by Chris Pisano
“It’s always about you! I’m sick of hearing about you, Dragon!”
Pik, who had slunk behind a boulder, kept a deft eye on the situation. Seeing Bale so close to the argument that threatened to foment into full-blown violence forced him into action. He dashed to the ogre’s side and tried to forcibly pull him away, though he only added a few wrinkles to the ogre’s stale outerwear.
“Smack him, Dragon!” shouted Bale.
“C’mon, Bale,” pleaded Pik. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Shut up, ogre,” yelled the dragon.
“Do you ever stop talking, Dragon?” asked the rabbit.
The dragon’s fury boiled over and erupted in the form of a fiery snort from his nostrils. The small stream of flame licked the large patches of saliva that had pooled by his feet during the arguments. The eruption released great
gouts of flame that completely covered the area, blasting Bale and Pik off their feet and hurling them no small distance away. Flames licked at the trees that stood near, dancing up their boughs and consuming their leaves. The scorched earth emitted a horrible smell, and smoke covered the surrounding area so thick that even the dragon couldn’t lift his head high enough to see over its obfuscating effect.
Pik and Bale lay stunned for a brief time until Phyl loped over to them and dripped some briny water from his water-skin onto Pik’s forehead. In a flash, Pik found his feet and chased the satyr back into the woods. Not wanting to miss this, Bale stood, then chased after them to the sound of Phyl’s trailing explanation. “I thought you were unconscious.”
“With my eyes open?” screamed Pik.
“This is gonna be good,” the ogre laughed as he disappeared into the woods after his companions. “I wanna play, too!”
Before the smoke had cleared, the sound of coughing came from within the area of burning flora. The dragon, still not quite able to see, chuckled when he realized how mad Lapin would be.
“Was that absolutely necessary?” asked the rabbit.
“Apparently, I needed to remind you of your place. And I didn’t realize how much saliva escaped my mouth. Besides, I imagine you don’t need to clean your fur anymore. It’s a good thing that part of the magic that turned you into the rabbit also makes you impervious to my fire.”
“Don’t kid yourself. It still hurts, Dragon! And fur doesn’t grow on trees you know!” Lapin huffed and sat on his haunches. He crossed his front paws over his chest and surveyed the damage. “It’s nice to know you still got it. What were we fighting about anyway?”
“Who knows? Now where’s that miserable ogre and his friends?”
“Hey! He got all of your riddles right. What are we going to do about that?”
“I was thinking about that, Rabbit …”
“My name is Lapin!”
“Don’t start. If I tell them they can choose any one item from my lair, they are far more likely to take some shiny piece of gold or silver over a dull stone. I mean, they can’t be complete morons, right?”
The dragon pondered his own question as he surveyed the scorched landscape. Nearby brush had been reduced to piles of ash, while the closest perimeter of trees looked like discarded lamp wicks. The black residue of burnt oil coated the ground, footprints of fleeing treasure hunters led to the forest.
“They did imply they were looking for the stone,” Lapin reminded him.
The dragon turned and snorted a huff of discontent, a cloud of smoke billowed from his nostrils. He retreated to the comforts of his cave and followed the one path, of the dozens available, to his most prized treasure, to prove the rabbit wrong. That insufferable rabbit he should have devoured years ago must be put in his place! Alas, the rabbit was right.
Clawing through piles of gold coins and silver trinkets, the dragon searched his hoard. For the first time in centuries, the dragon felt the hollow-gut feeling of dread, of panic. His heart thumped in his scaled chest as he smashed open chests and shoved aside boulders. He couldn’t find his most prized treasure. He could only choke out a whisper, “It can’t be.”
“It’s not here, is it?” Lapin asked, still perched on his companion’s shoulder.
“No. No, it’s not,” the dragon replied. Admitting to himself he was finally bested, his heart filled with reverence. “Amazing. He tricked us into arguing, giving ample time to find it, and then ensnared me with inescapable conversation, making time for my saliva to pool under me. Once ignited, the ensuing conflagration allowed him to escape. Simply brilliant!”
