The Quest For the Black Dragon

by D.E. Dunlop

“So?” Ren said raising his eyebrows.

  “So, what?” Tinne pressed.

  “So tell me a story.” He ordered again.

  “No.”

  “It’s not hard. Here; once upon a time there was a little gnome.” Ren started with his best English accent. “His name was Peter. Now Peter was a silly little gnome who enjoyed kicking deer in the bullocks. One day while Peter was sneaking up on a deer to kick his bullocks.” Ren trailed off and turned to Ezbieta. “Your turn.” He said.

  Ezbieta looked off thoughtfully for a moment and then, in her best English accent she continued the story. “The deer heard him coming and nervously kicked Peter in the bullocks. The deer kicked Peter so hard that he flew high above the trees and soared into the sky, screaming as he went.”

  “Hey, guys.” A friendly salutation of an interruption came from beside them.

  “Hey, Jas’n.” Replied Ezbieta.

  “What’s up?” He asked as he took a seat at the small round table.

  “Peter.” Tinne answered.

  Jas’n looked at Tinne with a slightly confused smirk.

  “Peter the gnome is up.” Ren clarified.

  “Oh, Peter the gnome, my favourite story. What’s he doing today?” He asked.

  “He was kicking deer bullocks and now he’s screaming through the sky.” Ren said.

  They all chuckled a little.

  “Can I have a turn?” Jas’n asked.

  “Sure.” Ezbieta granted.

  “Okay, okay. So, Peter Rabbit is flying through the sky screaming his head off and, whack! He flies straight into the rear end of a rather large goose.” Jas’n said through low chuckles. “Squawk! Said the goose, or maybe it was quack. Do geese quack or squawk? Jas’n asked.

  “I dunno.”

  “I think they quack.”

  “When did he turn into a rabbit?”

  “He’s Peter the gnome, not Peter the rabbit.”

  “And then a hunter put an arrow through the goose and they both plummeted to the earth.” Tinne said smugly.

  “Hey, you can’t do that.” Ezbieta protested.

  “You killed Peter.” Ren exclaimed in his best English accent.

  “’Nother round?” Jas’n asked, still giggling and pointing to the growing number of mugs on the table. “Ezbieta, coffee, tea?”

  “No thanks. This one’s still got enough hot water for another.” Ezbieta answered, indicating the small teapot and bag in front of her.

  “You ruined the story.” Ren complained.

  “I told you, I hate telling stories. Why can’t we just talk about something of importance?” Tinne pressed.

  After a few minutes Jas’n returned with the coffee.

  “Guess what we’re doing!” Ren told Jas’n very enthusiastically.

  “What?” Jas’n asked with mocking jest. His blue eyes gleamed from within the frame of thick; sun bleached red hair that hung to his shoulders.

  Ren looked around the room. “We’re stealing the Kozlov.” He said.

  “No way. The Kozlov?” Jas’n exclaimed in disbelief.

  “We are not!” Tinne argued.

  Ren started to sing and dance in his chair, “’bin caught stealin’, once, when I was five. I enjoy stealin’…”

  “What is the Kozlov, anyway?” Jas’n questioned.

  “I’m not going if you think you’re going to steal it. You agreed you wouldn’t steal it.” Tinne continued to protest.

  “You know the legendary sword of the first king of Bayfield.” Ezbieta explained.

  “I thought it was just a myth.” Jas’n said.

  “…If I get bye, it’s mine. Mine all mine.” Ren continued in his song and dance, mostly to annoy Tinne.

  “Well apparently it’s real and these two bozos are going to steal it.” Ezbieta continued.

  “Where is it?” Jas’n continued.

  Ezbieta watched in amusement. Finally Ren agreed again and quit the taunt.

  “Fine.” He said as he looked at Jas’n. “Apparently we’re going to break in and just look at it.” Ren said mockingly with a hint of disgust.

  “Where is it?” Jas’n asked again.

  “If we told you that we would have to kill you.” Ezbieta said dryly.

  “Quit being such a Saint.” Ren said to Tinne, not really wanting to stop taunting him.

