“The what?”
I pointed with my snout. “The insect that carries you in its belly. The blue one down there, may I take it for prey?”
His teeth flashed white as he grinned. Strong, sharp canines, I noted. “It’s not an insect, it’s a machine.”
“A mechanical device? Like a catapult or a wormscrew?” My voice held doubt.
“Sort of. Let me explain cars to you another time. Right now I’ve got the media event of the century to promote.” He patted my slanting shoulder, a little hesitantly. “Babe, we are going to make so much money, it’ll be indecent.”
Just before climbing into his insect-car, he said, “Why didn’t you waste me right off?”
If I correctly understood the idiom, some questions lie best unanswered. I hacked a blotch of smoke at him. He didn’t ask again.
He had the courage to talk to me instead of immediately trying to skewer me with something sharp, and he was only the second human in my experience to recognize that, in truth, I am an exceedingly lovely green dragon.
In less than a quarter moon, Terry completed the arrangements for his “media event.” On the agreed day, just as sunset turned to dark, he gathered a large assembly of humans known as flacks on a high butte of rock not far from my lair.
I followed Terry’s instructions as if I were, in truth, born to what he called “show business.” In the afternoon I ate several fat cows to curb my instinct to prey on humans, since even I could understand the consequences of such an action. I preened my scales and burnished my horns, spines, and claws until they shone like sea-gold. Then I lay hidden, waiting for Terry’s signal.
In his parlance, we blew their socks off. Gliding silently, I swooped down on them from the rear, blasting a long stream of fire as I passed, then circling to hover, wings flared, spitting sparks and roaring in my most ferocious voice.
It was like stirring a nest of mice. Some froze in terror, some ran in wild panic. The running ones I turned back, showing off my acrobatic skill, diving and dancing in the air, huffing just enough flame to scare them without really hurting anyone. When they were all herded together again, I landed among their cowering forms, let off one last gout of flame into the black sky, then lowered my head so Terry could stand with his arm around my neck while he convinced the flacks that I was not, after all, going to eat them en brochette. When they found that I talk, they went wild, all yelling at once, popping flashing lights in my eyes. Terry controlled their questions, only allowing me to respond to the ones for which we had created answers that Terry thought would be acceptable to the media.
It was a stupendous success.
So here I am, the hottest star in Hollywood. I have my own dressing room, a converted semitrailer with my stage name in red uncial Gothic letters on the side. I get a hundred thousand per speaking appearance, my price for a cameo role is higher than Brando’s, and the Koreans are negotiating for my endorsement on a theme park called DragonLand. Kitty Kelly is writing my unauthorized biography.
Terry makes all the deals. I can’t fit inside the offices. Though if the negotiations aren’t going well, we often arrange for me to stick my head in the window and huff a little smoke now and then. That usually simplifies the bargaining process.
My last feature was an FX film, with me playing two roles, good dragon versus bad dragon. I reluctantly allowed them to dye my scales, but only because Terry convinced me that I needed to be able to play against type for career longevity. He’s now working on some deal where I get a “love interest.” I’ve explained the draconian way of these things, but Terry insists that humans will like me better, and spend more at the box office, if they can anthropomorphize me. I’d rather be feared, but if it makes Terry happy and keeps the gold flowing in, I’ll be lovable. For a couple of movies, anyway. Then I want Terry to buy an option on Beowulf so we can tell the truth of that story.
It’s a fat, comfortable life. No knights trying to puncture me, no magicians hurling spells at me, no priests cursing my name for eternity. All the treasure any dragon could want, beautiful people sucking up to me and wanting their pictures with me in all the tabloids. I take my rest on a hard, lumpy pile of bright yellow gold. My own chef presents me with the tenderest pedigreed Japanese beef on the hoof and ready for broiling.
Still, I do miss the thrill of the hunt and the occasional torment. Terry is adamant that, no matter how toothsome, I’m not allowed to eat any more of my co-stars. I did charbroil that hairy little rat dog that supposedly saved the world from me in my first feature. Terry took care of the bad press and explained that it would be really hard to get parts if I kept that up, so I promised I wouldn’t do it again.
