back. “Just aim for me, that should keep me safe enough!”
Flynn grimaced. He drew in a deep breath and released the bow’s string as he exhaled.
The burning stick sailed through the air. It flew straight, with no arc to its path. The makeshift arrow’s course was true, and it traveled toward the dragon’s ugly, scarred face. It passed between the Lump’s kicking legs and sank deep into the dragon’s left nostril.
The dragon’s swaying head slowed. A long, slow groan came from the beast that trickled to a whimper.
The Lump rode the dragon’s head as it crashed to the ground. A plume of dust rose up from the impact. He coughed and rolled off the beast. The big man was covered in dirt, sweat, blood and a few tears.
He rose to his feet and asked, “Have either of you seen my cap?”
27: Dragonkeeper
The Lump foraged around in the dirt until he found his leather cap. He stood and placed it back atop his head. “That’s better!”
Meena walked over to Flynn. “That was amazing!” She wrapped her arms around him in a hug. “How did you get that stick to fly so straight?”
Flynn’s face turned a bright shade of red. “Fortune simply smiled upon me.” His lips curled up into an uncomfortable smile. “I truly was aiming for the Lump’s backside.”
Meena released her grip on Flynn and stepped back.
The Lump laughed. “It’s hard to believe you missed a target that big!” He slapped Flynn on the shoulder. “I suppose Meena made you first archer for a reason.”
Flynn looked at the Lump and tilted his head. “Those ghosts, how did you summon them?”
The Lump shrugged. “I don’t know.” He held up his undersized sword and looked at it. “I think it has something to do with my pop’s sword.” He brought his sword down to his side.
The three of them stood in silence and looked at the dragon splayed out across the packed dirt of the road. It looked strangely peaceful.
The Itchy-Legs scurried about binding the hands of the defeated Green Acolytes.
The Lump was first to speak. “Do you think we should look for that quarryman?”
Flynn nodded. “I’ll go check where we left him.” He trotted off into the trees.
Meena brought a hand to her forehead. “Ivan is such a thorn in our boots, I’ll be happy to see him locked in a cell.”
The woodchucks waddled across the path and rested at Meena’s feet. She let her hand fall from her head and knelt down to rub their thick, brown fur.
Flynn trotted back out of the trees and shook his head. “He wasn’t there. I’m not sure how far away he can be.” He stopped next to the Lump. “Surely someone will find a man with his hands bound and know he’s an outlaw.”
The Lump nodded. “We can sure hope so.”
The chief of the Itchy-Legs strode over to where they stood. He said, “This was a battle to sing about!” He put his hands on his hips. “We got all the dragon lovers bound for you, but we need to get back to our hill.” He smiled and revealed a missing front tooth. “It’s been too long since we’ve been home, and they don’t like us much in Galley-Town.”
Meena smiled at the man. “We can never thank you enough for your aid.”
The chief laughed. “We done it for Six-Toe, he was the best strangler we had.” He turned and beckoned to the other Hill-Folks. “It was good to fight with the Dragonblinders!” With that final farewell, the Itchy-Legs hiked into the trees and out of sight.
Meena frowned. “I still don’t like to be called a Dragonblinder.”
The Lump chuckled and rested his sword on his shoulder. “That business is all my fault. I’m sorry about that.”
The peace was broken by a new complement of soldiers marching up the road from the city.
The Lump wiped the blood from his injured arm on his breeches, then hunkered down and raised his sword.
Flynn pulled an arrow from his quiver and knocked it in his bow.
Meena gripped her staff in both hands and held it across her body.
The woodchucks huddled around Meena and bared their long front teeth.
The King’s herald stepped forward from the cluster of soldiers, easy to see in his brightly colored garb. He held his hands up to his mouth and shouted, “Lower your weapons! The King is here for your report!” He held his hands wide. “Our glorious and supreme leader is also here to claim his victory over the dragon!”
The Lump stood up straight and let his sword-hand dangle at his side.
Flynn put his arrow back in his quiver.
Meena put her staff on the ground and leaned against it.
The woodchucks let their lips slide back over their teeth and sniffed around the path, careful to avoid the sleeping dragon.
The soldiers marched forward until they reached the site of the battle, then organized into two rows, one at either side of the road.
A stout man pulled a cart up the path between the soldiers. The cart bore a throne, and the throne, in turn, bore King Ferte.
The King looked over to the guards on his left. In a cold tone, he said, “Fetch the traitor!”
Four guards scampered into the forest. A squeal rang out from the trees, and they returned with the battered Baron.
The
King shot an icy stare at Baron Eugene. “You are supposed to be in the Needles. I will have words with you.” His face curled into a grin and his eyes lit up with glee. “Better yet, I’ll have an inquisition!”
The Baron closed his eyes and hung his head in shame.
The King’s eyes went to the dragon. “I need the sketch, for my portrait.” He stepped down from his throne on the cart and onto the road. “Where’s the artist?”
A slight man shuffled around the cart with charcoal in one hand and parchment affixed to a board in the other. “I’m here, Your Majesty.” He bowed his head low.
“Wonderful!” The King walked over to the dragon. He stood next to its head and posed with one hand on his hip and the other high in the air.
The artist said, “A most excellent pose, Your Majesty.” He started sketching on the parchment with his charcoal.
“Wait!” shouted the King. “I need a sword.” He looked around at the collection of people. “Someone, bring me a sword!”
The Lump stepped forward and held up his small sword. “You can hold mine if you want.”
The King wrinkled up his nose at the sight of the undersized blade. “That weapon isn’t regal, I need a proper sword.”
The herald strolled forward and held out the Baron’s recovered longsword. “This should do, Your Majesty.”
The King smiled. “Yes, much better.” He took the sword and pressed it against the tough scales on the dragon’s throat.
A slight wheeze came from the dragon.
The King shrieked and jumped back. “You told me the beast was subdued!”
“Hold on.” The Lump lumbered over to the crate of bane and scooped up a handful of flowers. He walked back to the dragon and tossed them into its right nostril. His eyes scanned the path until he found a nearby stick, which he used to jam the flowers deeper. “That ought to do it.”
“Really?” asked the King.
Meena sighed. “The tome states that the beast will remain dormant until it is stirred.” She narrowed her eyes and looked at the King. “So don’t stir it!”
The King arched an eyebrow. “A tome?”
“Yes.” Meena nodded. “It’s titled The Collected Knowledge Of The Darklands”