  “I’m not a Saint.” Tinne said. His blood pressure was obviously rising.

  “You sure act like it sometimes.” Ren accused.

  “Hey, are you guys going to Sorotchynski’s tonight? It’s open stage.” Jas’n invited.

  “Yeah, I’m on the roster already.” Ren answered.

  “What’s going on out there?” Mike asked. He had come in shortly after the discussion about Sorotchynski’s. When Mike looked out of the window he had the strange tendency to actually pay attention to what was happening in the world as opposed to Ren and Tinne who were far off in their own worlds whenever they took up the activity. He was straining to see over the heads around the table. Everyone turned to look at the street.

  “Haven’t you ever seen that before?” Jas’n asked.

  “No. What is it?” Mike asked again.

  “You really are a bumpkin, aren’t you?” Ezbieta chided.

  There were crowds of people growing on both sides of the street and making a large clatter. A trumpet sounded in the distance and the crowds ranted and jeered.

  “That’s the corrections procession.” Ren said.

  “That’s the most exciting thing on the street.” Tinne added. “Once a month they take all the serious offenders and parade them through the street to the corrections corridor.”

  “C’mon, let’s watch.” Jas’n said eagerly.

  The group of them got up and went out for a better view. By the time they got close to the street there were projectiles of all types flying about.

  “Doesn’t the guard care about them throwing things?” Mike asked.

  “Not if you don’t hit him.” Jas’n laughed.

  “What happens if you hit him?” Mike enquired.

  Just as Mike asked one of the members of the crowd hit the guard with a tomato. The guard grabbed the man and shackled him to the end of the line.

  “You mean that guy’s gonna get put in the corridor for throwing a tomato?” Mike questioned with horror and disgust in his voice.

  “Oh, no. He just gets to be shackled for a few blocks for the experience. Watch.” Jas’n said.

  The procession barely started moving when the projectiles resumed their flying about. It was obvious the new addition had become a favourite target already.

  “You see that? The guard put him at the back to draw fire away from himself.” Ren said. “It’s genius.”

  “I don’t know if I like this.” Mike said.

  “I wasn’t sure either the first time I saw it.” Jas’n replied. “At least until I threw my first egg, anyway.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, man. Throw a rock.” Tinne encouraged.

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah, man, for sure. It’s all the rave. Watch.” Ren picked up a rock with a four or five centimetre diameter and let it fly into the procession. Tinne, Ren, Jas’n and Ezbieta laughed at the way most of the prisoners ducked and let an unwary one catch it in the forehead.

  “You guys are mean!” Mike complained with disgust.

  “What do you think will happen to them in the corridor after dark?” Ezbieta asked him flatly.

  Mike didn’t have an answer.

  “Potato gun.” Ren and Tinne laughed.

  “They’re all violent offenders convicted of vicious and unmentionable crimes. They’re being led out for the families and victims to get their retribution.” Ezbieta added.

  Mike considered it for a moment and thoughtfully picked up a stone.

  “Do it, Mike.” They urged.

  He hurled it into
the line and hit the man on the end who had hit the guard with the tomato.

  Tinne cuffed him in the back of the head.

  “Not that one, dumb ass!”

  “What? You said…” Mike rubbed the back of his head.

  “You only hit that one with food. He’s not a convict; he’s just an example.”

  Mike continued to rub his head. “You’re pretty mean for a saint.” He said.

  Everybody burst into fits of laughter. Tinne glared at Mike with his teeth clenched.

  “What?” Mike quickly became nervous when he saw Tinne’s glare.

  “I am not a Saint.” Tinne said firmly.

  Mike turned to Jas’n. “But you said…”

  Ren, Ezbieta and Jas’n continued to laugh as they all went back into Dick’s Place.

  “Don’t call me that again.” Tinne told Mike.

  The five friends sat, talking, joking and goofing around for a time as the sun began to set.

