by Sean Gibson
As flesh is charred to the bone
* * *
Near Skendrick does a red dragon dwell
A beast who blots out the sun
He wheels in the sky and lets out mighty roars
As he gobbles up babies for fun
* * *
The dragon soars and the dragon flies
When the dragon roars, everyone dies
* * *
Take up your swords, your axes, your bows
And use them in service to good
Though the day seems dark indeed
We must do what noble folk should
* * *
The dragon soars and the dragon flies
When the dragon roars, everyone dies
Who will save the day?
* * *
The call goes out, who will answer it now?
Send us your warriors, your heroes, your fighters
The night is so dark
But the dawn will be brighter
* * *
Here is the chance for a brave band of heroes
To enter the realm of legend and myth
By slaying the dragon who’s killed so many
Men and women, kin and kith
* * *
The dragon soars and the dragon flies
When the dragon roars, everyone dies
Who will come to save the day?
Will it be you who enters the fray?
* * *
There is more than just gratitude
And stories to be told,
For the heroes who answer
Will be showered in gold
* * *
The dragon’s treasure is legion
Ten feet high and wider than tall
And the brave heroes who slay him
Will lay claim to it all
* * *
The people of Skendrick are in dire need
Of champions to save their town
Who will become heroes and legends
Before all is burned to the ground?
* * *
The dragon soars and the dragon flies
When the dragon roars, everyone dies
Who will come to save the day?
Who will boldly enter the fray?
* * *
It may just be…you.
* * *
I drew out the last note and let it hang in the air, turning my (bewitching) eyes toward anyone and everyone who looked like a possibly competent warrior. In such a small audience, there were really only a few likely suspects, and two of them sat next to each other—a capable-looking elven woman with a bow slung over her chair and an enormous rock giant. I didn’t have particularly high hopes, though—an elf carrying a bow is a bit like a chef wearing an apron; it’s a standard accoutrement and not necessarily an indication of aptitude. Let’s face it—there are some apron-wearing chefs who are pretty hopeless when it comes to making a decent meal. Plus, while rock giants may look tough and powerful and intimidating, most of them are pretty passive, and they’re about as skilled at fighting as the average Skendrickian is at speaking coherently.
Still, they represented the most promising possibilities in the room, so after I finished my performance (to rousing cheers, numerous whistles, calls for an encore, a marriage proposal, and an exceedingly loud belch (the timing of the latter might have just been coincidence; I don’t think it was a commentary on my show, though I still took it as a compliment)), I went to the bar for the usual post-performance complimentary ale and then made my way over to the table where the elf and the rock giant sat, stopping along the way to acknowledge compliments and star-struck expressions of adulation.
A small, scraggly looking dwarf sat with the elf and the giant, but the fourth seat at their table was open. “May I?” I asked, inclining my head toward the unoccupied seat.
The elf looked surprised, maybe even a little bit flustered, but nodded and I took a seat.
“Fine performance,” said the skinny dwarf.
“Eh,” I replied. “Not my finest, but I have a pretty high floor.”
“Golden voiced and modest,” murmured the dwarf.
“Hush, Rummy,” said the elf.
“The bard wants…to sit…with us,” said the rock giant.
“She already is, big guy,” replied the dwarf.
“So,” I said, taking a sip of my ale, “I’m Heloise.”
“I am called Nadinta Ghettinwood,” said the elf, her tone and bearing formal, almost stiff. “My companions are Borgunder Gunderbor and Rumscrabble Tooltinker.” She gestured toward the rock giant and then the dwarf.
“Not yet charmed,” I replied, “though I’m sure I will be.” I gave Rumscrabble the once over. “Normally, I have a thing for dwarves, but you’ve got nothing going on back there, do you?” I pointed toward Rummy’s seated backside.
He nodded pleasantly. “I’m only half-dwarven. I’m also half-halfling.”
“Ah, that makes more sense,” I said. “I can see which parts are halfling. Most of them, anyway.”
To his credit, he didn’t blush or show even the slightest hint of embarrassment. “Those that you can’t see are decidedly halfling as well, unfortunately. And you can call me Rummy.”
“I’ll think about that,” I replied.
“The genetic heritage of my covered parts, or addressing me by a diminutive?” he asked.
“Both.”
“Fair enough.”
I gave them a very obvious once over. “You’re either adventurers or have terrible fashion sense.”
“Are those things mutually exclusive?” replied Rummy. I was starting to like that one.
“We are indeed adventurers,” cut in Nadinta. “And we really did enjoy the performance.” She frowned. “I…we…would offer to buy you a drink, but we’re a little short of funds right now.”
“How’d you get those, then?” I asked, nodding toward their drinks.
“Borg helped unload a shipment of ale earlier,” Nadinta replied. “Took him less than half the time it would have taken the owner, so he offered to stand drinks for us this evening.”
“Or, if not real drinks, the cheapest—and most watered-down—ale he has,” added Rummy cheerfully. “But, as they say—any port with a deep enough harbor not to bump into anything when you’re taking on water.”
