The Part About the Dragon was (Mostly) True

by Sean Gibson

  “Community,” interrupted Gnurk.

  “Right, your community…we thought that a strike on your community would boost the reputation of this, ah, neophyte adventuring group before we make the case to the town of Skendrick that these are the heroes they need to rid them of the dragon that keeps attacking them.”

  Gnurk snorted. “Your group of adventurers couldn’t fight their way out of a bluhrtach.”

  “What’s a bluhrtach?”

  “A wrap we put around babies to help them sleep.”

  “Well, I assume orc babies are stronger than most babies, so maybe that’s not such a condemnation.”

  “I could crush an orc baby’s skull in my hand.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Have you?”

  Gnurk ignored my question. “I have heard about this dragon.”

  “Anything useful that would help us?”

  “Why would I share such knowledge with you, even if I were to possess it? Recall that you are henceforth banned from my lands. ”

  I gave him my most winsome smile. “Because I’m Heloise, the famous bard.”

  He grunted. “You are at that.” He scratched his chin. “I find it curious that the dragon hasn’t turned its attention to our community. We are not so far as the crow flies.”

  “Just a matter of time, I’d imagine.”

  Gnurk shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I think this dragon’s objective is…unusual.”

  “How so?”

  Gnurk shrugged. “Call it High Chieftain’s intuition.”

  “Is that a thing?”

  “It is if the High Chieftain says it is.”

  “Fair enough.” I took a bite of food. “So, let me ask you this…why do you think we’re so, well, wrong about orcs?”

  “Elves hate us, and perhaps not unfairly. We have long been at war.”

  “It can’t be that simple.”

  Gnurk nodded. “It’s not. Our people are, almost to a one, illiterate. Even I, for all my wisdom, can form only the most rudimentary written characters. We can create no written record, nor do we excel at telling stories. But, do you know who does?” He gave me a pointed look.

  “Elves. Well, and half-elves. Present company particularly included. Meaning me.”

  “Correct. Bards, storytellers, poets…elves craft the stories and the histories of our world. Orcs are not the actors; we are acted upon. I cannot speak for all orcs any more than you can speak for all elves, or half-elves, but the Orcs of the Gloom Forest would as soon live in peace as any other state—though we do enjoy a good ripping.” Gnurk looked wistfully at the unused Ripper. “But, we have no one to tell our story…or to contradict the unfair stories told about us.”

  I wanted to say something clever, even flippant, but Gnurk was making too many rational points I couldn’t refute…or ignore. Deflecting guilt with insults is a time-honored Heloisian tradition, but it felt suddenly trite, which was really annoying. I hate conversations that make me want to be a better person.

  What may or may not have transpired between me and Gnurk later that evening, after numerous glasses of what tasted like wound glue (the very sticky and hard-to-remove stuff some primitive healers use to attempt to staunch the flow of blood on the battlefield), but turned out, by orcish standards, to be considered fine whisky is not a tale that will be told in these pages. Suffice it to say, however, that when we left the Gloom Forest the following morning, intact save for pounding headaches, I had a lot to think about.

  Not the least of which was how I was going to sell this ragtag bunch to the people of Skendrick as dragon-killing saviors.

  Chapter 15

  THE HEROES ASCENDANT BRING HOPE TO A BELEAGUERED POPULACE

  After besting the foul Orcs of the Gloom Forest and ensuring that they would no longer plague the goodly folk in the surrounding towns, our heroes walked the winding road to Skendrick, intent on embarking on their quest.

  Roadworn and dusty but covered in glory after their encounter with the orcs, the heroes strode boldly to the gates of Skendrick and knocked with the authority of those imbued by the gods with the gift of righteous purpose. And so did the gates of the beleaguered town open to receive them and welcome them in, naming them friends and saviors both, their reputation burnished by the presence of the great bard Heloise, whose virtue and integrity were legend, and who vouched for the skill, ability, and character of the heroes.

