The Part About the Dragon was (Mostly) True

by Sean Gibson

  Dragons have a hard time clapping, what with those tiny arms, but this one found a way to do it. She clapped even harder when Rummy stepped to the side and, with a flourish, revealed that all of the candlesticks he had placed on the ground had disappeared.

  “Oh, bra-vo,” said the dragon, appearing genuinely delighted. “You didn’t even use any real magic.” She shook her head in admiration.

  “How do you know that?” asked Rummy, curious.

  “All dragons can detect magic—you read as completely devoid of magic, save for your pack. Conversely, that gopher creature over there is like a tiny sun.”

  “Gopher? Gopher!” yelled Whiska. “I’ll show you a gopher, you jumped-up lizard-loving—”

  “And that one,” cut in the dragon, ignoring Whiska’s tirade. She pointed toward Borg. “Do you have something behind your back?”

  “I was just…going to mention…this,” replied Borg. He reached up underneath his loin cloth for an awkwardly long period of time, during which time he issued a series of boisterous grunts. It was uncomfortable for everyone, the dragon included. Finally, Borg held up a small horn, about the size of a cucumber. “I think this…will help.”

  Nadi stepped closer and then drew back, coughing. Whiska pushed her out of the way and moved in, but was similarly overcome by a coughing fit. “Gods, man! Did you keep that thing in your rectum?”

  “Yes,” replied Borg. We waited for further details, but none were forthcoming.

  “Not going to explain that one, big guy?” asked Rummy.

  “It is…a convenient…storage place. For…rock giants.”

  The dragon wiggled its fingers and a jet of cleansing water shot forth, splashing the horn and dampening the smell.

  “Thank you,” I said gratefully.

  “I didn’t do that for you,” replied the dragon.

  “Still thankful,” I said.

  “What is it?” asked the dragon curiously.

  “A magical…horn of…plenty,” replied Borg. “Three times per…day, it can…create vegetables.” He paused. “A lot…of vegetables.”

  “Does it do anything else?” asked Whiska.

  Borg shook his head. “Not that…I know of.”

  “That’s a pretty useless magical item,” scoffed Whiska.

  “…until now,” I amended. Whiska shrugged. I think she still thought she could destroy the dragon if it came down to it. She is an idiot.

  “I could…give it to…you,” said Borg, holding it out to the dragon.

  The dragon looked suspicious. “How does it work? Don’t try anything funny.” She got down on all of her legs and showed Borg her teeth. “I may not want to eat you, but I don’t have any qualms about biting you in half and spitting you out. Though it takes a long time to get the taste of humanoid out of your mouth.” She shuddered.

  “Like this,” said Borg. “Veggie, veggie…take a bite…make a lot…of veggies…all right?” He pointed the horn toward the ground just in front of the dragon.

  A moment later, the thing erupted. Squash, carrots, kale, spinach, beets, radishes, and potatoes came flying out, along with about a dozen other varieties of vegetables I couldn’t name. They piled up at the dragon’s feet and, after a moment had passed, we could have completely concealed even Borg beneath them.

  Melvin gasped. She cautiously sniffed the vegetables and then gasped again. “They smell…fresh! They smell…they smell…mmmmm.” She let out a low moan as she gently wrapped her lips around a head of kale and chewed it slowly and softly, moaning again as she swallowed.

  Dragons, it seems, eat vegetables in the most awkwardly sensual manner possible.

  “Those…are…amazing,” the dragon said after taking her time to work her way through at least one of each kind of vegetable. “The best I’ve ever had. Without question.”

  “I’m glad they…are delicious,” said Borg. “I don’t…like vegetables. So…I just use…it as a…rectum spacer.”

  I later learned that rock giants have issues defecating if their sphincters get too tight, so they…you know what? It’s way too gross. There’s no reason you care or need to know about that. Let’s just summarize what happened next by saying we all stood around staring awkwardly at each other (but pointedly not looking at Borg), bleached our eyeballs and our noses, and tried to move on by burying feelings that would resurface years later and require multiple sessions with skilled witch doctors to resolve.

