“I ought to apologize for my speech last night, but I won’t. I meant everything I said and if you don’t like it, watch another news dragon.…”
He paused, imagined the crew shaking their heads. He’d deal with them again if needed, but they wouldn’t touch him.
“One of my faults is that I’m outspoken,” he continued. He ribbited, tasted pond water in his mouth, and then repeated the sentence again for better cadence. “But I can’t apologize for who I am, just like you watchin’ can’t apologize for bein’ elven or human or a hybrid between the two. It’s who ya are, and one oughn’t jam a needle in the eyes of his heritage. That’s all I’ll say.”
He entered an almost trance as he repeated the speech, this time with more feeling, more pauses, and more bass in his voice.
No later than when he finished the last sentence, he saw Dark standing in the studio in front of him.
Frog would have known Old Dark anywhere. Even in a cursed state, the dragon was regal and black. He wore an eyepatch over his left eye. He was almost, if Frog didn’t know better, decrepit. The old dragon walked with a limp, as if all his legs had been broken at some point and healed irregularly. He was not the same.
“It can’t be,” Frog said. “I never thought I would see you again.”
Dark approached him slowly.
“Are you real?” Frog asked.
“Real as you are,” Dark said hesitantly.
Frog threw over the desk and embraced Dark, and they both laughed joyfully.
Intermezzo
There are legends and then there are dragon legends. The first are sometimes true, rooted in reality or some occurrence that did happen but which was exaggerated throughout the ages, usually for some storyteller’s benefit. The second, however, are so fantastic, so strange, that they must be seen to be believed, but one can never vouch for their truth because the dragon legends are so old, far older than humanity and elvenhood—but not old enough for dragons to forget.
For centuries dragon legends powered the dragon race almost as much as magic, bombastic tales told in cloud shadow among dragons as they flew through the skies. They told them to their young when they were still hatchlings, crouched under their parents in a toasty, fiery cove. They were a form of currency, for Crafter dragons to give to human merchants in exchange for a safe passage through mountains and forests. The legends even became riddles, rites of passage for young dragons to unravel before their thousandth moon.
When an unfortunate human or elf wandered into the dominion of a vicious dragon, there were only two ways out: pay tribute, through sacrificing cows or sheep, which were not readily available for travelers—or recite a dragon legend. You could storytell yourself out of the situation by appealing to the dragon’s intellect by changing the story in some way. And so elves and humans practiced their storytelling skills in their huts by firelight, in hopes that perhaps it could save their lives one day.
So it happened that one night, a human named Fargo traveled to the southernmost tip of the western continent. Fargo was a farmer who had a small but prosperous cranberry bog. During this time a hard rot blighted many of the cranberry marshes in the region; the tips of the young, budding branches turned white and speckled, and bore fruit that looked like cotton balls when cut open. The harvest devastated cranberry farmers.
Fargo’s family descended from cranberry farmers whose crops thrived during the reign of Old Dark. Dragons had no need for cranberries and elves frequently purchased them for cooking and celebrations. Fargo’s family prospered even during bad times.
And their luck had continued through the cotton ball blight, so much that Fargo’s crops bore fruit even when the fields of his neighbors withered.
Word of his harvest spread across the continent, and he was asked to deliver a large shipment to an elven village in the south of the continent, a trip that would take him two days. The potential money would last him through the rest of the year and well into the next. If the next year’s harvest were to come down with the blight, he could weather it with the money he made since his cranberries were so in demand.
Fargo set out with a covered wagon loaded with burlap sacks full of cranberries.
The weather was cool with a slight chill, the kind of air that swirls over the region after harvest.
Fargo crossed over mountain ranges where snow began to fall on the lonely dirt passes; through deep valleys that took him below sea level and populated with tall grasses that were taller than his wagon and swayed in the breeze; down the foothills and craggy beach roads that wound southward and emptied him at the emerald-colored, raging sea.
Fargo had never seen water so green. Cumulus clouds scudded over the water like herds of grazing cows. The smell of salt assaulted him, cloying and fresh. As he drove his wagon past the rocky bluffs, watching dolphins pop out and under the surface of the water, he wondered if he hadn’t entered a completely different world.
He arrived in an elven village in the hottest part of the day. The huts were a familiar sight with their thatched roofs and reminded him of home, his children.
Several elven men helped him unload his berries, paid him handsomely for his fruit, and invited him to stay the night. He ate fish for the first time and savored the soft, flaky meat of a freshly caught tilapia. He fell asleep buzzed on seaweed wine.
When it was time for him to leave the next morning, he started on the beach roads again, watching the sea as much as he could, though this time the clouds were gray and sullen, and he only saw a lone whale flop out of the water several miles away. The waters roared and roared.
As he rounded a sandy path, the ground shook, spooking his horses. They disconnected from the wagon and ran off. He was able to catch one of the horses, but the other was lost. The wagon had been overturned in the scuffle, and it was so damaged that he had to abandon it. Fortunately he had a saddle in the wagon just in case and he was able to fit it on the horse.