  The town Alderman looked them over and nodded and smiled, for they were an impressive company indeed. Led by the fierce elven warrior Nadinta Ghettinwood, the group, which also included the powerful Ratarian wizard Whiska Tailiesen, the rock giant gladiator Borgunder Gunderbor, and the accomplished rogue Rumscrabble Tooltinker, was a shining beacon of hope for the beleaguered—but still strong—people of Skendrick.

  The town council convened immediately, and their deliberations took only moments. They declared Nadinta and her band of adventurers the official dragon slayers of Skendrick, promising to back their claim to all treasures found in the lair of the dragon, and supplying them with all manner of victuals and equipment as might be needed to aid in the successful completion of their quest.

  Three days of feasting ensued, with the good people of Skendrick feting their heroes and sparing no expense to make them feel rested and ready for their mission.

  Nadinta and her band showed their gratitude for the citizens of Skendrick by gathering them all in the town square and, as they prepared to set off on their quest, kneeling before the assembled town council and swearing many solemn oaths, not only to defeat the dragon, but to remain evermore defenders and protectors of Skendrick, so great was their loyalty to these honest and hardworking folk who had welcomed them in and whose eyes shone with the reflected glory of deeds soon to be done.

  With the hopes of an entire town resting on their broad shoulders, the heroes said goodbye to the good people of Skendrick and, with the great bard Heloise accompanying them to tell their tale, set off to seek the lair of the dragon, knowing that they would first need to pass through the fetid Dukbuter Swamp, home to shambling bog men and dangerously enchanting will o’ the wisps…

  Chapter 16

  WELL, MAYBE THE SKENDRICKIANS COULD HAVE SHOWN A LITTLE MORE ENTHUSIASM

  It was a pensive adventuring crew that made an uneventful journey to Skendrick.

  The only one who seemed unaffected was Whiska, who not only managed to insult a tree root that she tripped over on one particularly rutty path, but to do so using a string of epithets that made even me blush, and I didn’t even blink when I accidentally walked in on the legendary Mithral Mine Dwargy of 1027 (Fentenian Reckoning, of course).

  Elven pensive moods can literally last for months, during which the pensive elf might not say a single word the entire time, so I pulled Nadi aside late in the afternoon on our third day of walking to try to snap her out of it. “I’d offer a copper for your thoughts,” I said as we walked ahead of the group, “but I’m kind of cheap, and I hate to overpay for things.”

  Nadi frowned. “Is there a point to your being mean, or do you just want to torture me?”

  I shrugged. “You just seemed a little distant.” I looked behind us. “Though I guess we’re all processing what happened back there in our own way.” I gestured toward Whiska, who was cackling about having used an enormous fireball to incinerate a fly. “Some more combustibly than others. Is ‘combustibly’ a word?”

  Nadi looked at Whiska and shook her head before fixing her eyes on mine. “I suppose.”

  “So,” I said, figuring I’d get right to the heart of the matter, “that whole thing with the orcs didn’t really go according to plan, huh?”

  “You think?” replied Nadi with a sarcastic edge I’d never heard from her.

  I pretended not to notice. “That High Chieftain Gnurk was really something.” I knew she would take my comment at face value. Nadi was astute when it came to strategy and tactics, but social
nuances were lost on her, so I didn’t think she had any idea about what may or may not have taken place after Gnurk and I had disappeared from the festivities within a few minutes of each other.

  “I’m not sure I want to talk about this.” Her look softened. “At least, not yet.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  We walked in silence for a few moments before Nadi spoke again. “It’s just…hard when something you’ve assumed to be true your entire life, something that’s informed who you are, turns out to be…well, maybe turns out not be what you thought.”

  “I felt the same way the first time I saw a dwarf naked. In that case, though, the surprise was a pleasant one.”

  Nadi gave me a strange look before bursting into laughter. “I’m glad you’re here, Heloise.”

  “So am I,” I replied, “though I’m less excited about being there.” I nodded up the road, where the outskirts of Skendrick had come into view.

  “Why’s that?” asked Nadi. “You’re the one who convinced us to go to help them.”