  **********

  Sorotchynski’s Place was a favourite nightspot for what many may call “riff raff”, artists, musicians, rabble-rousers and misfits of all kinds. It was once a barn nestled against a small grove of trees about a kilometre or two east of Bayfield. Only an empty field and the broken down ruins of some old building separated the two. An artist by the name of Sorotchynski discovered it and decided to make it a place of entertainment. From its beginnings the place was well known for its rowdiness and goings on. The noise of which could occasionally be heard even within the fortified walls of the city.

  This evening was no different than any other. The show began, as always, with the house band, The Midnight Vultures. The singer was an artiste extraordinaire and looked it as well as sounded it. He wore his dirty blond hair shaggy and halfway down his ears. His pants were hot pink leather and he wore a white leather jacket over top a black t-shirt. When Ren, Ezbieta and Tinne arrived they were already on stage. “I think I’m going crazy. Things don’t even faze me. Her left eye is lazy. Nicotine and gravy. Miracles amaze me. She looks so Israeli. Love the way she plays me. I think I’m going crazy.” As the night progressed the excitement grew. By the time it was Ren’s turn on the stage there had already been two fights, each had nearly escalated to the level of a full on brawl.

  Ren stepped up on the stage confidently. He projected himself in such a way that demanded attention. His posture as he stood silent, said, “Shut up and listen”. That’s exactly what happened. The room grew quiet. People stood, sat and leaned with their eyes on Ren. After a moment he sat and laid his guitar across his lap. He quickly checked the strings for tune. He laid his left ear on the body of the guitar and plucked a few harmonics. His eyes snapped up at the crowd, who still remained silent, and he began to play.

  As Ren got into his music, the music got into him. His body arched and swayed and his head flopped this way and that as if there were no muscles or spine to hold it up. His eyes opened and closed involuntarily as his spirit wrapped itself around the score like a vine tangled on a lattice. His fingers tickled and teased the strings and the frets. Even one who knew nothing of the art would say the music was playing him just as well as he was playing the music.

  The place was packed from wall to wall. The air was thick with smoke from cigarettes and cigars. Aside from Ren’s guitar the room was silent. The groove Ren had entered turned out to be very appealing to the house band, and they quietly returned to their instruments and joined in. Tinne squeezed his way slowly through the crowd. As he passed a group of people seated around a table he tripped on something and nearly fell on the floor. Embarrassed and angry he turned around sharply to see what had caused his faltering.

  “You wanna keep the skis out of the walkway, buddy?” He said roughly, in reference to the man’s feet. Before he knew it the man was towering over him by nearly a foot. Tinne swallowed hard as he strained his neck to look at the man’s face. In a matter of seconds the entire place was shaking from the massive brawl that broke out. The man Tinne had offended ignored the pleas of the lady at his side and threw Tinne half way across the room and out the front door. Had the door been open Tinne may have sailed clear into the yard. As it was, he crashed through the door and rolled down the steps. When he gathered himself out of the dirt his assailant was already standing in the broken doorway. He could hear the band still playing along with Ren. They had segued into one of their own. “Let the handcuffs slip off the wrist. I’ll let you be my chaperone, at the halfway home. I’m a full grown man, but I’m not afraid to cry.” Outside in the clear air he finally saw the kilt around the man’s waist. He recognized his opponent to be a Warminster. He only considered his chances for a second longer and bolted down the lane. He ran for his life. He ran until he couldn’t breathe. He thought for certain the giant was on his heels. He was convinced the man was intent on killing him. He did not look back. He did not slow down. He ran out of the grove and down the road. He wished they had not left the horses at home.

  Under the blackened, overcast, sky he got off the road and ran through the long grass. Sporadically, the flickering of distant lightning lighted his way. The flashes, though, were actually more trouble than help because the night was even darker between them. It was during one of these pitch-black moments he suddenly crashed into something short and round that rolled with him into the grass.

  “I say! I never!” A familiar voice exclaimed from the darkness.

  “Ollie?” Tinne asked with surprise.

  “People these days…running about in the dark bowling over innocent bystanders without so much as a “Pardon me” or an “Excuse me, coming through” I say!”

  “Is that you, Ollie?” Tinne asked again.