“No one says that,” I responded.
“They should,” said Rummy. “Though I guess it could be pithier.”
“This ale…tastes like water,” added Borg.
I signaled the barmaid, pointed to my glass, and held up three fingers. I figured the least I could do was buy them a real drink if I was going to try to talk them into getting themselves killed by a red dragon. “Let’s get you something stronger, Rocky.”
“You don’t need to do that,” said Nadinta.
“But we won’t say no,” said Rummy.
“My name…is Borg,” said Borg.
The barmaid brought the drinks, and my companions looked noticeably happier. After a few moments of sipping and small talk, I leaned forward. “Let’s talk seriously for a moment.”
The three of them put their drinks down and leaned in as well. I kept my voice low, more for effect than because I cared if any of the few remaining patrons, all of whom had just heard me publicly invite adventurers to take up the quest I was now about to talk my new friends into, listened in on our conversation.
“The people of Skendrick need help,” I said. “And you, clearly, need coin.”
Nadinta nodded, but didn’t say anything.
“I know it seems daunting…”
“Taking on a dragon? Pshaw,” said Rummy. “I’ve had blisters that were more daunting. Mainly because it’s very hard to prestidigitate when you’ve got a blister.”
“Not now, Rummy,” said Nadinta. “Heloise…there’s no question we could use the money. Our adventures so far haven’t exactly been lucrative, but—”
“So far?”
“We haven’t been
together very long,” she admitted.
Advantage: Heloise.
“Getting started is tough. Killing a dragon is probably tougher. But what better way to both fill your purses and ensure that you never lack for commissions in the future? Not that you’d need to go questing anymore after you’ve got all of that dragon gold.”
“I’m pretty sure Nadi was coming to a ‘but,’ and I think, or maybe just hope, that the but was that we can think of better, or at least safer, ways to fill our purses,” said Rummy.
“This is…good ale,” said Borg.
“Why did you decide to start adventuring?” I asked Rummy.
He shrugged. “Prestidigitating is a young man’s game. And I’m getting older.”
I nodded. “So you weren’t very good at fake magic—got it.”
Rummy smiled, but not the smile of someone who is offended. He reached into a pouch at his belt and withdrew a pack of cards. He took his time removing them from the box, bringing them close to his nose and inhaling deeply before casually shuffling them with blinding speed in ways I can’t even begin to describe (and I’m a good describer). After a moment, he fanned them out on the table, looked at me, and said, in the time-honored tradition of street swindlers, “Pick a card. Any card.”
I raised an eyebrow, but did as he asked, reaching for a card toward the middle of the deck.
“Not that one,” he said.
“You said any card.”
“Any card other than that one.”
“Okay…this one.” I reached toward another card.
“Not that one, either.”
“This is the worst card trick I’ve ever seen.” I threw my hands up, exasperated.
“That’s because it’s not a card trick.”
“Huh?”
Rummy raised his right hand, which had been resting on the table, to reveal five gold coins. “I think these might be yours. I know they’re not mine. Though I’d like them to be. May I keep them?”
I’m sure my eyes went wide as I reached down into my purse and found it considerably lighter. About five gold coins lighter. Okay, exactly five gold coins lighter. “How in the name of the Seven Devils of the Serenthem did you do that?”
“I’m pretty good at fake magic.” Somehow he was neither smug nor proud. It was a simple statement of fact.
“Noted. And, agreed.” I was genuinely impressed; I hadn’t even suspected he was going for my purse. He might not have an ass, but he sure had balls. “But no, you can’t keep them.”
Rummy shrugged and slid the coins across the table. “Worth a shot.”
“The reason I asked why you decided to start adventuring,” I said, “is because, other than the risk of possible death, hunting this dragon in Skendrick is pretty much everything you could hope for—adventure, excitement, a chance to make a name, heaps of treasure, helping people…whatever your motivation—and I don’t buy for a second that you chose to become an adventurer because you’re getting old, because that’s just ridiculous and absurdly counterintuitive. This has to appeal to you on some level.”
“Except for the risk of possible death,” said Rummy.
“Right. But, isn’t that a risk regardless of what you do as an adventurer?” I looked at Nadi. “You don’t have anything else lined up, right?”
“Well,” said Nadi, “there is actually something else that we need to take care of, something that happened because we—”
“Nadi!” said Rummy, cutting her off. “I don’t think Heloise is all that interested in our heretofore mundane adventures.”
I shrugged. “Probably not. I am a storyteller however, so I’m always on the lookout for new material.”
“Dragons have…lots of treasure. But they are…big,” said Borg.
“There is something we need to do.” Nadi looked at Rummy and shook her head before he could interrupt again. “It’s our responsibility.” She blew out a deep breath. “But, maybe we’re not ready to tackle that just yet.”
“So?” I prompted.
“What do you guys think? Should we go slay a dragon?” asked Nadinta.
“I’m not particularly inclined to get eaten or burned beyond recognition, but I’m also not sure what our next step would be otherwise, because I agree that we’re not ready to…go back and deal with that, ah, thing we need to do. So…why not?” offered Rummy.
