The Dragon Chronicles

by Ellen Campbell

  A pound of breast fetched a silver coin, then two, then three, and before long, by raising his prices, Nogdo became the richest man in Bolopsy—second only to the lord—and the most famous merchant in the southern half of the kingdom.

  People travelled for days to Cut-Less, his quaint butcher shop. At dawn, the doors would bulge inwards under the strain of hundreds of people pushing and shoving, each one desperate to be served first. They waved their purses and shouted out orders. An hour saw all the dragon meat bought, so many went without.

  One day, a disgruntled customer attacked an old woman who'd been first in line to make a purchase. When the elderly woman reported the assault to the local citadel, guards arrived to manage Nogdo's crowds. Relieved and grateful, the butcher gave the soldiers free tail cuts—the juiciest part of the dragon.

  Another two weeks passed, and the butcher bought the deed to an exquisite marble mansion with an attached two-level shop that was five times the size of his old one. To commemorate the time when he’d first tasted dragon meat, Nogdo hung up the broken wheel from the buggy that the dragon had destroyed. Sadly, he never found his mare, Pumpkin. The corners of his lips twitched upward at a beautiful thought.

  Perhaps, like him, she had found greener pastures.

  * * *

  Nogdo chuckled a lot these days, both in public and in private. At the market, the people fawned over him. His wife and children constantly praised him. Nogdo stood tall and took long, confident strides. He was rich. Rich, rich, rich! And then his good fortune took an unexpected turn. The children of Bolopsy were struck down by a horrible affliction where ebony, triangular scales grew in place of their tender, human flesh.

  The children were deemed tainted and infectious. Snatched from their families, they were isolated at Fort Greystone, a rundown ruin-turned-infirmary. The parents of the children were treated like pariahs and accused of cavorting with devils. Nogdo’s soldier friends reported rumours of soothsayers and witches being employed to cure the outbreak of Blackscale, so called after a nocturnal flesh-eating fish that lived in the waterways. So far, the diseased children had been fed horrible potions and suffered through torturous experiments, to no avail.

  A lingering sorrow befell the town of Bolopsy, erasing smiles and eliminating all good cheer. Many who lost their children slept outside Nogdo’s butchery, hoping to find one last cheerful moment by eating his Mountain Ox. Nogdo saw madness in their eyes, and he recognised the same dependence on the meat as he’d observed in drunks outside a tavern.

  Over time, Blackscale consumed the skin of the Fort Greystone children, and wings sprouted from their backs, or so he’d heard. Regardless, Nogdo suspected his dragon meat was responsible; after all, a common folktale warned children against going near dragons, lest they be turned into one.

  With a heavy heart, he removed Mountain Ox from the menu.

  Tribulation struck his house when Kibsigy, the youngest of his three sons, developed the horrible scaling of the Blackscale affliction. Gut-wrenching dread almost debilitated Nogdo. He’d never allowed his family to touch the stuff, and a week had passed since he’d sold any Mountain Ox.

  ‘You had any of my Mountain Ox, lad?’ Nogdo asked as he inspected his son's naked body at bath time. Those nasty scales—black and leathery on the underside of the boy's arms—infuriated the butcher.

  Kibsigy stared at his father with eyes as round as moons, making it difficult for Nogdo to stay angry.

  ‘No, sir,’ his son said.

  ‘Don’t lie, boy. You been in Papa’s shop eating cuts!’

  Kibsigy should have known better than to disobey him. Though the boy's scales hardly covered a hand-sized patch, rumours told that the passing of weeks would see the skin of his chest and neck consumed. The frightened child stared at the bathwater, whispering, ‘A month ago. Only a little.’

  Nogdo struck his son’s temple. The child flinched, and water splashed over the side of the tub and onto the floor.

  ‘And who said you could do that? Stupid boy.’

  ‘Oi!' bellowed Marella, turning sharply into the bathing room. 'He doesn't know what he's done.’ His wife passed the boy a towel, and once he was covered, took his hand, and helped him from the tub. 'Besides, it ain't his fault you sold cursed meat to our neighbours. What if they find out?'

