Rofolio's Scaly Circus
Page 13
Hristomarth’s instincts screamed at him. He threw himself flat, hugging the stage as much as possible, clutching his amulet tightly with both hands and hoping his hat would survive.
“Of all the damned foolish things,” snapped Talasar. “Now we have to cut the Hexalith out of this lizard.” He looked around at the rest of the sorcerers standing above Hristomarth. “Does anyone have their sacrificial knife on them?”
Vadmaral stepped forward, brandishing a cruel, wavy-bladed dagger. “Of course you came unprepared,” he sneered.
“I don’t think that’s a lizard,” said a sorcerer. “I ... I think it’s a Darmxian mountain dragon. It’s small ... but wouldn’t its gullet qualify as ‘inhospitable?’ Can the Hexalith withstand dragonfire?”
Talasar suddenly blanched. “Your knife!” he cried, reaching desperately for the blade Vadmaral kept back from him. “Give me your knife!”
“Why is the Illuminate hiding?” asked Sustander.
The assembled sorcerers looked down at Hristomarth, then over at Greasetrap. Fire flared out from the fat wyrmling’s nostrils. He also seemed to be vibrating.
The wyrmling opened his mouth and unleashed a sound like the end of the world. A dark miasma erupted from Greasetrap’s maw, edged in fire and oily smoke. It washed over the assembled sorcerers. Hristomarth’s amulet grew scaldingly hot, even on the edge of the blast as he was.
After the noise, chaos, and flame had died away, Hristomarth risked a glance at his surroundings. The benches below the stage were completely empty. Talasar, Vadmaral, and all the other sorcerers lay crumpled, each moaning in misery at the host of maledictions now afflicting them. Gwentin, the contest host, and the assistant were nowhere to be found. Greasetrap sat back on his haunches, looking around hopefully. He saw Hristomarth and chirped.
“More?” asked the wyrmling.
HRISTOMARTH ROFOLIO ADJUSTED THE clothes-peg on his nose, cursing his fate to the Black Vault Below. The small two-wheeled cart he hauled was rolling along, but only barely. One wheel was misaligned, so that it wobbled on the old cobbled roadway. The other had so many chips and scuffs that it could barely be called round. It was also burdened by the rolled-up remnants of Hristomarth’s circus banner, the charred wooden hoop, and the few props Hristomarth could quickly steal. It held Greasetrap too, of course.
The wyrmling took up most of the space in the cart, his appendages appearing vestigial against the swollen green boulder of his belly. He cried and moaned as the cart rolled along, pausing only to crane his maw over the side of the cart and be noisily sick.
His siblings did their best to avoid him. They crawled along the roadway at the maximum range of their leashes, which Hristomarth had tied firmly to the shafts he pulled the cart by. Sensing his mood, they kept their shenanigans to a minimum. They also seemed united in their disgust and avoidance of their brother.
One wheel hit a loose cobble, jolting the cart badly. Greasetrap cried out and released a flatulent thunderclap, accompanied moments later by an evil stench that melted Hristomarth’s earwax. Thankfully, the clothes-peg held fast. Hristomarth muttered a wordless complaint about his fate.
“This circumstance is exceedingly unfortunate,” said Borth the jam seller. He walked alongside Hristomarth, though a good fifteen paces away. Over his shoulder he carried a pole with an impromptu satchel at one end—all that remained of his belongings from the booth.
Hristomarth muttered another wordless imprecation.
“One would think you had offended the very Ministers of Fate themselves.”
Hristomarth swore again.
“Nonetheless, I shall persevere. There is safety in numbers along the road.”
Hristomarth glanced over at the jam seller. “Why are you even here?” he demanded waspishly. A piteous moan from the cart punctuated his inquiry.
Borth shrugged nonchalantly. “You are a cheat and a confidence trickster. Your reptiles? A menace who destroyed my livelihood. I am owed restitution!”
“You are welcome to your pick of the wyrmlings behind me,” said Hristomarth. He gestured back to the cart. “I suggest the fat green one. May it bring you much joy.”
Greasetrap belched for a good seven seconds. The cart shook with the efforts of his siblings suddenly trying to escape the stench.