  On the one hand, I wanted to tell Nadi that the Skendrickians were an intellectually stunted group of subhumans whose collective intellect could fit into the hollowed-out body of a gnerfly with room to spare. (Gnerflies, for those unfamiliar, are pint-sized versions of gnats.) On the other hand, I did talk them into this ridiculous quest, and I didn’t want to undermine their confidence in their chosen path (or their beautiful bardish guide), so I just shrugged. “Let’s just say I prefer more cosmopolitan areas.”

  Nadi shook her head. “Give me the forest canopy over a town anyday.”

  “Village,” I said reflexively.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  We continued in silence until we reached the gates of Skendrick, such as they were. The bored guard blanched when he saw Borg and brandished his polearm in a way that suggested he was unused to handling anything larger than a baby carrot. I quickly explained the situation, and the guard heaved a sigh of relief, waving us on but backing up a few steps as Borg walked by. He underestimated Borg’s reach, however, and the too-friendly rock giant reached out to pat the man on the shoulder, missed, hit him in the head, and knocked him unconscious. It took several minutes to revive him, and by the time we managed to get him upright and convince him that we were not, in fact, a conquering force sent to destroy the village masquerading as its would-be saviors, the sun had begun to set. Just once, I wish a military commander would recognize the value of putting someone with the faintest semblance of intellect on guard duty; so many unnecessary conflicts could be avoided. Then again, given the general dearth of intellect in Skendrick, I supposed it was possible that our brain-addled friend was the town’s best and brightest.

  I led our merry band to the only decent inn in Skendrick and proceeded to barter my services for room and board. Even on short notice, the crowd turned out in force, though the inn’s promise of half-priced ale (watered down sufficiently to offset the potential lost profits) might have had something to do with it. Skendrickians, never the most enthusiastic supporters of the arts, tend to be even less enthusiastic than normal when they’re stressed about potentially being immolated by dragon fire.

  Pussies.

  (It’s come to my attention that in addition to suggesting cowardice, “pussies” is a word used in certain cultures to refer, in quite vulgar fashion, to certain parts of the female anatomy. I’m using it here in the Cervarian sense, which, as everyone knows, is in reference to the seeds of the pusing plant—or pussies—which have the odd ability to float away when confronted with the threat of wildfires. Which means, of course, that I’m not really calling the Skendrickians cowards, but, rather, suggesting that they are behaving sensibly in response to the threat of some domineering asshole trying to do them harm. Like a pussy.)

  Toward the end of my performance, I started building the case for my companions, selling my fawning admirers on the notion that these people really could defeat a dragon. After finishing a well-received Heloise original called “In Skendrick the Beer Tastes Like the Seven Heavens,” I called Nadi up to stand next to me.

  (Confession: when performing that particular song, I just plug in the name of whatever town I happen to be performing in. When I’m in Tollton, then, it’s “In Tollton the Beer Tastes Like the Seven Heavens.” It only becomes problematic when the city/town/village names get long. I don’t tend to perform the song in Norblunderingtonvillburg, for example. Then again, I don’t tend to perform in Norblunderingtonvillburg at all—they take a pretty racist view toward elves. And anyone who’s not a gnome, really.)

  “This brave warrior,” I said to the adoring crowd, “is Nadinta Ghettinwood.”

  “Me neither!” slurred a drunk man at the back of the room.

  “You’re an idiot,” I replied. “Nadi is the leader of a band of adventurers who have traveled to Skendrick, braving considerable challenges along the way, including a fierce struggle with the Orcs of the Gloom Forest, to answer the call for aid in slaying the mighty red dragon that threatens your town’s very survival.”

  “Village!” shouted an angry woman in the front row.

  “Whatever. Gods. The point is, Nadi and her companions are the heroes you have so desperately sought.”

  Nadi just stared at the crowd. “Say something,” I whispered.

  “I…I…right. Yes. We’re here to, um, help. With the dragon. The one that’s…that’s burning things. Here. In your town.”

  I wouldn’t have figured Nadi for the stage-fright type. But there’s a reason that not everyone’s a bard, beyond not wanting to compete with the likes of yours truly.

