by Simon Haynes
The Desolator
© Simon Haynes 2011
Originally Published in
Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine #6
There was but one settlement on the sun-baked Plains of Gorp: the hamlet of Yendour. Nestled in a bend of the river Otirian, the rag-tag collection of buildings was a magnet for adventurers from the icy wastes of the North and the sandy wastes of the South. It would have attracted parties from the watery wastes of the East and the mountainous wastes of the West, but they were populated by humongous sea snakes and murderous rock trolls respectively, and nobody was stupid enough to live there.
It was near midnight, and Skewkeep the Well-Hung glittered in the night sky, his prominent sword a beacon to countless wanderers in the wild and savage wastes. But there were few wanderers abroad, for Yendour was beseiged by a dragon.
No ordinary dragon, the Desolator was a scrawny, bad-tempered beast. It had a nasty habit of stealing animals and eating them in the air above the town. In Yendour it could literally rain cats and dogs, although you were more likely to get a down paw.
The scaly beast had soon tired of raining half-eaten pets on the populace, and had taken to swooping on the inhabitants instead. It had nabbed half a dozen villagers from the main street in less than a week, and although there were plenty more available it was the principle of the thing which rankled.
Cries for help had been answered, and parties of adventurers had been pouring into the town for days. Like adventurers the world over, the mob had congregated in the local tavern. There is nothing like a rousing piss-up to steady the nerves, especially when you’re likely to die in a dragon’s jaws in the cold, grey dawn. As a result, yellow light and blue language poured in equal measure from the doors of Kurt's Trinkplatz. Inside, the tavern was packed with assorted races: dwarves, elves, humans, even the odd halfling. There were some very odd halflings, but after a whispered conference they decided to try their luck at the Belaying Pin, a secluded establishment further along the road.
Kurt, the beefy landlord, worked the counter with an easy manner - chatting to his clients about the weather, enquiring about the health of their families, and in return being told to piss off or to drown himself in troll bile. Undeterred, he persisted, all the while serving beer and taking money.
A movement caught his eye - a halfling perched on a stool at the far end of the bar was gesturing at him. Kurt moonwalked his bulk across the uneven floor, caught his heel on a flagstone and landed on his backside with a meaty thud. He bounced up, laughing to the crowd. The crowd hadn’t noticed.
Up close, the halfling looked more like a seasoned warrior than someone’s curly-headed nephew. His short, burly frame was clad in weathered combat fatigues, and there was an unpleasant light in his piercing blue eyes. Nevertheless, Kurt leant across the counter and beamed his best ale-selling smile. “Good eve, my cheery little fellow. How might I serve? A glass of cold milk perhaps?”
At that very moment, a bunch of drunken wizards began a rousing song, drowning out the halfling’s sharp reply.
“Eh?” yelled Kurt, leaning closer.
Before he could react, small hairy fingers darted out and grabbed his ear in a surprisingly strong grip. The point of a well-honed dagger appeared at the tip of his nose. “Hello, my name is Runt,” said the halfling, "I’d like two beers and a bloody mary."
"Wh-what's a bloody mary?"
“No idea,” said the halfling, with a wave of the dagger. “But I can guess at one of the ingredients.”
“Coming right up, fine sir,” cried Kurt. He grabbed a well-worn book, moistened his thumb and began to turn the pages. “Haven’t seen you round these parts before,” he shouted. “Been here long?”
“Too f-“ cheers from the wizards “-g long,” said the halfling. “And if you don’t hurry up my companions...” he paused to jerk a tiny thumb towards a table in the corner “...will come over and kill you.”
Kurt peered through the haze and saw two humans seated in the shadows - a lean, rangy cleric in a faded brown habit with the hood drawn up, and a huge bronzed fellow with dented armour and an impressive mane of blond hair. “Brothers in arms?”
“Shut up and make the drinks,” yelled the Halfling, leaping from the stool and vanishing from sight. He reappeared a moment or two later, forcing his way through the crowd with judicious use of his elbows.
The cleric looked up as the halfling emerged from the group of groaning, doubled-up drinkers. “You took your time. Don’t they serve minors?”
“Do I look like a dwarf?”
“I meant… Oh, forget it. Sit down, you’re making people nervous.” The cleric, who was travelling under the name of Father Mephistopheles, withdrew a well-worn book from his pocket and began turning the pages.
“Expecting trouble, Father M.?” asked Runt, clambering onto his chair.
“There’s a dragon terrorising the town, Runt. Of course I’m expecting trouble.”
