“Uh . . . Dragon?” Wennedel's voice came out like a mouse’s squeak. He was facing the monster’s rump and got no reply. “Your—Your Dragonness?” he tried.
Still no response. He inched a little closer to the front end of the beast. The dragon was sitting very still. It had been thus motionless from the instant the search party spotted it, down in this small dip between the mountain peaks. There was a stream running past the dragon’s front end and plenty of rich grass all around, liberally sprinkled with bright yellow, white, and red flowers—all in all a very pleasant spot, if not for having a monster plunked down in the center of it.
“Urn, yoo-hoo?” Wennedel tried again to rouse the dragon’s attention. To no avail. The beast remained unmoved, its beady eyes fixed upon a particularly thick clump of flowers. "Draggie? Thou Dragon? O Ineffable Dragonhood?"
"Shut up, twit," said the dragon, and with one short sweep of its tail batted Wennedel all the way back up the hillside and over the boulders. Then it dipped its head and tore up the whole clump of flowers with its teeth. It munched on these very awkwardly—dragons' teeth being all wrong for the task—then made a face and spat out the mangled blossoms.
Meanwhile, the Bold Bush-dwellers had checked Wennedel for vital signs and, relieved to find him still breathing, got him restored to consciousness, back on his feet, and shoved downslope once more. The poor lad staggered badly, but he managed to reach the dragon.
"You again?" the monster remarked, raising the draconian equivalent of an eyebrow. "Can't I be miserable in peace?"
"You’re miserable?" Wennedel could not keep the wonder out of his voice. "You're a dragon! You can't be miserable."
The dragon took this information coldly. "Why not? I was minding my own business, getting on with my life—not that my future was anything to frisk and gambol about, but I suppose we're all meant to end as mutton someday, one way or another—when suddenly I’m fleeced, flayed, and fixed up in this absurd coat of clinky-clanks!" At this point, the beast reared up onto its haunches, the better to use its forepaws to indicate its own scaly belly.
As the dragon rose, Wennedel followed it with his eyes. The creature was imposing enough crouched on all fours, but when it sat up to its full height it was astounding. The Bold Bush-dweller was not feeling very bold at all, now, and there was a suspiciously damp feeling to his breeches.
"Mu—mu—mutton?" he cheeped. It was a foolish remark, as he well knew, but he was desperate for something to say to fill the dragon-heavy silence. "You did mention mutton?"
Down came the dragon with a crash that knocked Wennedel from his feet. Its tone was icy when it spoke. “Yes, I mentioned the m-word. So what? I was raised to be a decent ewe from the moment I was lambed, but I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Victimized, torn from my home, separated from my one and only darling, precious, beloved—um—well, actually we’re just good friends, but—"
“Bernice!" Wennedel cried out with joy, and did a little jig of triumph.
“Twit,’’ said the dragon, and lobbed him back over the boulders. “Calling me by name when we haven't even been properly introduced,” she grumbled. “Of all the nerve!”
It was some time and several formal introductions later that Bernice stopped her grousing. The rest of the Bold Bush-dwellers of the Search Party of the First Part came out of hiding, encouraged by the knowledge that this was the right dragon—a dragon so new to dragonhood that she was still trying to eat sheep fodder. They made haste to ingratiate themselves with her, informing Bernice of sundry helpful facts. Some of these concerned dragons—their powers and privileges—while others dealt with the current political situation in the capital.
“Ah!” said Bernice when they were done. “Now ask me if I care.”
“But you must care!” the Puce Mongoose insisted. “We're giving you the opportunity to fight for the liberation of Old Hydrangea.”
“And I'm giving you the opportunity to leave my valley with your head still attached to your shoulders,” Bernice countered. “Hydrangeans! Gorgorians! What difference does it make to me what they call themselves before they chow down on my chops? I say it's allmint sauce and I say to hell with 'em!”
“They can’t, you know. Eat you, I mean.” It was the Blue Badger who spoke. He weighed his words carefully, sensing that Bernice was not the sort of beast—sheep or dragon—to do anything for anyone unless there was plenty in it for her. “Not us Hydrangeans, anyhow.”