  “What’s to stop me from killing you now that I have this?” Melvin gestured to the horn, which she held awkwardly in her hand/paw/claw, where it looked like a tiny, tiny seashell.

  “That,” I said, “is a very good question.”

  “Perhaps you’d care to answer it more quickly than other questions I’ve posed previously,” said the dragon, with the faintest tone of menace in her voice for the first time.

  Our collective gulp was, I’m sure, audible to any creatures wandering the mountain tunnels.

  “If you kill us, adventurers will keep coming.” Nadi looked the dragon in the eye, her shoulders back, head held high. She looked fearless—every inch the true hero. “If we don’t return to Skendrick, they’ll know you’re still here. They will send others, and others after those—as many as it takes to slay you. Even if you kill them all, you’ll never know peace. Your sleep will be constantly interrupted.” She cast her eyes around the room. “Your treasure will be in constant danger.”

  Melvin growled. “It won’t happen that way.”

  “Won’t it?” asked Nadi. “How can you be sure? Wouldn’t you prefer to avoid that possibility altogether?”

  “How?” asked the dragon, her tone curious.

  “We tell everyone in Skendrick that you’re dead.”

  Rummy, sensing the import of the moment, gasped to punctuate the statement, then smiled and looked around, pleased with his performance.

  Nadi rolled her eyes at him before turning back to the dragon. “Think about it—if they think you’re dead, no more adventurers. No more efforts to kill you. You can sit here with your magical horn and eat vegetables to your heart’s content. It sounds like that’s what you really want.”

  “Well, that, and treasure,” responded the dragon.

  “Right. The treasure. Well, no one will come looking for it if they think you’re dead,” said Nadi.

  “Or everyone will,” said Rummy quietly, almost sheepishly.

  The dragon’s massive head swiveled toward the smallest being in the room, who shrank down another size or two under that withering glare. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s just…well, if I thought you were dead, and I had a rough idea of where your lair was, I’d be hunting day and night for it, knowing that there was a literal dragon’s horde sitting unguarded.”

  Nadi frowned. “He’s right. If we tell them you’re dead, there won’t necessarily be adventurers knocking down your door—though there may be those, too—but the treasure seekers will be endless.” She turned to Rummy and nodded. “Sharp thinking, Rummy—thanks for calling that out.” Nadi’s equanimity in dealing with someone pointing out a flaw in her desperate plan to save us from certain death at the hands (and teeth) of a dragon impressed me. So did my ability to use the word “equanimity” as though I do it all the time.

  “So, what do we do?” I asked.

  “I could still kill you,” said Melvin with a shrug. “Status quo for me. Only with delicious vegetables I don’t have to leave my lair for.”

  “We’d prefer to maintain our own status quo,” I replied, “which includes respiration and not being masticated.”

  Whiska began waving her hands around and muttering something.

  “What are you doing—stop that!” roared the dragon. “I’ll destroy you!” She breathed in, preparing to unleash her breath weapon, when Whiska suddenly ceased her chanting and pointed her staff at the ground beneath Rummy’s feet. Rummy shot into the air as a massive pile of golden coins appeared beneath him.

  The dragon glared a
t Whiska. “What are you about? Why did you move those coins from elsewhere in the cavern? I had them all organized! I’m tempted to burn you just because you’re annoying.”

  “I didn’t move them,” snapped Whiska.

  “Explain yourself, rat creature.”

  “I created them,” said Whiska, smiling smugly (though I’m not entirely sure she had the ability to smile in any other way).

  “Wait—you’ve had the ability to magic up treasure this whole time and we’re here trying to kill a dragon why?” I asked, incredulous.

  “So you admit it—you’re still trying to kill me!” roared the dragon, her wings spreading out as she stood up to her full height, which was terrifying.

  “No! Come on—no, that’s not what I meant,” I said with calculated intermittent pauses (okay, fine—I stammered…I’d like to see how eloquent you are when you’re staring down a dragon who wants to bite your head off like a hangnail). “I mean, sure, we came in here to kill you, but we’re not trying now. We’re not idiots. Now we’re trying to figure out how we can all get what we want. I’m just trying to understand why this one’s been holding out on us.” I jerked my thumb toward Whiska and scowled.