  Nogdo threw his hands into the air. ‘Well done! Blather it a bit louder, why don't you? Now Kibsigy will chinwag to his friends, and I'll be hung for sorcery.'

  'I won’t say a word, Papa.' The boy had used his towel to swaddle himself in a sort of cocoon. The butcher felt an overwhelming and paternal need to cradle his frightened son and hug away his fears. The boy didn’t deserve this burden, and Nogdo would die before he’d let the child be taken to the awful torture camp.

  ‘You got that look,’ said Marella.

  The butcher glanced up to meet his beloved's eyes. ‘What look?’

  ‘The one you get before you do somethin’ stupid.’

  ‘Can’t just do nothin’, can I? Look at him.’

  Marella did look at her son, and her eyes greyed and glistened, reminding him of winter’s frosted grass. 'He'll grow wings before long.'

  ‘My love, we got enough coin to live without workin' another day. The shop can close forever.'

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There must be a cure,’ Nogdo insisted, ‘and I intend to find it.’

  ‘You’re goin' to leave me here with him while you go off? What if Kibsigy dies while you’re gone, eh?’

  The boy bowed his head.

  ‘He lives, woman, as do the other boys. I’ll be back before the leaves turn orange.’

  ‘That's two months!'

  Nogdo ignored her and set about packing a knapsack while she badgered him to stay. The butcher had always been stubborn and narrow of mind, and Marella knew she wasted her efforts. If there was a cure for the scaling, then Nogdo would discover it.

  Even if he paid with his life.

  * * *

  Everybody in Bolopsy knew that when magic caused chaos, there was only one place to go: the Dark Magician’s lair. It was so named to frighten away impetuous children and discourage troublemakers whose nosiness undermined their better sense.

  Nogdo travelled for days across rivers and mountains on his newly bought horse, Fleabag. Eventually, he reached the magician’s crumbling, brick-and-mortar fort. Vines strangled an assortment of skulls, animal bones, and rusty tools that were nailed to the walls.

  The butcher slid from the saddle and his boots crunched against the rocky ground. He led Fleabag to the nearest tree and tied her up. Nogdo pushed aside the thick clump of cocksfoot grass that clogged the entryway to reveal a scowling gargoyle knocker. He reached out to the heavy, brass ring, pulled it back with a squeak, and rapped three times.

  ‘Who is it?’ came a disgruntled, wobbly voice.

  ‘Name’s Nogdo, sir. We’ve never met. I’d like to speak with you.’

  ‘Nogdo. Nogdo. I've a freshly brewed cup of claw and blood to curse you with if you’ve brought mischief to my home.’

  ‘No, no, it ain’t like that. I got a question about dragons.’

  ‘Too bad. I’m busy. Be off with you.’

  The butcher glanced around the neglected courtyard and scratched his head. ‘I'll pay you.'

  ‘Coin? Hah! I’ve no need of coin when I have magic.’

  ‘A favour, then. I’ll do you a favour in return.’

  Silence.

  'Anything you want,' Nogdo added with instant regret.

  The magician appeared in the shadows of the nearest broken window. ‘Anything, you say?'

  Fear brewed in Nogdo’s belly. 'Anything.'

  The figure moved back into the dark. Nogdo counted thirty of his unsettled heartbeats and glanced around helplessly. If anyone learned that he'd caused the Blackscale disease, he'd be put in the stocks and stoned—or worse, end up in the capital’s Steel King Prison.

  ‘It’s about'—Nogdo closed his eyes and inh
aled—'dragon meat.’

  There was a bang, a clang, and a screech of rusty hinges as the front door opened. Nogdo steeled his expression as a wrinkly, twisted face peered out from the crack in the door.

  ‘Dragon meat, you say?’ said the ugly magician, whose face bore a bent nose and sagging lips.

  'Yes.'

  He flung the door open with a flourish. ‘In with you, then. Sit, stand, dance, I don't care.’ The old, dwarfish man shuffled into his drawing room. He tripped over his long, grey beard, grumbled, and then wound it about his arm. Nogdo hadn’t moved yet from the doorway.

  ‘Well? Are you coming in or not?’ he asked impatiently.