As he was putting the saddle on the horse, a dark shadow loomed over him, and his heart sank. When he heard the monstrous roar followed by a whoosh of flames in the sky, he uttered a short prayer to himself. He prayed that it was a Crafter. Please, oh God, be a Crafter! They would let him pass with little trouble.
But it was not a Crafter.
It was a stocky Keeper dragon, and it flapped its wings quickly as it touched down. It had sickly brown scales, and a long, diagonal scar across its nose. It looked to Fargo like a sword wound but he couldn’t be sure.
The dragon had putrid breath that smelled like human excrement left in the sun for days.
“A human in these parts is rare,” the dragon said. He sniffed the air. “One bearing fruit is rare indeed.”
“I have no fruit,” Fargo said. “I have sold it all.”
The dragon snarled. “That’s too bad. Your blood would have matched the color of the cranberries.”
“I am a merchant with a family,” Fargo said. “I mean you no harm. Let me pass.”
“Or?” the dragon asked.
“I didn’t threaten you.”
“So you claim.”
The dragon stomped around the area, and Fargo struggled to keep his horse calm.
“When they took my aquifer away,” the dragon said, “I thought I would wander forever in search of my next home.”
A dragon without an aquifer. Fargo had heard of such dragons, but they were myths. To separate a dragon from its natural habitat often meant death. In this dragon’s case, it must have meant insanity, for it was acting erratically and had attacked him without provocation.
“What do you want from me?” Fargo asked.
“Come to the beach with me, human, and tell me a story. If I like it, you shall pass. If I don’t, the beach will have warmed you up for me.”
Fargo had grown up listening to dragon tales but had never had to tell one. His mind reeled as he tried to think of a tale, and when the dragon stomped across the sandy road toward the beach, he contemplated running away.
; But this dragon could catch him and if he did run, he would forfeit any chance of survival. So he guided his horse toward the beach and dismounted next to the dragon, who was laying in the sand, watching the waves, dragging his tail through the sand and making a long sweeping arc.
“A fine affair that you did not leave me,” he said. “I am not yet hungry.”
Fargo sat in the sand, his body heavy and his heart beating fast.
“Begin your story,” the dragon said.
Fargo gulped. “You will have to forgive me, but I am a simple farmer and I am not accustomed to the most popular tales you may have heard.”
“All the better for you.”
“There was a farm not too far from where I live, and there was a little girl—”
“Oh, so it’s one of those stories.…”
Fargo continued, unfazed. “She had just lost her grandfather to old age. He was the leader of the village and his knowledge of crops helped the family through many harsh winters. When her grandfather died, the family grieved for a long time, and the girl’s parents could do nothing but cry.”
“Did they send the elder off into the great beyond properly?”
“Yes. They had even recruited neighboring farmers to help.”
“And did they use incense, and request assistance from a nearby Keeper to invoke an essence from the aquifer? You never stated the time period of this tale. When did it happen?”
“It’s hard for me to tell my story if you keep interrupting.”
A sly smile crept across the dragon’s face. “I merely wanted to ensure that you know this story, farmer. You may continue.”
Fargo wished the story were over with. Already he hated the exchange. He hated that the dragon was trying to undercut him. He thought of his wife and his two sons, and how they would react if he didn’t come home in time. They might send a search party. By then it might be too late. Fear gripped him further as he continued the story.
“As to your questions, sir dragon, I am sure that they did everything necessary to send the grandfather into the great beyond, for they were not rich, but not poor, either. Anyhow, the girl’s parents were so distraught that they could not think clearly. The grandfather died near the end of a cranberry harvest, and winter wasn’t far away. There were still berries to be picked, tools to be maintained, and jams to be made, but all of this was far away from the father’s mind. The only one in the home who could think clearly, out of the grandmother, mother and father, and seven children—was the little girl, Delphina. She was eight or nine years old, the age where a little girl still has many questions about life and is not jaded.”
“And a human’s meat is quite lean at that age, I might add.”
“I wouldn’t know. Delphina was saddened by her grandfather’s passing, but what made her sadder was to see her family in mourning. She saw the work that needed to be done, and she knew that if someone didn’t take action, the family would end up destitute. But she could not reason with her parents. Nothing she said convinced them to snap out of their grief. And it was not proper of a little girl to ask help from other adults, so she did the only thing she could think to do: she asked elves.”
“This is an interesting story!”
“She gathered food and water and walked several miles to a beach forest where elves lived on the shore. Because she was a child, they treated her kindly and put her up in the elder’s home. She told the elder about her grandfather and the family’s mental state and the story concerned him. ‘It sounds like your family needs closure, my child, and the only way to give it to them is to bring your grandfather back to say goodbye.’”