  “Because, you pee-haired finger plucker, those coins aren’t real. It’s an illusion—albeit one with form and substance.” She looked proud. “It’ll disappear in a minute—watch.”

  Even as she finished talking, Rummy looked down in dismay before falling unceremoniously to the floor and shouting “Oof!”

  “And how does that help us, exactly?” asked Nadi.

  “I think I can tweak the spell to make it last longer,” replied Whiska.

  “I’m still not quite sure what you’re driving at,” said Nadi.

  “Idiots.” Whiska shook her head. “Do I have to explain everything?”

  “In this case? Yes, you do,” I said.

  “Genius is such a burden,” she sighed. “Fine. Here’s what we do…”

  Whiska proceeded to lay out a surprisingly ingenious plan—one that even the dragon thought had promise.

  We left the dragon’s lair a short time later, our packs filled with treasure (which represented an infinitesimal fraction of the dragon’s total wealth, but a sizable fortune for us). Next stop: Skendrick, and an attempt to pull off one of the greatest scams of all time.

  Chapter 26

  THE CONQUERING HEROES RETURN TO SKENDRICK, VICTORIOUS!

  And so it was that Nadinta Ghettinwood and her brave band of adventurers returned to Skendrick to tell the terrified populace that they could, at long last, rest easy in their beds, safe and secure in the knowledge that the great and terrifying wyrm Dragonia, the beast that had plagued their nightmares and filled their waking hours with the crippling fear of fiery death, had been slain, and that its festering corpse would serve as a warning to any other foul creatures that might set their sights on terrorizing the good people of Skendrick. Dare to follow in the footsteps of the fearsome dragon, that inert body would warn, and you, too, shall meet the same end, killed by Skendrick’s brave defenders, one of the mightiest adventuring bands ever to roam the northern reaches of Erithea.

  So beleaguered were the people of the town, and so used to trembling in fear at the mere mention of the dragon’s name, that at first they could hardly believe their good fortune. They gathered in the town square to hear the tale of the returning heroes and sat in open-mouthed amazement, afraid to believe too much in Nadinta’s solemn declaration of the dragon’s death lest it prove to be nothing more than a fleeting dream, an ephemeral hope of a better life that would be dashed upon waking by the mighty roar of the terrible beast once again wheeling about in the skies overhead, intent on dealing flaming death to any who would dare so much as draw breath in the dragon’s presence.

  It took the bold action of Farmer Benton, the emotional core of the town’s strength, to free them from their paralysis. Casting his straw boater into the air, the town’s most solid and articulate citizen let out a whoop of pure, unbridled joy, and thrust his fist skyward in a gesture of defiance. Taking their cue from a man so beloved, the other citizens of the town followed suit, and before long, the air was filled with hats, scarves, and even a few wigs—including one from comely Goodlady Maxson, whom none of the townsfolk suspected of having lost her hair, and toward whom was directed much good-natured ribbing as she blushed and grabbed for her hair, so caught up in the excitement that she hadn’t realized she had cast it skyward when she tossed her kerchief.

  For three days and three nights, the people of Skendrick feted their heroes. They sang, danced, and ate, and, of course, they drank—how they drank! The town council gave rousing speeches, paeans to the group’s bravery and battle prowess, and not once in those three days did Nadinta, Rumscrabble, Whiska, or Borgunder sleep, not even a moment, for they felt an equal debt of gratitude to the townsfolk who had believed in them and whom they rejoiced to see set free from the burden of their fear and worry.

  At last the festivities drew to a close, and the exhausted townsfolk slept for another two days. On the third day, the town council made the heroes honorary citizens of Skendrick with rights of citizenship in perpetuity before bidding them farewell, asking them to return often. Many an innkeeper and tavern owner made it a point to tell them that they need never pay for food, drink, or bed so long as they might live, even though they knew of the vast wealth the heroes had accumulated when they so boldly slayed the dragon.