"Really? Then who was it devoured my Granddam Selma if not Hydrangeans? And her granddam before that! Don't tell me it was Gorgorians because there wasn't even a whiff of Gorgorians anywhere around here in those days!"
The Badger raised his hands in surrender. "I admit that we Hydrangeans have been known to eat the odd bit of—the m-word. However, that’s not your lookout any longer."
"Isn't it?"
"Not when you've become the d-word."
A look of profound revelation washed over Bernice’s face. "By golly, that's right!" She gave the tender valley flowers a wistful glance. "No wonder they don't taste the same." An appalling rumble came from her stomach. "No wonder I'm sooooo hungry," she concluded, sounding miserable enough to convince Wennedel, had he been awake to hear her.
The Blue Badger nibbled his lip, considering his next move. What he had to say must be put just so, for the unlucky turn of a word could mean the difference between a future as the Blue Badger, Hero of Restored Hydrangea or as the Blue Badger, Passing Gas-bubble in a Dragon's Gut.
"You wouldn't be hungry for long if you came to the capital with us," he said.
"Oh?"
"Your problem, you see, is that you're all confused by your new body. You don't know what's good for it and what's bad. What we've already told you about dragons— able to talk, incredibly strong, insufferably wise—is just the tip of the dagger. You deserve better. You deserve more."
"You're right!" The hard glint of determination shone in the dragon's eyes. "I do!"
"You deserve an official, genuine, royally appointed dragonherdV' the Badger concluded, triumphant.
Bernice brought her huge head inches from the Badger's left ear and nearly deafened him when she whispered, "Say what?"
The Blue Badger shook his head to stop the ringing, opened his mouth as wide as it could go a couple of times to make his ears pop, and when sufficiently recovered he replied, "Look, when you were a sheep, didn't you need a shepherd? An expert on the care and feeding of sheep? Someone to keep watch over you and look out for your best interests and stick up for you?"
Bernice's slit-pupiled eyes filled with pints of tears.
"Dunwin," she rasped. "My Dunwin always stuck up for me."
"Well, that's what a dragonherd does for his dragons!" The Badger smiled. "He knows all about what's best for dragons the same way a shepherd knows sheep from the ground up. Only thing is, you can't find a good dragonherd outside of the capital. If you come with us and give us a wee smidgen of assistance now and then—just in the course of destroying the Gorgorians and restoring the true Hydrangean king to the throne—I personally guarantee we’ll find you the best dragonherd in the kingdom and as the gods are my witnesses, you'll never be hungry again!"
"No," said Bernice.
"No'?" The Blue Badger was mortified.
"No one could ever replace my Dunwin." She sniflled and cloudy wads of dirty smoke puffed from her nostrils.
"No one will," said the Badger. "Your Dunwin is in the capital as we speak."
There followed a flurry of What’s he doing there? and How is he? and Why didn’t you say so in the first place? and Does he miss me? It all ended on a rousing note of What are we waiting for! and the Bold Bush-dwellers set out for the capital, dragon in tow.
Wennedel came to his senses just in time to be told that they had accomplished their mission. He managed a muzzy smile. "Bet the Black Weasel'll be pleased."
"He ought to be," the Blue Badger agreed. "It isn't every day you find a dragon."
Se
veral miles away, Ochovar peered into the gloomy interior of the cave, then turned and slid quickly back down the slope.
“I don’t see anything," he said. "I mean, except for a bunch of bones."
"All right, then, let’s go on to the next," the Silver Squirrel said.
"Not so fast!" another Bold Bush-dweller protested. "Where'd all those bones come from, if there's no dragon?"
"Oh, there's any number of ways they could've got here, I'm sure," Ochovar replied with a shrug.
"Name one."
"Well, it could've been trolls, or bears, or ogres, or maybe a kraken that left them."
"Ocho," the Squirrel pointed out, "we're in the mountains, and krakens live in the deepest part of the ocean; how would a kraken get up here?"
"I never said there were krakens up here," Ochovar replied defensively. "I said maybe that's where the bones came from!"
"But if we're in the mountains, and krakens live in the ocean ..."
"Maybe they got washed up here, years ago!"