“Delphina’s eyes were wide with awe. Bring her grandfather back from the great beyond? But wasn’t this sacrilege, she asked? The elder said perhaps it was sacrilege to human religion, but what did she prefer—misfortune or balance? The elder drew a map in the sand with several runes and circles, but before he continued he politely explained to her that if they were successful in their endeavor that his village would request at least five bags of cranberries from the harvest to adorn their fish. Delphina remembered the storage bin at home and told him there were at least that many bags on one shelf alone, along with plenty of jams, fruits, and other things the villagers might find delightful. The elder licked his lips and continued, telling her that they would use a clandestine vial of magic that they had stolen from a dragon many years ago. The elder kept this vial for emergencies like this. He produced the vial, a small glass jar with a rubber stopper and flowing pink liquid inside. Delphina had never seen magic before—humans had no use for it and actively avoided it for fear of provoking dragons’ wrath. But this was, up until this point, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life. The elder emptied the vial onto the palm of his hand and the magic swirled over it with a grace that reminded her of a fish. He spread it on her forehead and told her that tonight she would see her grandfather in a dream. He told her to be brave, and to explain the situation calmly to him so that he would obey her.”
“And so the elves celebrated Delphina’s journey to the village. They made an offering of fish to her grandfather in the great beyond, prayed together as a village that the family would survive this hard time. When the sun set, and it was time for bed, with the moon high in the starry sky, the elder lay Delphina down on his straw bed, sprinkled more magic on her forehead and wished her good luck. The magic tingled on Delphina’s forehead like the salves her mother used to spread on her body when she was sick. It comforted her but she had a difficult time falling asleep. After all, what if she failed?”
“In a few hours, she drifted into deep relaxation. She saw only blackness in front of her, and her body began to vibrate so wildly it felt like it was going to break apart. Then, the blackness disappeared and she appeared in a beautiful garden. There was a pond, flowers everywhere and stone steps that led up to a wooden church that looked like the one in her village. The steeple glinted in the moonlight, and the starry blue sky gave the place a heavenly aura. She could move her body. In fact, it was as if she had been transported to this place. She walked up the stairs, felt the cool night breeze on her face. The flowers smelled rain-kissed, and the aroma of roses and lilies calmed her and gave her strength as she climbed up the stairs, which were steeper and taller as she made it closer to the top.”
“When she reached the summit, she was out of breath. But the church was just a few feet away. She saw her grandfather entering the church. She recognized his wide brim hat and his minor limp. She called his name but he did not hear her. She ran for the front door but the church slid further away from her.
A tremendous roar filled the area, and she fell to her knees. She looked into the starry sky and noticed that the stars were moving. How could the stars be moving? Then the ground shifted beneath her again and she saw that she was on the back of a huge Crafter dragon.”
“Oh my!” the dragon cried. “Your story has taken quite the turn. What continent was he from?”
“She,” Fargo corrected, smiling. “The dragon said, ‘I have tolerated you for too long, young girl. Tell me what it is you would like.’ Delphina told him why she was there and the dragon told her that she was a courageous young girl and granted her a blessing. She ran into the church and found her grandfather sitting inside. They embraced and she felt his light fill her body. ‘My child, I cannot return,’ the grandfather said. ‘I am comfortable in the world of the dead. I am not meant to return.’”
“Delphina begged her grandfather, but he would not listen. Instead, he lit a group of candles, each for a member of the family, and then he said ‘Perhaps there is some other way we can jolt the family from their grief, eh?’”
She started down the stairs, and her grandfather called out to her: ‘Delphina dearest, you tell your father to check under the floorboards.’”
‘Why, grandfather?’
‘Be a good girl, now.’
“Then she woke up in a cold sweat. The dragon was gone. The church was gone.
Her grandfather, gone. The elder listened as she recounted the dream and told her she ought to return to her farm. And so the next morning she set out on the long journey home. When she arrived, she found her parents waiting for her with open arms. They had been freed from their grief.”
“How?” the dragon asked. His voice was suspicious.
“Delphina’s absence. Her mother and father kicked themselves for not paying attention to her, and they sent search parties out for her. They then realized how deep their grief had stricken them.”
“But what about the grandfather?” the dragon asked.
“Well, Delphina told her family that she’d seen her grandfather in the great beyond and they listened with wonder. Then Delphina told her father about the floorboards. Puzzled, he pried a loose floorboard open and found a cache of spiras. Her grandfather had been saving it for many years. Upon seeing it, her father wept, and the family took it as a blessing. They then delivered ten sacks of cranberries to the elven village as a thank you, and thus began the friendly relationship between elves and humans in my region. I also heard that the next year, a cotton ball blight struck the region and their family had enough money to weather the storm when others were ruined.”
Fargo was out of breath. He hadn’t expected the story to take so long, but he was impressed with his storytelling ability, how the words came out in just the right way.
“Well, what did you think?”
He glanced over at the brown dragon, but the dragon was lying in the sand with his eyes closed.
Fargo poked it with a stick.
It was dead.
“My God,” he uttered. “I’ve got to escape before another dragon finds me.”
So he jumped on his horse and galloped away as fast as he could.
On his way down the beach road it began to rain. Two Crafters streamed in the sky over him and he began to cry. “They’re going to kill me,” he said and he thought of his wife and sons and all the cranberry harvests that would never be.
“Stop, human,” the Crafters said. “We know what you have done. We saw it all.”
Old Evil (The Last Dragon Lord Book 2) Page 14