“Dragon?” said the third member of the party, suddenly alert. The table creaked as the fighter leant forwards on his thick arms. “Who said dragon?”
“Relax Hurm, we were just-“
The man-mountain leapt to his feet, blond hair waving and muscles writhing like copulating snakes. "I am HURM!" he yelled, drawing his two-handed sword and waving it around his head like a helicopter blade. In the sudden silence, the swish of razor-sharp steel sounded like escaping steam.
“Sit down, beefcake,” hissed Father M. “Sit, or I’ll turn your hair into rat tails.”
The flashing sword slowed, then stopped, and the fighter regained his chair amidst a round of drunken cheering.
“Bloody amateurs,” said the cleric. “We came here with a plan, and by Skewkeep’s left testicle we’re going to stick to it.”
Runt glanced round at a curious slithering sound and saw Kurt moonwalking towards them with a tray of drinks. The glasses were half empty, and the tray brimmed with frothy reddish liquid. As he leant forward to set the drinks on the table, the trayful of liquid shot down the back of Runt’s neck.
“Shit!” yelled the Halfling, bobbing up and down, scrunching his shoulders as he tried to rid himself of the cold, clammy mixture running down his back. Then he reached for Glimmer, but before the renowned blade could put in an appearance Kurt was halfway to the bar.
“I’ll kill the bastard,” seethed Runt, finally drawing his sword. He set off in pursuit, only to be brought up short by a thin, bony hand on his shoulder.
“Are you mad?” Father M. leant close. “Now sit down and shut up or I’ll put you over my knee and give you a hiding.”
“Oh yeah?” There was a flash of silver, and Glimmer was suddenly pointing at the cleric’s throat. “I’m getting fed up with your superiority complex, book basher.”
Father M’s eyes widened. “A midget with attitude. Great, just great.” He snapped his fingers and the blade fell off the sword, leaving Runt brandishing an ornate handle. “Anything else you want neutered while I’m at it?”
Runt picked up the blade, his eyes bright with tears. “Glimmer! Oh, Glimmer! Long and tedious will be the songs composed in thy honour!” He raised the broken pieces and closed his eyes. “I shall not rest until--”
“Don’t start that nonsense,” said the cleric. “You only just bought the thing from that squinty little shit down Terrace road.”
“It’s still a magic sword.”
“No, it was a magic sword. Now it’s a magic artifact.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Try killing an orc with an artifact.”
“What plan?” asked Hurm suddenly.
“Eh?” Father M. stared at the fighter. “Oh, that. You don’t think we’re just going to wave swords at the nasty lizard, do you?”
Hurm looked surprised. Clearly he’d been thinking exactly that.
“Give me strength,” sighed the cleric. “Hurm, this thing is a monster. It’s …”
Hurm leapt to his feet. “I am HURM! I will defeat the mighty-“ Suddenly he clutched his throat, fighting for breath. He turned his bulging eyes on Father M, who was motioning him to sit down. He did so, involuntarily.
“Once more, and I take your head off,” said Father M icily.
“Yeah, Hurm, pretty dumb,” chimed in the halfling. “If we draw attention to ourselves they'll have me on the table reciting epic poetry before you can add two prime --” He got no further, for a hand grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and hoiked him out of his chair. A very large man wearing a bearskin rug peered at him with bloodshot eyes. “At it, short-arshe," he yelled, blasting Runt with stale, beery breath. “Shing someshing, or I'll shave your feet!” His bear-skinned companions howled with laughter.
"If you don't put me down, my friends here..." Runt gestured to his companions. Hurm was grawing his thumbnail, while the cleric was carving runes into the back of a gold ring… “My friends here!” shouted Runt.
"Shuddup and enternai, etnerta, entretin, . . . sing a bloody shong for us,” said the bearskin rug, plonking Runt down on a table. Hemmed in from all sides by eager listeners, he had no choice but to sing. He cleared his throat, raised his voice and began.
“This is the tale of a dragon, Oh!
As big as a house and as hot as the sun
Skin like bark and legs like trunks
It’s the DESOLATOR! Run, run, run!
“For this is the tale of a dragon, Oh! (“Oh!” yelled several dozen lusty voices.)
As mean as a rat and as old as a rock
Ears like a bat and teeth made of flint
It’s the DESOLATOR, after your flock!
“For this is the tale of a dragon, Oh! (“OH!!” howled the crowd)
And when he arrives, you’re fresh out of luck.
He’ll snap up your maidens, virgins or whores
It’s the DESOLATOR, and he don’t give a f--”