by Anthology
“Are you not disgusted at my devouring your kind?" she interrupted. "Are you not angry?”
He was flustered, trying hard not to shake. “Uh, well, they were trying to kill you in your own home, so I guess that it was a valid case of self-defence.”
She blinked slowly, letting him sweat while she mulled over his answer. “A surprisingly fair opinion, for a man-thing,” she said, finally.
My name is Geoffrey," he said.
She blinked slowly in amusement, flicked her tail from side to side.
"And you are of course, Verma…vermikatha…uh, Ver—"
"Vermikalathyxak," she rumbled, tail lashing violently. She lowered her head down to his height. "In your kind's old tongue—" she snorted "—it would translate most accurately as 'Annmarie'. Better you call me that than for me to suffer yet more of your kind's monkey-speak butchering of my true name."
"Annemarie it is then,” he said. “Right, well, dragonomics is the study of the socioeconomic impact of a draconic variable on an area, and—”
“Socioeconomic is a very arrogant term to use,” she said. “Should it not be homoeconomic to take account of your human-centric viewpoint, which undoubtedly excludes any other race from your societal research?”
“Well…yes, perhaps you are correct,” he said, pondering it. “We economists generally do use it to refer to human-only societal economics.” He shifted from foot to foot. “Besides, we tend to use homoeconomic to, ah, refer to a particular subset of humans.”
She worried at a rogue splinter of bone in her gum with the sensitive forks of her tongue. “Humans! You think that you did everything first. There were gay dragons before your race even existed. In my sixteen centuries I have come across myriad wondrous dragons, each different from the last. I assure you, dragons have tried more than your entire race’s petty imagination can conceive of. There are even some distasteful young dragons that choose to—” she let a lick of flame rise from her maw, “—dally with humans. Can you conceive of anything more horrid than that? Never mind the sheer physics involved in such a thing…”
“Fascinating,” he said.
She looked at him sharply, but as far as she could tell he seemed to find it genuinely interesting. "One minute up," she said, dropping her jaw in a grin.
He jumped and started sweating again, licking suddenly dry lips. “Right, to get back to the point,” he said. “In this case, I am studying the economic impact of your presence on the surrounding villages in this Black Hills region of Astelon."
"I see," she said, her voice flat and hard. "You are preparing yet another reason why dragons need to be exterminated. Have your kind not had their fill of hatred?" She closed one great eye in a wink.
His eyes bulged. “Heavens no!” he said, hands flapping wildly. “Your presence actually has a remarkably positive effect on the local economy.”
“It does, does it?”
He pointed down to the uneaten corpses, each of which had twinned tattoos on their wrists—the mark of successful dragon slayers.
"For a long time now we economists have been aware of the short term economic benefits of tattooed two-wrists in any given area. On average, an organised dragon hunt spends ten days narrowing down the location of a dragon's lair, another five to prepare for the assault, and then perhaps fifteen on rest and recovery afterward. A full month's boost to the local economy. Anyway, back to my business plan. As I was saying—"
"A boost to the local economy? How so?"
"Oh, well, simply really." He held up his hands and began ticking off fingers. "That covers: food, grog and board for the men, general supplies, blacksmith work, horse feed, prostitutes, local guides and labour." He looked distracted, his eyes glazed. "And then there is the brief influx of gold after a successful hunt. Of course most of the valuable body parts: scale, bone, blood and venom all leave Astelon and the profits go back…to…er, their homelands…" his voice died off as her hissing grew louder and her tail slammed off the wall of the cavern, crushing stone and gem to powder.
He swallowed. His face went pale and a bead of sweat wound down his forehead and across his cheek. "I assure you, Annemarie, short term profit goes against my plans for this area. My proposal will end this waste, a renewable resource so to speak."
"Speak," she said. "Be quick, lest I decide to swallow you whole right now."
He nodded energetically. "While researching this group of dragon slayers, three things became apparent."