But I don’t suppose they’d miss an extra now and then, would they? Maybe a stuntman or a bit player? And, I promise, only after the production is wrapped.
The Diamond-Spitting Knight
S. E. Page
All of Millet’s troubles began when she freed the fairy. Pixie Mab’s wings were caught in the dewy cobwebs covering a mulberry bush until the orphan girl gave it a good shake.
“I am not your godmother, but I suppose I might spare you a small fairy’s blessing,” Pixie Mab said as she smoothed the torn gossamer ruffles of her gown. “How would you like to become a changeling and learn how to howl like an ogre and run wild with the unicorns?”
But Millet shook her head, very certain that she would prefer silver platters of tarts bathed in honey, satin dancing slippers, and chandeliers with more crystals than a starry sky. “Make me a princess, please, with a castle and a crown and everything—”
“Boring,” Pixie Mab interrupted, rolling her eyes, “but as you wish.” She waved a tiny rowan splinter of a wand before vanishing in a puff of periwinkle sparkles.
Millet patted the top of her head and was sorely disappointed to find only the usual tangle of red curls. Yet there was no time to search for her missing tiara as a royal hunting party charged into the meadow where she stood quite in the way. Millet opened her mouth to cry out a warning before their stallions trampled her under hoof, but found it impossible as something hard and cold rolled up her throat and clinked against her teeth. A torrent of sapphires slipped from her surprised lips and mixed with the clover.
“Halt!” King Wulfram shouted, and his hunters reeled their steeds to a sudden stop. A sharp glint filled the king’s eyes as he glanced down at the dazzling mess of jewels and then back up at the orphan girl. “What a lovely little gem you are,” he said. The new name stuck, and he promptly pronounced her his princess on the spot.
King Wulfram brought Little Gem back to his castle where she continued to spit out jewels faster than melon seeds: one bucket of rubies as large as a bear’s eyes Monday through Thursday, a barrel of sapphires as bright as morning stars Friday through Saturday, and a ladle-full of pearls as blue as dove’s eggs on Sunday. The daily jewels that Little Gem coughed up kept a very particular schedule, unless of course, she sneezed.
In such an emergency, Ole Maid Gertie unfurled a kerchief at the first hint of a scrunching nose, and Little Gem filled the cloth with emeralds and now and then, the odd peridot.
“Bless you, poppet,” the old woman said after a particularly powerful sneeze. She dumped the glimmering stones caught in the kerchief into a scale and weighed them with a practiced hand.
“No thanks!” Little Gem said as she pinched her nose to keep from sneezing again. “One blessing is quite enough.”
Little Gem supposed the fairy’s blessing would be rather nice if only being a princess didn’t come with so very many rules: never tell anyone of her gift, never give a single jewel away, but mostly, stay in the Iron Room.
“It’s for your own good, my little gem,” King Wulfram had assured her as he’d unlocked the black metal door and ushered her into the iron-walled room. “This is the safest place in the castle for a treasure as truly precious as yours.”
Little Gem didn’t mind spending her days in the Iron Room at first, for every corner of the tre
asury overflowed with peculiar splendors: a harp that played music even when no finger touched the golden strings, tapestries of snow white stags that galloped as if alive instead of silk thread beasts, and Faerie books that told new stories every night no matter how many times she turned the pages. How could she dare complain when she’d traded a dirty straw pallet and cold porridge for a downy pile of goose-feather pillows, and three hot meals brought to her by Ole Maid Gertie every day?
But as her time rolled by in a gilded haze, Little Gem felt a deepening pang of loss; she’d almost forgotten the springy feel of grass and how a clean slant of sunlight was so much brighter than the wink of gold.
King Wulfram came to visit Little Gem at noon, as he always did to tally and inspect the day’s bounty of jewels.
“No diamonds today?” he asked, frowning at the silver pail brimming over with Tuesday’s rubies as if it was a bucket of squirmy salamanders.
Little Gem bowed her head, for she’d never been able to spit out a single diamond, though she’d tried a thousand times. “No, Your Majesty.”