  Nadinta and her fellow warriors thanked the people of Skendrick graciously and profusely, and more than one person—led by Farmer Benton, whose shoulders shook as he sobbed—shed tears as Nadinta told the assembled populace that Skendrick would forever be in their hearts and on their minds, and that if they never accomplished another deed worth recording, they would consider their lives well lived in the service of the noble folk who stood before them, honest, hard-working folk who deserved to prosper and live in peace and harmony for all of their natural days.

  So it is that our tale comes to an end, though Nadinta and her band did not rest on their laurels after that grand adventure, and they performed many more legendary deeds in the years that followed. None of those mighty feats, however, gave them the same sense of satisfaction as saving Skendrick, and never did their hearts fill more with gladness and pride than they did when they visited Skendrick forever after, which they did each year on the date that they slew the dragon to mark the anniversary of their victory in a celebration still recognized today as the most important day in the great history of Skendrick.

  Chapter 27

  IT’S ACTUALLY NOT THAT HARD TO CHEAT A (DUMB) CHEATER

  Our trip back to Skendrick was decidedly less exciting (and less onerous, infuriating, and dangerous) than our trip to the dragon’s lair, primarily because we now knew how to circumvent the swamp and, in some small way, we weren’t as stupid as we used to be.

  Still, there remained the small matter of our attire, which needed an upgrade before we rode through the gates of Skendrick as conquering heroes. Thankfully, fate intervened in the humpbacked form of a wandering merchant, whose cart overflowed with bolts of cloth from a recent stop in Candaria, the region’s foremost producer of cotton and silk. He cackled and slapped his knee as we approached him on the road, our first clue that he wasn’t entirely sane.

  “Well, looka what we ha’ here—a bunch o’ nippies!” he crowed as we strode up to his cart.

  “‘Nippies’?” said Nadi.

  I shook my head. “It’s a group of burnt-out, disaffected young people, mostly from the Plafian coast, who spend their days doing mind-altering drugs and engaging in three-ways with various magical creatures. Oh, and their fashion sense is abysmal.”

  “And we look like them?” asked Nadi, crinkling up her nose as she looked down at her Whiska-made garment.

  “Not really. We’re way more clothed than they usually are. I can’t even see your nipples. Why do you think they’re called ‘nippies’?”

  Nadi blushed.


  “Bet you could use summat new ta wear, couldn’t ya?” said the trader, chuckling for a moment before abruptly stopping, holding his hand up as though threatening to strike someone sitting next to him (though he sat atop his wagon alone), and shouting, “Away wi’ ya, or ya’ll feel the back o’ me hand! Bah!” He shook his head. “Ghosties,” he muttered by way of explanation, with a “What can you do?” shrug.

  “Big problem around these parts, I’ve heard,” I replied, trying to sound nonchalant. The man nodded conspiratorially. “But, yes—we could use something new to wear. What have you got?”

  He squinted down at me before inspecting each of us closely in turn. “Ya got gold, then, do ya?”

  “More than we know what to do with,” said Rummy, who then grunted when Whiska elbowed him hard in the stomach. “I mean,” he continued weakly, “we have a very miniscule amount of gold that will be just enough for us to purchase some clothing and not a penny more.”

  “Good enough,” replied the trader. “But, I ha’en’t got any clothing; just fabrics.”

  “None at all?” Some might describe my tone as whiny, but I would characterize it as “persuasively beseeching.”

  “Not a single stitch.”

  “Do you have…thread?” asked Borg.

  “Aye.” The man nodded.

  We stood for a moment, waiting for Borg, who looked like he had a follow-up question, to continue. At last, he did. “And needles?”

  “Could probably scrounge up a few, sure,” replied the trader.

  “We will…take them.”

  “Borg, what do you have in mind?” asked Nadi curiously.

  We waited for another two minutes before Borg said, “I have an…idea.”

  Trusting Borg, we spent the next several minutes identifying various colors and types of fabric we wanted. I did the honors when it came to haggling with the trader, who was a surprisingly shrewd negotiator for a man who paused from time to time to argue with, and occasionally laugh at, a “ghost” (or perhaps that’s what made him a shrewd negotiator…he certainly kept me off balance). The old man gave Borg everything he asked for and left us shortly thereafter (though not before selling us some much-needed food as well).