  “What she means to say,” I interjected, “is that her group’s experience in fighting—and defeating—creatures of all types will stand them in good stead in their quest to kill the beast. For make no mistake, friends—it is no small thing to slay a dragon, and though this group be mighty, their success is far from guaranteed. The way will be full of peril, a harrowing journey to find a creature so foul and so mighty that only a handful of people in all the world would dare brave its wrath—and even fewer still who could survive the encounter.”

  Nadi gave me a look. “Don’t worry,” I whispered, more quietly this time so that only she could hear, “it’s all part of the show. If they thought it was easy, you wouldn’t get any credit.”

  “They’ll be killed!” yelled an overserved man in the middle of the room, his bushy mustaches quivering. “They haven’t a chance!”

  “We appreciate your confidence,” said Rummy, rising to his feet, a less-than-intimidating physical feat that engendered a hearty round of snickering from the crowd. He walked over to stand next to Nadi. “Fine,” said Rummy. “How about if that guy stands up?”

  Rummy gestured toward where he had been sitting. A moment passed in silence as the crowd looked around, confused. “Me?” said the mustachioed man, rising to his feet.

  “No, not you—him!” Rummy pointed again.

  Another moment passed. Old walrus mustaches spoke again. “Is one of your party members invisible?”

  Finally, Borg stood, and the crowd gasped. He rolled his shoulders back, his massive biceps rippling and his hard skin glinting in the firelight. He stared down at the man with the mustache, who quailed. “I think…this is actually…a village. Right?” said Borg.

  As if having a rock giant towering over him wasn’t enough, Whiska jumped to her feet as well and pointed her staff at the quivering Skendrickian and said, “How about we show you what we’ll do to the dragon?” Her staff flared. “Or maybe I’ll just turn that lip rug into a kavarat!”

  (A kavarat, incidentally, is a little bit like a wolverine…if a wolverine were three times larger, five times stronger, and ten times nastier.)

  The man, already pale, turned whiter than a Fluvian death mask and stumbled backward, tripping over his seat and landing hard on his backside.

  “Whiska!” yelled Nadi, back in control. “Back off! Rummy, help him up.”


  Rummy was already moving toward the man and extended his hand. The man gripped it nervously, but allowed Rummy to pull him to his feet. “No hard feelings?” said Rummy. “I’d say yes, because I’m pretty sure the rat lady was serious about that kavarat thing.”

  The man nodded vigorously, the tips of his ridiculous facial adornment bobbing up and down, his flop sweat having caused the ends, carefully waxed just moments before, to fray. “No, no, no hard feelings at all. You all look very capable, very capable indeed! I’m sure you won’t die.” He bowed to Whiska, an awkward gesture that almost sent him tumbling to the floor again. “We’re lucky to have you!”

  I sighed. “I’m glad that’s settled.” I salvaged the evening with a rousing rendition of “Drink Up Today, For Tomorrow We Die” and sent the crowd home happy, though I noticed more than a few questioning looks directed toward my companions.

  It looked like I still had some selling to do.

  The next day, I left Nadi and the others (still sleeping) at the inn and headed to a meeting of the town council.

  After my performance the previous night, Alderman Wooddunny had sent an urgent summons asking me to appear bright and early the following morning to answer a few questions the council had regarding their would-be saviors. I was actually relieved that my companions hadn’t been included in that summons; it would be much easier to plead their case without them present to undermine everything I said.

  It looked like the council had turned out in full force. I couldn’t decide if that boded well or not. It’s entirely possible they just didn’t have anything better to do.

  Did I say “possible”? Because I meant “certain”.

  The council had some business to address before it turned to the matter of the dragon, so I sat quietly while they heatedly debated a number of essential issues, including whether to allow a rogue group of chickens to continue to nest in the village square (no, but the vote was close, and permission was given to one resident to eat any uncooperative chickens—raw, at his request); which color should be considered “official” for the painting of the weathervane that sat atop the town council building (options included mauve, lilac, lavender, violet, and light purple—consensus was not reached due to a vehement disagreement over whether one displayed shade was, in fact, either lilac or light purple); and whether to approve a tax to raise funds to make improvements to the local school, which seemed like a sensible issue to discuss until it became apparent that the school was, in fact, for chickens, and its falling into disrepair may have been the cause of the first issue discussed.