King Wulfram kicked the pail over and rubies tinkled into every corner. “This humble pile of jewels is not nearly enough for my kingdom,” he seethed. “I need diamonds, Little Gem, mountains of them! After all I have done for you, is it so hard to show me your gratitude?”
“No!” Little Gem said, her shoulders slumping under the weight of her own failure. “Perhaps I shall have better luck tomorrow. . . .”
“Tomorrow,” the king agreed.
Alone once more, Little Gem picked up the empty pail and stared fiercely at the bottom. “Surely I can make just one tiny diamond,” she whispered, but her tears were the only kind of jewel that plunked inside.
She fell asleep clutching the empty pail only to be startled awake by a loud growl at precisely midnight. The door to the Iron Room swung open as two guards entered and wheeled a large cage inside. Little Gem gawked in amazement at the young dragon the size of a pony snarling behind the bars. A tight silver collar pinched the emerald green scales on his neck.
“Beware you well, little lady!” one of the guards snickered. “That collar may keep the dragon from belching flames, but touch the vicious beast and he’ll have your fingers for supper.”
“Aye,” the second guard cackled. “And clean his fangs with your bones.”
The door to the Iron Room shut on Little Gem and her perilous new companion with a deafening slam. Tucking her hands deep into her robe’s pockets—it didn’t hurt to be too cautious as she was rather fond of her fingers, after all—Little Gem hid behind her pile of pillows and studied the monster. He stared back at her with equally curious amber eyes.
“I stole ten bushels of ripe summer pears,” the dragon said, licking his dagger-length fangs with a satisfied smack. “That’s how I got caught in the king’s trap in the royal orchard. But what did a wee damsel like your self do to get thrown into this fancy dungeon?” he asked.
Her pillows scattered as Little Gem stood up and glared at the dragon. “I am no prisoner, I live here. I am the princess of this castle, beast!” She grabbed a tiara hanging from the horns of a marble faun and crowned herself just to prove her point. Yet her hands clenched into fists as she wondered if the sly monarch hadn’t tricked her, too, trapping her in the Iron Room with fine promises of being his fair princess.
The dragon snorted. “Well, you have very coarse manners for a princess; my name is ‘Emeril,’ not beast.”
Little Gem’s cheeks burned. “Forgive me, Emeril. I haven’t always been a princess, only since I started spitting jewels.” Coughing once, she spat up an oval Wednesday ruby in her palm. “Would you like one? I’ve heard that dragons are particularly fond of shiny things.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I fear my treasure hoarding days are over.” Emeril curled his body in tight winding circles until he was one big scaly ball. “King Wulfram has decreed a glorious tournament tomorrow! Knights from all corners of the kingdom will joust in noble combat, and the champion will win the chance to slay a legendary monster at noon.” The dragon gave a mournful sigh. “I suppose that’s me.”
“How dare King Wulfram make such cruel sport of you!” Little Gem said. She vowed never to give the king one measly gem ever again—or to let a knight harm a single scale on Emeril.
“No one may slay you if I free you first,” Little Gem said. Seizing one of the many jewel-encrusted swords lining the walls, she hacked at the dragon’s cage with all her strength, but her blows left only scratches in the strong black iron.
“You made a valiant effort,” Emeril said after her seventh blade chipped and cracked, “but perhaps it’s time to admit the truth: nobody ever rescues a dragon.” A tiny flame slipped from his left eye and snuffed into cinders. “It simply isn’t done.”
A rebellious thought hardened inside Little Gem’s heart, no bigger than the millet seed that once was her name: Why not?
When the guards came for Emeril in the morning, Little Gem stuck her nose in the air and pretended she was quite glad to be rid of her reptilian companion. But she hid a smile as their armor gave her an idea. The instant the lock on the Iron Room twisted tight, Little Gem ransacked every corner of the treasury for everything a knight might wear—a silver helmet, golden gauntlets, a lion-embossed breastplate and a wide-bladed broadsword. Her search took hours as only chain mail hammered by the hands of Faerie Folk had spells in the metal that would shrink it to fit her size. Donning her mismatched suit of armor, Little Gem stood by the door and waited for Ole Maid Gertie to bring her luncheon plate. She held her breath as the door unlocked barely ten minutes before noon.
