Listen.
Hey.
Look.
I know the stories the humans tell about heroes.
They always end in the decapitation of nature’s most misunderstood predator.
That’s right: the dragon.
And I’ll be honest: I’ve always thought the old tales of valiant knights going off to take the heads of the great serpentine beasts is a touch unfair.
Sure, they might love burning villages. But who doesn’t from time to time? If you think about it in more of a symbolic sense, we all have our little temper tantrums, right? Some of us like rubbing our butts on the ground, or barking at some narcissistic cat and chasing it up a tree to blow off some steam.
And some of us – not all, mind – maybe kidnap a princess or two. Maybe collect a hoard of tax-free gold. Wouldn’t you? Honestly – the Kings and Queens (so I hear) are always skimming off the labor of the people. Always selling off their daughters and sons to the highest bidder. Are the nobility really any different from the great winged wyrms of legend? Nope. No, sir! At least, not to me. I’m team pro-dragon. Always have been. Always will be. And, while I’ve got your attention, let me just say that you real dragons out there are vastly superior to your basic wyvern or drake cousins. Yep. They don’t hold a candle to your magnificence! I dare say the fire of a real dragon like you (and let’s face it, Brine is the new Red!) burns even hotter than any of them!
So, pretty please with sugar on top, don’t burn me to a crisp.
Because dogs don’t like fire.
And I’m a dog.
And, furthermore, I –
A most amusing creature.
My short foray into sycophantic madness is interrupted by the voice – clear as the crystalline scales on the great beast’s back – that penetrates my mind and lingers there like a soft, smothering blanket of feathers.
It feels…nice, actually.
Like a belly rub for my brain.
The dragon rears up, opens its mouth to show all its angular, curved teeth, and lets out a puff of sapphire smoke.
Most amusing indeed, it echoes in my head. Yours is a mind with many secrets not even you are aware of. It is a jest of Fate, indeed, to place such a heavy collar around such a small creature’s neck.
Swiftrunner’s hackles rise suddenly, and – unbelievably – he actually manages to look up and hold the beast’s gaze.
“He may be small, but I have seen him stand against evil twice his size. He is the Lightborn come to save this world. He is the Loafblade!”
“Uh, Swifty?” I stutter, watching the great wyrm’s face contort as it considers his words. “Maybe reel it back a bit, yeah?”
“You do yourself a disservice, Little-Brother!” he replies, unfazed by the immanent onset of death as usual. “You have faced down the Darkseed’s soldiers when no one else would. I’ve seen it. And if you were there to see it, dragon, then you would be singing Raziel’s praises so all the elves out there could hear you!”
SWIFTY, PLEASE.
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My shaking eyes beg him to stop – as if he hasn’t gone far enough – and I slowly, shakily, turn back to the dragon to see her…laugh.
I didn’t even know they could do that.
The dark chuckle that emanates from her thick throat almost blows us back through the door we came in, and the water of the pool begins spilling out all around us and soaking our paws.
“A true Lightborn, no doubt!” she roars, her great jaw moving to actually form clear, cogent words – probably with a better intonation than me. “One who has inspired such loyalty and confidence from a creature as proud as the common wolf. No easy feat, I must admit.”
She arches her head down so that her snout becomes level with my own. Swiftrunner looks like he’s bracing for battle. Me? I’m not moving a muscle.
After all, it’s not like there’s anywhere to run, right?
“Tell me,” the dragon continues – her breath flaring through her humongous nostrils. “Is Raziel still the name you go by?”
I blink a few times before answering with a curt nod.
“Then well met,” she replies with another toothy smile. “I believe proper introductions are in order. You may call me Palka – Mistress of Glenheim.”
Glenheim…I ponder.
Once again – a name that’s strangely familiar.
“Please forgive the tenacity of dear Myrathellon,” Palka goes on. “She is the youngest of my honor-guard – with a mere 125 years on her shoulders – and thus maintains a tenacity and thirst to prove herself. Doubtless she wished to test the mettle of the one who calls himself Lightborn these days.”
I gulp as I try to digest not only the sight of this mistress, but the gravity of her words.
“These days?”
She snorts. “There have been so many of you that one tends to lose count.”
“Of course,” Swiftrunner exclaims. “Dragons measure time in centuries. You must have been here to see all the Lightborn – and the Darkseeds – that have risen.”
The dragon gives another hoarse chuckle and then – and I swear I’m not making this up – winks at us.
“Never ask a lady her age, my wolfen friend,” she says. “But, yes, I have watched the Lightborn take up their arms against the one you call ‘Darkseed’ countless times since this world began. Since before we started calling it ‘Arwyll’. But I must say,” she adds, edging her snout closer to me so that my entire vision narrows to just her sapphire scales and amber slits. “I have never seen one quite like you.”
She eyes me up like a mother inspecting her newborn pup for any deficiencies – any abnormalities.
And well – yeah – as far as abnormalities go, even in this world of half-naked elves and alcoholic wizards – I’m still a pretty odd sight.
She reels back and towers over us again, apparently satisfied with her inspection.
“Well,” she says. “The name you invoked when our hunters found you granted you safe passage to our realm. Aethel is a good man – a rarity among his kind. Any friend of his is a friend of Glenheim. We welcome you, Swiftrunner of Jagged-Tooth and Loafblade-Lightborn Raziel.”
While I’m wondering why ‘Swiftrunner of Jagged-Tooth’ sounds so much cooler than ‘Loafblade-Lightborn’, it seems Swifty is struck with surprise.
“You – you know of my clan, Palka?”
“Indeed,” she nods. “The mind is the domain of the Brine Dragon. As we age, so too does our capacity for empathy. It is our greatest strength, and though age has long ago taken my wings, still may I fly through an open mind with ease.”
Of course! I think. That’s what’s different about her. The wings on her back hang low, bent into the pool that must serve as her haven. But another part of me – something deep down in my chest it seems – starts to make me scratch in confusion.
Can a dragon really lose its wings just from age alone?
Palka seems to notice my attention is diverted, and her eyes light on mine again. You can’t exactly ignore a face like this for long.
“You must have questions, Lightborn,” she says. “Ask, and I will answer.”
I look up at her. Then, and I’m not sure why, but the first question that comes to my mind simply blurts itself out.
It doesn’t even seem like it’s my own voice that’s asking it:
“If you can read minds, don’t you know what I’m gonna ask you already?”
She smiles again - every tooth a sharp, glittering pearl.
“You have always been an enigma,” she says. “Your mind is the only one that swirls with thoughts that are not your own. Even I can only see slithers of the knowledge you possess. Were I more academically inclined, I would set to studying you for a few decades. Unfortunately, the world does not have such time.”
Swiftrunner nods in understanding and I come to realize that she must know exactly what I’m trying to do, and where I need to go.
“I – we– need to get to Glumgavel to meet with the Greycloaks,” I say. “Do you know the way?”
She considers me for a moment before answering. “I do.”
The answer hangs in the air, echoing through the chamber.
“And – uh – can you show us? Mistress?”
Note to self: try and sound less pathetic when conversing with great magical beings that could singe you with a single breath in the future.
She seems entirely unfazed by my hesitation, however, and lets out another cold sigh that becomes a deep blue haze.
And her answer, spoken in such an angelic voice, chills me to the bone.
“No.”