“Quite possibly the most ingenious scheme ever devised,” Lapin added.
“Well, Rabbit, take a few minutes to collect a supply of alfalfa and sprouts. We’re going after them,” the dragon said, walking toward the cave’s exit. He himself wanted to see if he could find a tasty stag to fill his belly before they began their hunt for the Spirit Stone.
Fourteen
Life represents nothing so much as a collection of journeys. If only every journey could be neatly summarized and defined by a single purpose. If the point were simply to get somewhere or to perform a particular task or to learn some skill or to express one’s deepest desires, no matter how secret, to the object of one’s interest …
“If only life were that easy,” Dearborn whispered, completing her thought, then looked around self-consciously to make sure no one overheard. As she focused back in on her surroundings, Haddaman dozed in the saddle behind her. She believed that they deserved a little respite. The group had pushed hard, straight into The Scorched Sea. Haddaman knew the location of an oasis within the desert, and, counting on this, Oremetheus thought it was wiser to push through with as much haste as possible.
She stared again at the wall of stone that stood in front of her—The Dragon’s Maw. Finding the crevice that the map had singled out had proved itself a tedious task. She had lost track of the number of times she had been called upon to scout, scaling some part of the cliff face in her search. But perseverance had won the day. Now she was reminded of her insignificance in the face of such an imposing natural creation, which was the source of her earlier flight of fancy. There was little in life quite as impressive as the works of nature, yet nothing was as full of humility either. No single creation was impressed with its own impressiveness, save one: man. Man simply refused to be impassive …
Haddaman snorted in his sleep, yet again, interrupting her thoughts and yet again proving her theory. Even in sleep, Haddaman was anything but impassive. There was much to be done, and Dearborn urged her mount on. Overeager to wake Haddaman, she allowed a slight hint of a smile to ply her lips.
She guided her mount quietly to a tree with a low-hanging limb, then dismounted carefully so as not to disturb Haddaman. Looping the reins over a branch, which she judged to be right around head level for the unconscious rider, she tied them off. As she walked to the back of her mount, she planted a light smack on its rump, sending the mare several slow steps toward the tree and its impending limb. There was no need for her to turn around. The meaty sound of contact between flesh and wood reverberated deliciously in her ears as she walked away, quick to assist Mahlakore in the pitching of tents, lest her impishness be uncovered as something far less than good-natured.
“My head,” Haddaman moaned. “Why didn’t you wake me when you tied up the horse?”
“I did not wish to disturb you. Though you may be well unaware of it, you resisted sleep until it frankly overwhelmed you and even then you struggled with it. I was sure you were in dire need of its embrace.”
“I sleep lightly on the worst of days. You know this. It is my preparedness for the unexpected shining through …”
“Excuse me, Sergeant. There are other tasks to see to,” Mahlakore said, his words hidden by the same upraised arm with which he concealed his smirk. His eyes, however, flashed with a mirth that Dearborn envied. With position and responsibility, sadly, came the need to water down convictions long enough to reach equitable resolutions. She sighed as she realized she simply couldn’t wave H
addaman away.
“Move your hand, Haddaman.”
He took his hand away from the spot of the offending pain to reveal a forehead-long expanse of purple that beat angrily with his pulse. She smiled inwardly, but almost felt a touch of remorse. Almost.
“Haddaman, I am so sorry. My thoughtfulness turned out to be carelessness. Can you forgive me?” she asked, trying not to trip over her own sarcasm. “There is a small jar in my saddlebag. The ointment should take away the sting, though I must warn you, the smell is slightly offensive.”
Haddaman spoke between gritted teeth. “Thanks for your concern. There is no need, though. I am quite able to withstand a little pain. I leave you now to your appointed, menial task. I’m sure my proclivity for clear thought will be appreciated at the planning table. Good day.”