Borth waved a hand dismissively. “It would be unwise of me to accept. For a diverse multitude of reasons. Thus, I must insist upon accompanying you until adequate recompense may be derived.”
Hristomarth cursed him to the Black Vault Below.
“No,” continued Borth. “One is forced to admit that despite your troupe’s numerous flaws, intriguing opportunities do exist. The purse at your side which your wyrmling is attempting to steal? It is heavy with purloined coinage.”
Catchmaw squawked as Hristomarth swatted her away.
“It also occurs to me that any proper circus must provide victuals. Popped corn, candyfloss, sweetmeats. All cut with a minimum of sawdust to maintain profit margins, of course.”
Borth jabbered on about his proposal. At the rear, Greasetrap grew sick again. The other wyrmlings fought to escape, promptly spawning a hissing, snarling ruckus, which made pulling the cart that much harder. A chill breeze picked up, smelling of rain.
Hristomarth pondered. Where next to take his circus? How could he improve it? The thought was interrupted as Catchmaw launched herself at the purse hanging from his waist with a tiny roar.
Dear Reader,
I hope you’ve enjoyed reading Rofolio’s Scaly Circus. While Hristomarth finally made it to the Grand Fair and these tales are now complete, there’s more to come! The story continues in The Blackscale Thief. The first book in the duology, A Conspiracy of Rogues, is available now. You can find out more about it at www.jonathonburgess.com.
Before you go, please consider leaving a review for this book over at Amazon or telling a friend what you thought about it. I have plenty more adventures in mind for the brood of Nesnatoth (especially Greasetrap), but in order to keep telling them, I need to spread the word as far as possible.
Lastly, if you want to be informed about dragon-based news and events, you can find the sign-up form for my newsletter at my website mentioned above.
Thanks for reading,
Jonathon Burgess
Acknowledgments
SHORT FICTION IS DIFFICULT FOR me. There are so many parts you’ve got to get just right. These tales were no exception, and I was sweating blood to finish them. But the idea at their heart—of a rogue stuck raising seven baby dragons—was just too good to leave alone. I may have written these stories, but without the following people they just wouldn’t ever have happened.
My first shout-out goes to Erik Hansen for beta reading and commentary. Your feedback made this a better book by far.
Editing is important. To Crystal Watanabe—thanks for cleaning up my scribbling!
Julie Dillon originally drew the amazing cover art for “A Matter of Scale,” inspiring so much of what came after.
Terry Roy did a bang-up job on the layout and cover design.
To Dawna and Gary Sundberg, thanks for letting me crash at your place while I wrote “A Matter of Scale.”
Fellow writing compatriot Jeremiah Reinmiller always has an ear to lend, even though I tend to fill it with oddball worrying and all my neuroses. Your forbearance is appreciated.
I clearly remember how the idea of “A Matter of Scale” came to me. To Willy Traub, Cody LaRue, and Rachelle Helmkamp, thanks for being part of that discussion, and thanks for rolling so many dice over the years.
Finally, my love and thanks go to Shawna Burgess, my spouse and fiercest critic. You put up with me on a daily basis yet stick by my side anyway.
About the Author
A fabulist and unrelenting raconteur, Jonathon Burgess is always on the hunt for the perfect narrative. Author of the steampunk fantasy The Dawnhawk Trilogy, he will also admit freely to a lifelong love affair with short fiction, some of which have appeared i
n Subtopian Magazine and Untethered: A Magic iPhone Anthology. When not penning tales about thieves and dragons, he can be found haunting the Pacific Northwest, drinking too much coffee, and complaining about his beer. While he’s not fond of them, he can’t seem to leave THAC0 tables alone.
Other Books by
Jonathon Burgess
The Dawnhawk Trilogy
Chasing the Lantern (Book 1)
On Discord Isle (Book 2)
Beneath a Burning Sky (Book 3)
Anthologies
Untethered: A Magic iPhone Anthology
Janine A. Southard, Editor
The Blackscale Thief
A Conspiracy of Rogues (Book 1)
Rogues Unmasked (Book 2)
Rofolio’s Scaly Circus