The rest of the party stared at him silently for a moment.
"All right, forget the kraken, then," Ochovar shouted. "It still could've been trolls or something. And even if it was a dragon, how do we know how old those bones are? They could've been there for years! The dragon might have died ages ago, been slain by one of those heroes that goes about slaying innocent dragons, you know ..."
"And it might just be out getting a snack," Red said— he had had an official Bush-dweller animal name once, but he hadn't liked it much, and after a few judicious thrashings, the others had conveniently forgotten everything but the color.
"Well, yes, I suppose it might, if it's a dragon at all, but really, I don't think ..."
"Take a closer look at the bones, why don’t you?" the Squirrel suggested. "You can see if they're fresh, or old and dry."
Ochovar cast the Squirrel a look that would have curdled skim milk. “I don't see the point," he said, "when it might just as well be trolls. There’s no good in my getting eaten by trolls when we're looking for a dragon, is there?"
"Can't you outrun a troll, then, if you have to?"
"I don’t know," Ochovar admitted, "and I’d just as soon not find out!"
"Trolls don't come out in the daylight," Red pointed out.
"Bears do."
Red pulled an arrow from his quiver. "If it's a bear, I’ll shoot it before it can eat you. Honest."
Ochovar was not entirely convinced, having seen Red's performance at the last archery match—he had placed eleventh in a field of twelve, after Dunci had caught an elbow in the eye and missed three shots running. However, Ochovar saw that he wasn't going to get out of this without a lot of argument, and that it would be much quicker to just get it over with.
And the quicker, the better, in case the dragon came back from getting a snack.
"All right," he said, "I'll go check the bones."
The others made encouraging noises. Moving rapidly but without enthusiasm, Ochovar clambered back up the slope to the mouth of the cave, climbed inside, and made his way down the broad passage, moving as quietly as he could, so as not to disturb anything that might be sleeping in the darkness below.
There were really quite a lot of bones, he realized—the cave was larger than it had looked from the outside. It widened out into a big round chamber, almost circular, the sides curiously smooth and even save tor an immense boulder that stood against the back wall, details such as color and texture lost in the gloom.
Fortunately, there was no sign of ogres or bears or trolls.
Ochovar snatched up a bone—and then dropped it again; it rattled on the heap. He had been expecting something old and dried out, and the one he had picked was not dry at all. It was wet.
And it still had meat on it.
And when he had lifted it up into the sunlight, he could see that the meat was still red.
“Help yourself," a deep voice said. “I've had all I want."
Ochovar spun around, expecting to see a great green dragon's head in the mouth of the cave, but all he saw was blue sky and sunshine.
“Over here," the voice said.
Ochovar whirled again, back toward the interior of the cave, but all he saw was the heap of bones, the big rock on the far side . . .
The big rock with its two golden eyes, staring at him.
“Hello," Ochovar said, in a weak gasp.
“Hello," the boulder rumbled. It uncoiled somewhat, and Ochovar realized that it was, indeed, a dragon—a very large dragon. “What brings you here? If you’re looking for a fight, I'd really rather not, and you're welcome to back down now—I don't much like fighting on a full stomach. And if you came to commit suicide, or to sacrifice yourself to me for the good of your village, wherever it might be, I'm afraid your timing is all wrong; I've just eaten, and I'm really quite full. Perhaps you could come back tomorrow, or next week—I'd be glad to make an appointment."
The dragon stretched its forelegs, each considerably larger than Ochovar, displaying claws the size of cats.
“That's quite all right," Ochovar said, “I don't mind if you don't eat me." The dragon's speech had relieved a good part of his anxiety, and he was now merely terrified, instead of utterly panic-stricken.
“Good," the dragon said. “Would you go away, then, and let me finish my postprandial nap?" It closed its eyes and lowered its head to a comfortable position on its foreclaws.
“Uh ... I'd be glad to, but . . ."
"But what?" One golden eye opened, and Ochovar didn't care for the expression in it.
"Well, 1 hope you'll excuse me ..."
“But what?!’’ A curl of yellow flame flicked from the monster's jaws, and the blast of sound and warm air sent Ochovar reeling. When he recovered, the dragon’s eyes were wide open, its neck was extended, and it was glowering down at him from several feet up.