He stumbled off, barely able to stay upright, much less walk a straight line. Dearborn smiled after him, all guilt evaporating in the heat of enjoyment. She knew her words rang falsely in his ear, but she also knew he was too proud to breathe a word as to the true nature of his injuries. Still, she wished he had used the ichthymous salve in her saddlebag. The thought of him with the salve of tarry black fish excrement spread all across his forehead would have been more laughable in person than in her mind’s eye.
She strangled her smile and turned her attention back to the tent she was tying down. Still smarting from her last conversation with Iderion, she knew she couldn’t let Haddaman have his ear for too long. Iderion knows not to trust him, she thought to herself as she worked to tie off the last tent. Then again, there are some things best not left trusted to fate, and Haddaman is at the top of that list, she concluded in silence.
After finishing off the last of her tasks, she moved with purpose to Prince Oremethus’s tent. Even at thirty paces away, Haddaman’s pompous voice came to her, and, from his tone of superiority, it was clear that Oremethus had asked the man’s opinion on something. She quickened her pace.
“Yes, I agree,” she heard Oremethus say once she arrived at the tent.
She had no wish to barge in unannounced and uninvited, especially if she did not know the argument she would be countering, but she was more than certain that if Haddaman had laid out the crux of the argument, regardless of the content, she would be opposed to it. She could barely contain herself knowing that the crown prince was agreeing so heartily with whatever was being set before him. Still she fought with herself to stay outside and listen. Forewarned is forearmed, a belief she never questioned.
“Well, since His Highness …,” Haddaman continued.
“Oremethus,” the prince corrected.
Great! she thought, my prince is on a first-name basis with the king of deception.
“Forgive me. Since Oremethus is loath to ask another to place himself in peril and not be present himself, someone in charge will need to stay behind. Therefore, I will go in Iderion’s place. My expertise in antiquities and riddles should make up for what the group loses without Iderion’s puissance at arms. I think we will just need one more person to complement the group.”
Unable to contain herself any longer, Dearborn strode through the tent flap. The prince’s tent was larger than the rest. It was distinguishable not for any opulence, since it was unadorned and made of the same canvasses as the rest, but because of its shape. While the rest of the Elite Troop sported triangular tents that were meant only to serve its owner’s most basic needs, Oremethus used a square-shaped tent that was roomy enough to accommodate small groups for strategic sessions, such as this.
With a sense of determination that had eluded her more often than not in the past, she strode into the meeting. Like something out of Dearborn’s most hellish nightmare, Oremethus and Iderion sat facing Haddaman, hanging on his every word as if it were rapture. Haddaman, who had been about to say something else to his two companions, stopped himself short upon her entrance. He regarded Dearborn shrewdly for a moment, then broke out one of his most impish grins. The prince and the general regained their wits and seemed only to take notice of her presence after many awkward seconds of silence had passed.
“Dearborn,” Haddaman purred, “how good of you to join us. I was just about to suggest that you accompany the pr … Oremethus and I on this excursion to find the stone. Does that meet with your approval?”
“I … yes. I would be honored to shield the prince with my life. I do, however, suggest that one other accompany us as well.”
“Surely there is no need to clutter up the mission with excessive bodies. Speed and stealth are the trademarks of any successful plan and I …”
“With all due respect,” she interrupted, “there is always the possibility that someone will be injured or something else untoward befall one of us.” She paused to stare at the huge bruise on Haddaman’s forehead and rubbed her own forehead for effect. Haddaman blushed. Dearborn continued, “I think it wise that there be an extra person along to alert the rest of the troop in case of emergency.”
“Surely you aren’t suggesting that we can’t handle …”
“On the contrary, Haddaman, I am suggesting that we err on the side of caution. After all, my lord here is the crown prince of Albathia. Better safe than sorry.”