"Firstly, none of the villages in the Black Hills show any sign of dragon attack. Not even an old rumour of such from the elders. Their standard of living actually exceeds that of similar areas. Secondly, there seems to be a thriving second-hand goods market hereabouts." He looked pointedly at the piles of armour and weapons.
Vermikalathyxak shifted on her haunches.
"Thirdly, the local villagers’ livestock herds seem unusually large and remarkably healthy considering the dietary requirements of a fifty tonne drag-"
"Forty-two tonne," she corrected, letting flame drip form her maw. "Do I look like some fattened, waddling beast to you?"
"Ah, I apologise unreservedly," Geoffrey said. "No offense was intended. I stand corrected. You are just so magnificent that you seem all the larger to me."
Before she could reply to his pleasing yet shameless flattery he continued his speech.
"Which indicates the likelihood that you either have your own herds in some secret valley in the hills, or that you import food via the villages. The relative wealth of local villages and the roaring trade in second-hand armour and weapons would seem to indicate the later. Perhaps both."
He looked her in the eye. "Am I correct?"
She growled at him. "Yes. But how exactly will you being an annoying know-it-all stop me eating you right here and now? Oh, and two minutes have now expired."
He squeaked, and then looked around at her shed scales and at the piles of loot. "Yes, well, it's very simple—I propose we form our own corporation which will benefit everybody in Astelon. With my ingenious business plan I am positive that you will see the benefits of partnership."
He looked down at the remains of the dragon slayers. "Well, maybe not everybody benefits. But then Astelon has never been known for its dragon slayers."
"And just what do you think about these slayers," she said, toying with him by blowing smoke and flame towards him. "Sympathy for your fellow man?"
"No, no, not at all," he blustered. "I was most impressed with the way you dealt with those hunters from Estadol. I’d always imagined that their magical protections and wards against dragonfire would result in an epic battle of spear and sword against claw. As I was saying, I estimate that with my plans here I can treble your profit marg—"
"Impressed you say?"
He coughed. "Ah, well, I hadn’t actually considered the benefits to a dragon living in a cave system where the limited space and restricted ventilation could result in an entire company of hunters choking to death from smoke and fumes." He eyed the Cleric's torn robes on the ground and looked like he wanted to throw up. "Well, most of a company dying from smoke. Clerics do tend to bring up the rear."
Her rumbling laughter echoed through the cavern.
Geoffrey smiled, shook his head. "Genius. There are no wards against smoke and fumes. I had wondered why you hadn’t built your lair atop inaccessible mountains. I mean, how exactly could a fully armoured knight get up there never mind try to slay you? Dragons can fly after all, so it would make sense to me. In any case, as I was saying, my ten-year business plan will show you increased productivity by—"
“Perhaps you felt that a bloated—” she let smoke and flame burst from her maw, “—fifty-tonne dragon such as myself could not possibly fly so high and had to crawl into a cave?” She chomped down on one of the human corpses, crunching noisily. Flame dripped from her maw amidst a rain of blood.
He swallowed, wiped his forehead with a sleeve. “I…I am sorry, I did not mean to say that—”
&
nbsp; She spat out bones at his feet, and then she stared at him until he flinched and looked away. “Fifty tonnes…” she hissed, voice low and dripping with malice. The malice was entirely spurious—not that a human could ever tell the difference on a dragon’s face or tongue; they were such crude, blunt creatures. She found it amusing to toy with him. “I would strongly suggest you refrain from any more insults, little mouse.”
His head jerked up and down so quickly that she thought his brittle little neck might snap. A purr of amusement rumbled in her throat. Her eyes narrowed with malicious glee. “So, are you done with your proposal yet?"
He jumped, suddenly realised how much of his precious time had just been wasted. "Sorry. I was just…I meant…” he took a deep, calming breath and then cleared his throat. “To get back to business, I am not sure if you are aware, but Astelon has never had good relations with the larger kingdoms of Estadol and Brandell. Border skirmishes and raids into Astelon are all too common, and our army is woefully underequipped and overstretched.”