For a few seconds Ochovar stared, frozen, up at the beast; then, when it occurred to him that it was getting even more annoyed, he quickly asked, "Is your name Bernice?"
The dragon blinked.
"Is my name what?"
"Bernice," Ochovar said.
"What kind of a name is Bernice for any self-respecting dragon?" the dragon rumbled.
"Well, it's . . . it's not," Ochovar stammered. "It's a name for a sheep."
"A name for . . ."
The dragon stopped in midsentence, and fixed one eye on Ochovar. It glanced at the mouth of the cave, where Ochovar’s companions were conspicuously absent, then back at the terrified young man.
"All right," the monster said. "Ordinarily, at this point, I would fry you to a crisp and eat you as an after-dinner snack, but I just know that if I did that, I'd regret it afterward. I’d get a stomachache, I'm sure, and I'd also never find out what in the forty-six green and purple hells of the ancients you're doing here. So I’m going to keep my temper, interrupted nap or no, and I’m going to sit here and listen while you explain to me just what in the bloody world you 're talking about, and if I'm not satisfied by the explanation, then I’ll toast you. Now, would you mind telling me what I might have to do with sheep, or with anyone named Bernice?"
Ochovar gulped, and then explained. Not just that they were searching for a dragon named Bernice who had once been a ewe; one thing led to another, and he found himself telling the dragon about the Gorgorian invasion of Hydrangea, and the Black Weasel's brave and determined and ineffectual resistance movement, and King Gudge's reported demise, and the wizard who seemed to be doing thoroughly unwizardlike things such as working useful magic, and all the rest of it.
His voice gave out eventually, and he stood there, looking woefully up at the beast.
The dragon looked back, then sighed—fortunately, not including any flame, though Ochovar cringed before the blast of hot, fetid air.
“An amazing tale," the dragon said, “simply amazing. And no, I'm not this Bernice you're looking for—I am Antirrhinum the Inquisitive, and I'm a true dragon, born and raised a d
ragon, the scion of at least a dozen generations of respectable purebred dragons."
“Ah. Well, in that case, I’m very sorry to have disturbed you, Lord Antirrhinum, sir." Ochovar bowed, and then began inching toward the cave entrance.
“You should be," Antirrhinum remarked, in a rather distracted fashion.
It was at that moment that the Silver Squirrel abruptly tumbled into the cave and came rolling down the passageway, to stop a few feet away.
He lay dazed for a few seconds, then caught sight of Ochovar's worried face.
“Oh, there you are!" he said. “Ocho, we were getting worried. What took you so long?"
“The dragon," Ochovar said, and for the first time the Squirrel noticed the creature watching, with mild interest, over Ochovar's shoulder.
“Oh," the Squirrel said, in a voice roughly the size of a nit.
“Lord Antirrhinum, this is my companion, called the Silver Squirrel. Squirrel, this is Antirrhinum the Inquisitive. This is his cave we're in." Ochovar glanced up at his host, and added unnecessarily, “He's a dragon."
“Oh," the Squirrel said again, in a slightly larger voice.
He swallowed, and said, "He's not Dunwin's Bernice, then? He’s a real dragon?"
"Quite real," Antirrhinum said drily.
"Urn . . . would you like to help us conquer the kingdom anyway, maybe?" the Squirrel asked.
"I’m afraid not," Antirrhinum said. "I had other plans. Thank you for asking, though."
"Oh," the Squirrel said again.
"And now, if you don't mind, I really would like to finish my nap,” the dragon said.
"Of course," Ochovar said, hastily snatching the Squirrel's hand and yanking him to his feet. "We'll be going, then, and thank you very much."
"Yes, thank you," the Squirrel said, as Ochovar dragged him backward up the passageway. "Thank you ever so much."
It was only when they were both safely out of the cave that the Squirrel turned to his compatriot and asked, "Thank him for what?"
"For not eating us, you idiot!" Ochovar said, whacking the Squirrel on the ear. Then, together, they slid down the slope to their waiting fellows.
Watt-Evans, Lawrence - Novel 06 Page 22