“Oremethus,” Haddaman began, his hands spread wide as if to show that he were harmless, “certainly you won’t listen …”
“Enough!” Iderion’s voice rang out in a stentorian staccato. “Mahlakore will accompany you. My sergeant knows her business, and I trust her judgment. Whether I go or not, my reputation is as much at stake as anyone else. I don’t plan on losing a king’s son.”
“Very well, it’s settled then,” chimed in Oremethus. “We leave at dawn. Prepare yourselves as best you are able. Haste will be our staunchest ally in this, and I’ll not see any time lost on laggards. Sergeant, will you kindly inform young Mahlakore on your way out?”
“Of course, Highness. I’ll see to it immediately,” Dearborn said with a salute. When she received her permission to leave from Iderion, she spun on her heel and took advantage of her long strides to cover the distance across camp. Why do they not see through that thin façade of his, she wondered.
She played that thought forwards and backwards in her mind as she sought out Mahlakore. He had completed a wide assortment of tasks in the time since he had taken leave of her, and she found herself yet again impressed with the initiative that such a young recruit displayed. Doubtless he felt that his youthfulness was viewed as a stigma by some of the more seasoned members of the group, but efforts were always impressive.
He was brushing down another soldier’s horse when she finally found him. He seemed lost in thought as she approached him from behind. Dearborn couldn’t help but notice that his own horse had already been groomed and was feeding. Again, she found herself impressed. As she took in the scope of the tasks that he had completed, he noticed her shadow and spoke to her without turning around. “I trust you found the merchant and spared us all from another of his ill-advised plans?”
“Oh, I found him alright, but I’m not so convinced that I spared us of anything. Mahlakore, you and I are to accompany the crown prince and Haddaman on the search for the stone tomorrow morn. Haddaman talked Oremethus and Iderion into splitting up. If something bad should happen, then the troop would not be left leaderless, though I suspect he has some other reasons for wanting to be near the prince. He wanted me to be the only other person involved in the quest, but I convinced the prince and the general that we should have another able-bodied person along in case something unexpected should arise. I hope you don’t mind. You were the first one who came to the general’s mind.”
“I’m honored, Sergeant,” he said as he stopped grooming the roan in mid-stroke. “I hope I don’t let you down.”
“Mahlakore, I’ve known you for only a short while, but I have a great deal of faith in you. And I need someone I can trust implicitly on this. I don’t know what Haddaman has in mind, but I’m sure it can’t be for the good of all. Plus,
you’re as strong as any two of the others. We truly might need your vitality if … well … if things take a turn for the worst.”
“I … thank you again, Sergeant. Your vote of confidence means a great deal to me. I’ll not disappoint you in any way. And you can count on me to keep an eye on our ‘friend’ as well. At the very least, he’s up to something self-serving. I have no doubt of that.”
Chuckling, Dearborn turned to leave. “I agree. The day sun sets soon. I suggest you turn in early, for when the morning sun rises again, it will begin a long day.”
Dearborn’s words could not have been truer.
The morning sun peeked over the horizon to watch four figures climb rock and stone, pitfalled with juts and crags. For over two hours, it beat their backs, only relenting once they reached the cave; everyone thankful that they made it before the day sun could rise and add to the lashings. However, the cave offered only cold stone and stale air.
Being fair-skinned, Mahlakore despised the sun, both of them. The two hours of climbing affected him the most—he wore minimal covering since he did not wish to haul any more weight up the side of a cliff than he had to, and there were no opportunities for shade until he reached the destination. The near-frozen cave gifted relief at first, but his freshly ruddied skin quickly went clammy. He hoped for a shred of warmth once they lit their torches, but it seemed like the frigid walls devoured any possible heat. Shame became his traveling companion as he watched the steadfast Oremethus and statuesque Dearborn traverse forward with nary a hint of pain or discomfort. Even the weasel-like Haddaman seemed to be faring better! Of course, how could he not? Carrying a pack that had extra clothing he donned once inside the cave, as well as being strapped to both Dearborn and Mahlakore during their ascent, it was doubtful Haddaman did any work climbing at all other than to balance himself.