“I brought toasted buns and cheese curds today!” the old woman said. She shuffled over the threshold and blinked in puzzlement. “Poppet?”
Little Gem slid swiftly behind her and slipped into the hallway. Dread pushed her feet faster as she wondered—was there still enough time to save Emeril from the despicable knights? Servants and nobles shot her odd glances as the short and strangely armored warrior clanked past them, but no guards stopped Little Gem as the helmet hid her face. She dragged her broadsword behind her as she followed the cheers of the tournament crowd to the courtyard.
Tapping the nearest man on the shoulder, Little Gem lowered her voice to a gruff pitch. “Where do I enter the tournament, Sir?”
“You’re too late,” the man said, pointing forward. “The champion kills the foul beast now!”
Chains fastened to rings in the ground kept Emeril trapped at the center of the courtyard. A knight with an ostrich-plumed helmet stood with his sword raised over the dragon’s neck.
“Stop!” Little Gem commanded. Dropping the heavy sword, she pushed past the crowd and charged the knight. She tossed aside her helmet as the hard, stubborn shine inside her heart swelled and rose upwards to push against her teeth. She spat it out with all her strength and a radiant stone the size of an acorn smacked the knight’s hand.
Relief filled her as he dropped his sword, but Little Gem froze as every gaze swung to the mismatched knight who had spat a flawless diamond with the force of a sling shot.
King Wulfram’s eyes bulged with fury. “Get back to the Iron Room at once, Little Gem!” he bellowed.
“No.” The girl spat another diamond lightning-quick that knocked the legs from the king’s seat and sent him tumbling into the dirt. “That is not my name anymore. I am the Diamond-Spitting Knight!”
Turning to the dragon, she spat something bright and sharp as a star. Her diamond’s aim was true and shattered his silver collar. Emeril shot a fire bolt that melted his shackles into a boiling puddle. Bursting free with a roar, he dove straight at the girl.
“Are you done playing princess?” he asked.
“Quite,” she said.
Emeril dropped her between his wings. Together, the Diamond-Spitting Knight and dragon soared off on an adventure entirely of their own making.
Amélie’s Guardian
Bryan Thomas Schmidt
>
Long ago in a land known as Glendon, there lived a
young girl, whose name was Amélie. Her mother was a seamstress and her father was a soldier, a Captain in the Kingdom Guard, who’d been seven moons at war. They lived in a small village on the banks of the mighty River Rhi, surrounded by woods. They led a quiet life of farming and simple trades, far from the capitol.
Her mother’s name was Mara, and her father’s name was Ramon. Mara and Amélie had huddled together as Ramon and his men rode out one fateful day, straight down the main street, amidst the straw roofed cottages. Their horses whinnied with excitement as the villagers felt the vibration of their pounding hooves, and choking clouds of dust rose up, carried on the Autumn breeze.
Amélie buried her face in her mother’s well-worn apron, her shoulder rising and falling to the rhythm of her sobs. Her mother kept a brave face, but Amélie knew she was worried, too. Late at night, as she lay restless, Amélie heard her mother’s own sobs through the thin walls of their cottage.
The village itself, Tallerive, had not known conflict in many years and the surrounding woods were known to be safe and quiet. To keep her daughter occupied and avoid her sitting around worrying, Mara sent Amélie out each morning on a daily quest. One day might be to gather berries in the nearby woods, another to pick up freshly fallen apples. Amélie delivered eggs to the inn and gathered cloth from the weaver’s. All the while Mara stayed home to feed the chickens, work on her sewing, and kept the cottage clean.
On one of these quests I met Amélie. I’d been watching her for a long while and found her intriguing. Her blonde curls bounced as she walked which was a kind of rhythmic loping with a spring in her steps. Her demeanor was one of curiosity and playfulness, yet I detected a sadness beneath it, echoed in her brown eyes. It touched me. She looked lonely, and that was something I understood well.
For years, I had occupied a mountaintop near the village, but because I never bothered the village, the humans never came to trouble me. I rarely approached humans because of their reaction. Adult humans would scream and hurl rocks or spears when I got too close.
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