A twinkle appeared in his eye. "Which is where we economists come in. We cannot win militarily so we must seek to dominate economically. I feel that dragonomics is the answer to both of our problems.” He looked around at the bones and piles of equipment. "I’m sure that Astelon’s king would not take it amiss if these foreign dragon slaying companies were to come back empty-handed, or even better, not at all. Each dragon they slay boosts their economies. And of course, they kill your kind to make their gold."
Dragonfire dripped, sizzling to the stone from bared fangs. "I am listening. But best be quick."
"I know that you must have some sort of agreement in place with the peasants hereabouts, but with my help this can become big business—maximized profits and minimized expenses. Think of it—advanced warning for yourself, disinformation, perhaps even some subtle assistance. It can’t be too hard to serve the dragon hunters tainted food, so that they get the squats. The services of Astelon wizards could also be arranged if you would like; I know of several wizards that specialize in dispelling and protection wards who would be agreeable for the opportunity to earn some extra gold. I'm sure you would find them most helpful."
She winced, remembering the times when lightning bolts had shrieked through her body.
"And for what?" Geoffrey continued. "Merely a fifty-percent share of all profits from thwarting your killers and the sale of recovered materials. In return you would allow me to arrange the distribution and sale of anything you would be willing to spare: any scales you shed, fire-resistant spit or dragonfire you feel like selling. There is also a market for dragon urine in the Bright Isles. I understand that they use it as an aphrodisiac. The gold will flow in! We will be rich."
She hissed at him.
"No, no. It will be a good thing for you." he said, holding his hands up. "I promise. It could eventually mean the end of humans hating and hunting your kind. Dragons would become a valuable and sustainable resource." He gave her a sly look, "assuming of course that we keep dragons well-fed and supplied with anything and everything that you need."
He frowned, as if something just occurred to him. "Of course, you would all have to swear off eating people who were not trying to kill you. Or ravaging herds without paying the farmers. With my genius at the helm we could even expand this out on a lucrative franchise basis."
He set down his business plan and held out his hand to her. “I know what you are going to say, Annemarie. It is true! You will be richer and more successful than in your wildest dreams!” His eyes almost glowed with avarice.
“Your three minutes are up,” she said. There was a crunch of cartilage as her jaws snapped shut on his bare arm, then she drew her head back, stripping the flesh from his arm, much like a Cleric eating a shish-kebab.
“Bland,” she mumbled, swallowing. Her sire would have lectured her about talking with her mouth full, but then he was far from here, and she was not amongst polite company. The economist stared in dumb horror as the bloody bones of his arm flopped to his side, hanging by shreds of flesh and tendon. He drew breath to scream, mouth gaping.
Her paw slammed down, crushing him to the stone. With one claw she cut the clothes from his flesh and then swallowed him whole.
“Keep me as fattened, dumb cattle would you?” she said, licking blood from her maw. “You forgot one thing—nobody likes a smug banker. Besides, I did say you had three minutes before I ate you up. Should have listened to the small details more closely.”
She stretched dainty claws out and carefully picked up the pages of vellum, holding them up to her eyes. Such tiny writing. She looked over his business plan and found it very well thought out. She burped, tasted economist again. "Consider me convinced." She settled down to read it all thoroughly.
Some time later the clatter of cart wheels outside the caves announced the arrival of the human village elder, Gunther. He shuffled in and knelt on the stone, head bowed. “Oh mighty and beautiful Annmarie. Would now be a good time to clean up and take the goods to market?”
That economist, whatever his name had been—she'd forgotten already—had actually stumbled upon something intriguing. Of course, he’d had entirely the wrong idea of who would be in charge. He really should have studied dragons more thoroughly; if he had, then he might have realised that almost all dragons had great pride and a burning need for independence.
