The Desolator

by Simon Haynes

Suddenly, a piercing scream cut through the smoky haze. “It’s the Dragon!” yelled a frantic voice outside. A young woman charged into the tavern, her chest heaving and her eyes wild. “It’s as big as a house…”

  “And as hot as the sun!” yelled every creature in the tavern, as one.

  The woman stopped, confused. “It’s the Desolator, he’s here, he’s come!”

  “And now it’s time to run, run, run!” shouted the crowd, enjoying themselves immensely.

  The woman put her hands on her hips. “And you call yourselves adventurers,” she said, tossing her head. “I’ll have more luck down the Belaying Pin.” And with that she turned and left.

  Then, with a roar like a speeding steam train, a huge black shadow swept past. There was a faint scream, then silence.

  “Oh, crap,” said a voice. “It really was the Desolator.”

  There was a swish of collectively drawn weaponry, and a dozen mugs clattered to the floor. Then the bulk of the tavern’s patrons dived for the entrance with much elbowing, eye-gouging and head-butting, every one of them eager to claim the mighty dragon’s head.

  Father M. sipped delicately from his glass as he watched Hurm throwing himself repeatedly into the crowd, scattering human, elf and dwarf alike with his huge arms. He watched Hurm go down, clutching his groin, and winced as a slender, female elf in a crimson battle-dress stomped on the warrior’s head on her way out.

  Through the grimy windows Father M. watched the crowd assemble in the main street, saw the pointing fingers and swords as the adventurers searched the night sky for their fearsome foe.

  “Shouldn’t we join them?” asked Runt, who had slipped out of the crush and returned to his seat.

  “That’s not in the plan,” said the cleric.

  There was another screaming roar, and the black shadow sped past belching fire. The crowd held for a second, then split like startled cockroaches, scurrying hither and yon and bumping into each other as they ran for cover. Several reappeared in the Tavern, grabbed their mugs and began drinking busily. Others slinked off and were never seen again.

  “That was a rout,” remarked Runt.

  “Right,” said Father M. “No cohesion. No teamwork.”

  “No balls,” added the halfling. He glanced round at the stragglers. The nearest was one of the bearskins, although his magnificent jacket was now a smoking, charred ruin. “Did you get it?” called Runt.

  There was another roar outside, and the shadow flashed past, illuminating the street with jets of bright, probing flame.

  “Er, not yet,” said the bearskin. “We’re just planning our campaign.”

  His companions nodded sagely. “Campaign. Thassit.”

  “Have you met a dragon before?” asked Father M. politely.

  “Can’t say as we have,” replied bearskin. “We heard all about ‘em, though. I er... I didn’t realise they was that big.”

  “And I didn’t know they were so hot,” added one of his companions, a thickset, greying man who was nursing a burnt hand.

  “Big as a house, hot as the sun,” quoted Runt.

  The greying man turned on him, an aggrieved look on his face. “Yeah, but that shit’s for the tourists. We allus talk stuff up in songs - tits, dicks, battles, they’re always larger ‘n’ life when the minstrels get to ‘em.”

  “You mean you shouldn’t rely on the media if you want facts?” asked Father M.

  “You got that straight.”

  More adventurers trooped in, most of them smoking gently and all of them careful to keep their eyes on the floor. Hurm came last, his blond mane untouched and his armour shiny except for a black, elf-shaped outline burnt across his breast-plate.

  “What happened?” asked Runt.

  “The elf gave her life to save me,” said Hurm, shaking his head sadly.

  “Voluntarily?”

  Hurm buffed his armour. “The dragon swooped, and her body absorbed the punishment in my stead.”

  “Yes, but did she throw herself in front of you, or was she struggling to escape?”

  “Enough questions. I will not have her valour sullied by a tavern dweller,” said Hurm loftily. “In any case, she should have known better than sally forth in a red shirt.” He reached for his mug, then sprung to his feet. “WHO’S been drinking MY ale?” he thundered.

  “Eh?”

  “It’s empty,” yelled Hurm, casting a suspicious glance at the bearskins.

  “What you looking at?” demanded the grey-haired one, reaching for his axe. After facing the dragon, a three-to-one fight with a mortal sounded like good odds.

  “You cowa-“ Hurm got no further. His throat closed, and he was forced into his seat by an unseen, overwhelming force.

  “The plan,” said Father M. coldly. “Now, the first part is going to be rather more difficult, given Runt’s unfortunate choice of entertainment.”

  “It’s the only song I know,” sniffed the halfling. “My old grandma…”

  “…was a lush who could chop logs with her bare hands,” finished Father M. “I met her, remember? In fact, I wish I’d brought her along in your stead. She might have sung something more… uplifting. Still, the damage is done.”

  “You keep on about the plan, the plan. What plan?”

  “OK, I’ll lay it out for you. Before we can get rid of the dragon, we must discover what the dragon wants.”

  “It wants to kill everyone and burn the town,” said Runt.

  “No, I think that’s just a ruse. We must discover the true reason for the siege.”

  Runt shrugged. “It’s a dragon. They just do that sort of thing.”

  “But this one’s been dormant for decades. Why attack now?”

  “Perhaps it got bored?”

  “It is in the nature of dragons to attack Man,” said Hurm.

  “And elves,” said Runt.

  “All creatures equally,” said Hurm. “None are safe from these vile creatures.”

  “Unless you’re hiding behind an elf,” said Runt.

  Hurm glared at him. “What do you know of the wily beasts, tavern-dweller?”

  “More than you, you-”

  Father M gestured, and both Runt and Hurm were silent. “As I was saying, I cannot see why this dragon has suddenly developed a blood lust.”

  “Enough words,” said Hurm, slapped his sword hilt. “Give me cold steel and I will face any creature.”

  “As long as there’s an Elf in the firing line,” muttered Runt.

  “SHUT UP!” yelled the cleric. “Now listen, for I have a tale which needs telling.”

  Runt hid a yawn. “Summary?”

  The cleric ignored him. "Far and wide I roamed, from the sandy wastes of the South to the icy wastes of the North. I battled trolls, wild dogs, giants and orcs until at last I found the Tomb of Sethor. The air was still. The birds were silent."

  "The tale was endless," muttered Runt.

  “But my struggles were not in vain, for I bear upon my person the very means with which we will defeat this dragon.” Father M reached into his robes and pulled out a massive, studded collar. It was four inches wide, two feet across and made of faded red leather. From the tarnished buckle hung a cowbell the size of a beer mug.

  "What's that?" asked Runt, although deep down he had a pretty good idea.

  "This is a Collar of Taming," said the cleric. "Place it around the neck of the most savage beast on the planet and it will become your willing slave.”

  “Riiiight,” said Runt. The tavern shook as the Desolator swooped down the main street, searing buildings and townsfolk with jets of flame fifty feet long. “Have you thought this through? I mean, who’s going to fit the thing?”

  The cleric pursed his lips. “I shall be ensuring the smooth operation of the plan. Hurm will be standing by with his weapon, ready to leap to your defence.”

  “Oh, no,” said Runt firmly. “No way.”

  “It’s traditional. Halflings are dragon-tamers by their very nature.”

>   “Just because one of us got away with it doesn’t mean I can.”

  Father M gestured with his left hand. “Runt, you will place the collar on the dragon.”

  “The hell I will.”

  “You WILL place the collar on the dragon.”

  “Forget it. I’m a halfling, not a halfwit.”

  “You will place the COLLAR on the DRAGON,” said the cleric, with another flourish.

  Runt sighed. “Ok, I’ll put the collar on the dragon. But when this spell wears off I’m going to-“

  “Capital!” exclaimed Father M. “Come, let us prepare.”