Nadi nodded. “Borg?”
We sat in silence for two minutes while Borg took a sip of his drink, looked around the room, scratched his nose, stretched, let out a soft belch, and cracked his knuckles. “Sure.”
“What about Whiska?” asked Rummy.
“Who?” I replied.
“Our erstwhile wizard,” said Nadi.
“Are we writing her off?” said Rummy.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Nadi sighed and looked at me. “Whiska is…challenging. She stormed out of here just before your performance, and I’m not sure if she’s coming back.”
“Having a wizard at your side when fighting a dragon would be helpful,” I suggested (helpfully).
“I’m not sure we can do this without her. She’s got more juice than any of us,” said Rummy. “If she’s not coming back…”
Just at that moment, the door of the tavern burst open and in walked a giant rat holding a staff with a crystal on the end. (In truth, she didn’t actually come in until about ten minutes later when we were in the middle of a conversation about the bathroom habits of rock giants, but I’ve chosen to slightly edit the timeline of the story for dramatic purposes. And, believe me, if you’d heard Borg rambling on about which foods have adverse effects on rock giants’ digestive systems, you’d thank me.)
“Elf. My seat. Move. Now,” said the rat.
“Half-elf, actually,” I replied. “Whiska, I presume?”
She gave me a once over, which was one of the more uncomfortable moments of my life. Between her beady eyes, the disdainful sniff she gave, and the stink of stale ale hanging on her like a wet fur cloak, she knew how to make a girl feel unpleasant. And that’s not even counting the fact that her staff was crackling with energy, and I had the distinct impression that she could have turned me into a cackleroach, a disgusting (and disgustingly giant) bug that, when stepped on, emits a shrill burst of laughter before exploding into a puddle of green goo. I hate cackleroaches.
“Who’s the new wench? Are you trying to replace me already? With this?” She shook her head. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t turn her into a cackleroach.”
“Cackleroaches are disgusting, she’s not a wizard, she’s not a replacement, she might have a job for us, and she bought us ale.” Rummy ticked off each point on his fingers. “That’s at least four good reasons.”
“Five,” I corrected.
“Well, I’m not sure ‘cackleroaches are disgusting’ is all that good of a reason. I mean, they’re gross, but that doesn’t really give Whiska any incentive not to turn you into one.”
“Neither does the fact that she bought all of you drinks,” replied Whiska.
“Okay, so, three good reasons,” said Rummy.
I signaled the server to bring Whiska a drink. “Four.”
Whiska nodded and sat down. She took Borg’s drink, which was still a quarter of the way full, and drained it in one swallow. She wiped a sleeve across her foamy whiskers and looked at me. “What’s this about a job?”
“Well,” I responded as the server delivered a drink to Whiska. “How do you feel about the idea of killing a dragon?”
“How much does it pay?”
“As much treasure as you can carry.”
“Nothing upfront?”
“If you knew how much treasure this dragon was sitting on, you wouldn’t be worried about upfront payment. Besides, even if you do get paid something upfront, what good does it do you if the dragon kills you anyway?”
“Hmmm…fair point, I guess. Though we could use some capital for supplies and equipment.”
“I wasn’t…finished,” said B
org. “With my…drink.”
I signaled the server for another drink for Borg. This was really starting to eat into my profits. “Well, I can think of one way you could pick up a little cash on the road to Skendrick.”
“How’s that?” asked Nadi, who stared at me a little too intently. I couldn’t figure out if she was just intense, had a vision problem, was sort of drunk and trying to pretend to be sober, or some combination of all three.
“There’s an orc encampment just off the road to Skendrick, maybe a half day’s ride out of the way. Granted, orcs aren’t exactly known for their legendary wealth—nor for being clean, literate, or pleasant, for that matter—but if you clean that place out, you should at least be able to cover expenses, and you were just saying that you could use a little more seasoning before you take on a dragon…”
I was going to need to ask the Skendrickians for a bonus; they hadn’t mentioned the encampment, but I knew it was a problem for several of the surrounding towns, and I couldn’t imagine that they’d be too upset to see a reduction in the number of bands of marauding (and very handsy) orcs roaming the countryside.
“Orcs?” Nadi set her jaw. Definitely intense. Probably drunk. Unclear about the eye problem.
“Orcs?!” Whiska’s face lit up. “They explode great. It’s the green blood—looks great on dirt. Very lush.”
“Orcs.” Rummy looked like he had just smelled something unpleasant.
“Oh, come on,” I said, “even you could manage to hit an orc with that oversized child’s toy of yours.” I motioned to his mace. “Besides, don’t dwarves hate orcs just as much as elves hate them?”
“Sure, but halflings really hate getting dirty. I think my dislike of getting dirty outweighs my hatred of orcs, who, truth be told, have never really done anything to me.”
“Orc raiders killed my father,” said Nadi quietly.
Everyone turned to stare at her. “Nadi…Nadi, I’m sorry. Oh, dear,” said Rummy.