Now that the middle-man was out of the way…“Gunther,” she said. “It is time we had a long talk about economics. with my genius, I have come up with a few new ideas to increase profit margins.” The business plan called for a motivated and loyal workforce however—“With great generosity I am offering the villagers five percent of all profits…”
His eyes brimmed over with tears of joy.
Head Games(Short story)
by Cameron Johnston
Orginally published by Swords and Sorcery Magazine
Seven corpses lined the side of the alley, heaped atop pig shit and kitchen slops. Stained blankets did little to conceal the lumps of butchered human meat beneath. A black-clad warden wearing the red sash of a captain stood in the middle of the bloody mess, his back to me, hand resting on the pommel of the sword at his waist. I pried the bent rollup from my lips and yawned tabac smoke, scratching at my chin, bristles rasping. They had hauled me out of a warm bed and sent me trudging halfway across the bloody city for this?
I tched. Seven was a quiet night for the Warrens—it was called the cess-pit of Setharis for a damn good reason. I stuck the rollup back between my teeth and picked my way forward, shards of pottery crunching underfoot, decaying tenements groaning and creaking on either side. Why had the Arcanum ordered their loathed tyrant to a murder scene? None of those oh-so-worthy magi, poncing about in silken robes, were comfortable with the idea that I could use my Gift to get into their heads. But I had to do as the Inner Circle demanded, unless I felt like being back out on the streets opening my veins for mageblood addicts to get high on a touch of magic—or worse, I could start using my Gift too much.
The warden turned, scowled. My mood plummeted. "Walker,” he spat. "Of all magi, why did they have to send you?" Captain Matthias Meldrum of the city wardens regarded me with that familiar mix of contempt and utter disgust he reserved solely for me. Considering he was in the scummiest part of Setharis and ankle-deep in a pile of human intestines and grey-green offal, I thought it a little unfair. His moustache was trimmed and waxed in the very latest fashion, but for once he wasn’t wearing his dress uniform all edged in gold thread, instead plain black tunic and trousers.
"Guess you've pissed somebody off," I said in a cloud of smoke. "Good to see you too, Meldrum.” Pompous prick.
Opposite the corpses, a hole gaped in the tenement wall. As I studied the scene Meldrum studied me, hand twitching around the hilt of his sword. Worrying, that. I peered through the crumbled hole into a flooded cellar.
A pair of ashen-faced wardens carrying wicker baskets filled with glistening organs hailed themselve
s up from the gloom and slopped the contents out into the alley, looking ready to empty their guts too.
"You are a waste of time, Walker," Meldrum said. "I called for a seer. What use is a sot like you?”
I grinned, pointed to his shiny new boots. "You have a kidney on your foot. You’re welcome."
He grimaced, shook it off.
"You called for a magus," I said, spreading my arms wide. "Now you have a magus."
He groaned and lifted a bloodstained glove to massage his temples, leaving streaks. Ha! Still, at least he’d deigned get his own precious hands dirty down amongst filthy peasants.
I was a Docklander and these were my folk, every last filthy, thieving, one of them. It might be my home, but I didn't really belong any more. Here or anywhere else. Still…somebody had to give a rat’s arse about them, and nobody else was going to. "What have you found?"
Meldrum sighed, moving from corpse to corpse peeling back cloth. "Seven men, butchered." He’d done his best at putting them back together, but bits were clearly missing—an arm here, a foot there, internal organs, an entire torso. However, I noted no heads had been taken.
"When were they found?”
"The doorway to this cellar collapsed a week ago. Somebody finally got around to reporting the bodies to my men last night. All I can say with certainty is that they have been in there for more than seven days."
It was a strange answer. Meldrum was precise and methodical, and far more knowledgeable about how long somebody had been rotting than the likes of me. There had to be a good reason he had asked the Arcanum to send a magus.
"What do you expect me to do about a few poxy murders?” I asked. “I’m no thief-taker.” I wasn’t allowed to rifle through people’s minds without high-level authorisation, and all I could do otherwise was produce a waft of air or a few feeble sparks of flame.