  “Well I don’t know who it should be if it isn’t! Who’s that? Young master Tinne, I suppose.” Ollie surmised.

  “Are you alright?” Now that Tinne had become acquainted with Ollie and, somewhat, considered him a friend, his inquiry was genuine this time.

  “What are you doing, running about in the dark like some sort of mad man, knocking others all over in the grass?” Ollie asked without answering what was asked of him.

  “Running for my life is what!” Tinne exclaimed.

  “Running for your life? I say! What on earth has gotten you into such a bother?”

  “A Warminster is what!” Tinne exclaimed while peering through the flickering light to see if the man was still chasing.

  “I say! Don’t tell me you mocked his kilt!” Ollie replied.

  “No. I didn’t see the kilt. I would have kept my mouth shut had I seen it.”

  “Not the kilt, hey?” Ollie rubbed his chin in the flickering light. “The feet. You mocked his feet! You idiot! You’re lucky he didn’t kill you.”

  “How was I supposed to know?”

  “You need to control your tongue, my boy. Think twice before you open your mouth.” Ollie instructed.

  “Now you tell me.”

  “Just be thankful you insulted a man and not a woman.”

  Tinne looked at Ollie for a second. “How’d you know I was running from a man? What are you talking about?”

  “I say! Well, as much as they’re quick tempered, in regards to their feet and kilt anyway, the men are just as quick to forget. As soon as you were out of sight I guarantee his brain went right back into party mode. A female Warminster, on the other hand, would have chased you down.” Ollie explained.

  “Seriously?”

  “Oh yes, you would have run into me and before you could get up she would’ve been on your back beating the living daylights out of you.”

  “So, you’re saying I’m safe? He’s not gonna jump out of the bush and clobber me on my way home?”

  “That’s what I’m saying. You’re an idiot for messing with a Warminster.”

  Tinne stared at Ollie through the dark, dumbfounded. “What are you doing out here in the dark?” He asked of Ollie with renewed s
urprise and curiosity.

  “I say! Why, I’m hunting of course.”

  “What are you hunting for this time, the truth, I suppose?”

  “Indirectly, yes. I’m hunting for the Black Dragon; a beast so powerful as to change the course of time with mere words.” Ollie’s voice was saturated with enthusiasm as he announced his task at hand.

  A clap of thunder drew their attention again to the approaching storm, but only briefly. The subject was very appealing to Tinne, as it sounded quite familiar. It reminded him of the stories his Grumpy used to tell. “There’s no such thing as dragons, Ollie. They’re just fanciful creatures of myth and lore.”

  “Well, I say! I never! Are you calling me a nitwit, some sort of dolt who chases shadows and whispers? After spending time with me in my studies; do you take me for a man who would waste his time with a subject without a reputable source?” Ollie was quite offended as he definitely was not a man without reason and always, very carefully, sifted through his sources and weighed them against each other at least twice before accepting something as factual.

  “Of course not, Ollie. Please, calm down. I didn’t mean to offend, I just…I mean…it sounds so outrageous. I’ve never heard anyone refer to dragons as living beings.” Tinne apologized.

  “Well, I say! Just because you, in your limited education, have not heard of them spoken of as living beings does not mean they are not.”

  “No, of course not. Please forgive me, Ollie. Tell me though; this great and terrible dragon, what makes you think you will find it here and aren’t you afraid of it?” Tinne pressed, trying to get some clue that might tip him off as to Ollie’s source.

  “According to my sources,” Ollie said after he finally calmed down, “the Black Dragon lives in a place called The Field of Lords, which, according also to the source can only be found by a particular group of people. I have only begun to search and figured, why not start here rather than discover, after many long years, it was under my nose all along.”

  “So, are you a member of that particular group of people?” Tinne asked very curiously.

  “The books are vague as to who this group is. They are only referred to as storytellers. I love reading stories and telling them, so, perhaps I am capable of finding this place.” Ollie explained.

  “Don’t you think someone would have seen such a powerful beast in a field that’s probably only twenty-five square kilometres?” Tinne pried.