  Nogdo took a cautious step inside. An icy wind slipped between the shifted bricks, stirring up dank, rotten smells. Next to a smoking hearth was a rickety table covered in chopped bits of frog, bird, candle wax, and other unidentifiable objects, the very sight of which made him feel ill.

  There were several chairs, but each one contained a sleeping cat. One licked its paws while another just stared with indifferent superiority. Nogdo hated cats.

  ‘Just shove them off, they think they own the place,’ the magician said, pointing feebly in the felines' direction.

  ‘I'll stand.' Nogdo didn’t think the magician seemed very dark, and he wondered how he’d acquired such a reputation.

  The elderly sorcerer shrugged and plonked himself down into a tattered rocking chair. Two cats immediately claimed his lap. The magician inspected Nogdo's clothes and smacked his lips together. ‘So you ate dragon meat? Want more?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then no harm done.’

  ‘Not me, sir. My son.’

  The magician’s green eyes snapped up to Nogdo’s. ‘You gave meat from the fiery ones to a child? Stupid, stupid man. Haven't you heard the stories?’

  Nogdo’s stomach did a little flip. 'I'm just a poor butcher from a small town.'

  ‘Even the stupidest of men would think twice before snacking on dragon hide. It’s outlawed for a reason. You must be extraordinarily brainless.’ The old magician grumbled under his breath as he got up from his chair. He hobbled over to a mortar and pestle, added herbs and spices into the bowl, and started pounding. Nogdo’s spirits lifted at seeing the magician working on a cure, but the hope faded when the old man took the powder and massaged it into the long, raw strips of freshly skinned rabbit laid out on the table.

  'What’s it look like?’ the magician asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Wooo! You really are dumb.’

  Nogdo scowled at the magician, who returned his contempt with a sigh of exasperation.

  ‘What are your son’s symptoms?’

  ‘Black scales under the arms.’

  The magician paused with narrowed eyes. ‘I see. Huh. Three months. He'll be a dragon in three months.’

  'It's not just my son.'

  'There are more?' the magician said in a raised voice, and the corners of his mouth twisted into a sneer. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, you made a pretty penny, didn't you? Greedy man. Greedy butcher.' The magician wiped his hands on his tunic and pointed a sharp fingernail at Nogdo. ‘Bolopsy, isn’t it? Everyone’s heard about that Blackscale plague. They’re at Fort Greystone now, ain’t they? I’ll be able to trade something rare for this tale.’ The magician tapped his chin and then clicked his fingers. ‘Aha! The butcher who butchered his family! Hrmm, no…not the right ring…’ The magician hit his head. ‘Think, you old codger.’

  Nogdo stared at the floor, accepting the old man’s ridicule. ‘I’ll do anything.’

  ‘Dragon eggs.’

  Nogdo blinked several times. ‘What?’

  ‘Two of them. Fetch the eggs and I’ll help you.’

  Dragons were known for their acute senses and fiery nature. He was no thief, and if he were discovered taking an egg, he’d be turned to charcoal in seconds. ‘How?’ Nogdo asked hopelessly.

  The old man hobbled to his bookcase and selected a long scroll. He stretched the parchment across a wax-stained table. ‘See that?’ He pointed to a spot on the map. ‘Seven days’ ride to the Dragon Cliffs. A female lives near the summit, she laid a fresh clutch of eggs three weeks ago.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  The magician held Nogdo’s gaze. ‘I know.’

  ‘She'll be guardin’ them, won't she?’

  The magician hit Nogdo on the forehead with ring-covered fingers. ‘Stop saying dumb things. Of course she’ll be there. She’s a mother. Mothers protect their young. Fathers are the stupid ones.’

  Nogdo rubbed his sore forehead. He didn’t like being hit, and he hated being spoken to as if he were scum. ‘What will you do with the eggs?’ he asked as he imagined ways to teach the old man a lesson.

  ‘When I have them in my hands, we’ll talk more. Hurry! Just as time devours the daylight, the dragons’ curse takes your son’s body.’

  Nogdo didn't trust the magician, but there was no other choice to be had. ‘You best be telling me the truth. If not, I’ll—’

  ‘What?’ The old man shuffled right up to Nogdo’s face and huffed a pungent breath of garlic and blood.

  The butcher's stomach churned, and he clamped a hand over his nose. ‘Nothin’.’

  ‘That’s right, nothing. There’s nothing you can do to me, young man. Stop wasting time and get those eggs.’

  Nogdo snorted and snatched the map from the table. He slammed the rickety door behind him as he left, startling Fleabag. He cussed. The tale of the dragons’ curse was a story told to keep people from being eaten by dragons, not the other way around. The story needed to be spread with more truth, and by soldiers and town criers, not by lying bards and mad soothsayers. When all the children were cured, Nogdo vowed to visit King Geldon of Enslain and reveal the truth about dragon meat.

  * * *

  The seven days’ ride saw the lands become hot and dry and the grounds grow sparse of greenery. The changes to the landscape shocked and frightened him as he pondered where the nearest water source might be. By the time Nogdo arrived at the desolate base of the Dragon Cliffs, only three days’ worth of food remained in his knapsack. He’d have to buy more soon.

  The cliffs reminded him of dragon spines; the tallest mountain leaned on a severe slant, and Nogdo guessed it would take him half a day to surmount.

  Before long, the hot dirt and giant boulders made the upward ascent wearisome. Fleabag panted as she attempted to gain traction in the dry, rocky clay. Nogdo dismounted, gathered her reins, and led her to a stump surrounded by a meagre patch of brown grass. There he tied her up. Nogdo unhooked his water skin and butcher's belt from Fleabag's saddle. The belt held four different kinds of knives. In a confrontation with a dragon, they’d be the only thing standing between him and a horrible, agonising death.

  Scaling more crags on his hands and feet, Nogdo’s muscles began to fatigue. Flies swarmed him, and he grew weary of their hum as the hours passed. Sweat soaked his clothes. At one point, his legs refused to lift far enough to reach the next ledge. He rested until his heart stopped pounding, then he made one last effort to catch the ledge with his wobbly legs. When his boot caught, he used all his might to haul himself onto the plateau. Panting hard, he lay still and closed his eyes. The moaning wind caressed his forehead, its touch soothing to his clammy skin. The climb up with the unsteady sand was difficult, but the descent would be even worse. Nogdo groaned.

  Quicker I do it, the quicker I can go home, he thought. His eyes snapped open, and as he sat upright, they absorbed the scenery. The Kingdom of Enslain was vast indeed, and Nogdo marvelled as he took all the landscape in at once. The eastern horizon was unending; the clouds seemed so close that he wished he were a dragon so he could discover what lay beyond them.

  Smoke from wood fires hovered in the direction of Bolopsy, beyond the woodlands. The thought of Marella and Kibsigy and his other two boys warmed his heart, and so, with a sense of renewed strength, he struggled to his feet. When he turned around, he faced a cavern en
trance.

  That must be it!

  He counted each short step as he moved toward the cave. His heart thumped so hard he feared it would rouse the sleeping dragons within.

  Piles of bones and dung lay in heaps at the base of the walls. He found a man-sized hollow in the rock and hid there for a moment. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he noticed that his hiding hole was actually a dimly lit tunnel. Slowly, he fumbled his way down the narrow space. A light flickered in the distance, and the tunnel merged once more with the main cavern. Blood surged through his veins, and the dank, stale air made breathing unpleasant. With shaking hands, he peered toward the back of the cave and froze at what he saw.

  Smoking animal corpses. Stacks of burning wood and debris kept the suffocating darkness at bay. Nogdo gulped and snuck forward, expecting a searing ball of fire to melt his skin at any moment.

  The butcher’s throat dried and tightened. Every time a rock crunched or shifted underfoot, he winced and prayed his presence remained unnoticed.

  Rounding yet another corner, he saw them: eggs cradled in a square nest constructed of expertly woven sticks. The nest lining was an assortment of fur, skin, and carcasses from unidentifiable animals. Nogdo pinched his nose at the pungent stench of corruption and decay.

  Several more steps and he could accurately identify each of the exquisite, black-dotted ruby eggs. Six in total. After sizing them up, he was certain he could carry one and fit at least one other in his knapsack. He darted to the nest now and placed his ear against a warm egg, listening for life inside.

  Nothing.