Bedlam

The green dragon—an adult female, once a great creature worthy of stories and legends, massive enough to crush buildings underfoot—had been reduced to a powerless, pitiful thing. It was pinned to the earth by thick wooden poles that impaled its wings in numerous places, flared at the ends like nails to prevent escape. Three arches of wood kept the long neck pinned, leaving a head the size of a horse tossing uselessly. Shining emeraldine scales had been dirtied from scrabbling in the soil and bloodied by its wounded patagia, leaving it looking less like a mythical creature and more like a frightened, cornered animal.

Bedlam lounged on a flat rock some twenty feet downhill from the beast, cushioned by a thick bed of moss. He ripped a tough chunk of meat off the roast grinner leg, spat out a bit of gristle, and wiped grease from his chin with the back of his sleeve. His three full rows of AP crystals gleamed in the pale, overcast light.

Eyes like platters were fixed unerringly on him, pupils sharp as knives fixed within amber irises. The dragon opened its mouth, showing teeth like swords, to breathe a corrosive mist that would melt him down to his bones, but nothing came out except a trickle of pungent, sulfurous fluid. The dragon was left gaping its jaws idiotically, achieving nothing.

Bedlam yawned.

He took another bite of his meal. Most people found grinner meat distasteful, but he liked it—the almost rancid bitterness added something unique, he thought.

Meanwhile, the dragon had not had a morsel to eat or a drop to drink in three days, going on four.

It was a stubborn animal, its will seemingly unbreakable.

But Bedlam was stubborn too, and he had never met a living creature, whether man or beast, whose will could not be broken.

"You're the one dragging this out, you know!" Bedlam called to the dragon. "I can let you up from there whenever you like!" Ripping the last bit of meat off the bone, he hurled it spinning through the air, and it clacked as it landed on a sizable pile of other such remnants that littered the ground just out of the dragon's reach.

The dragon gave a furious rumble in reply, so deep it was almost inaudible, so powerful it shook the earth and sent small pebbles rattling.

Bedlam laughed, shaking his head as he worked at a sliver of flesh caught between his teeth with his thumbnail. "All right, then. I can wait."

Bedlam dozed for a while beneath the sullen, gray sky, allowing his thoughts to drift. A hunter for as long as he could remember, long waits were nothing new to him—delayed gratification was the sweetest kind, anyway.

He'd spent a long time tracking the dragon, then he'd spent a long time trapping it. And now he was going to tame it, however long it took.

Both his and the beast's attention were pricked by a bit of paper flying through the air high above. Two sets of eyes followed the thing as it fluttered this way and that, then dove abruptly, spiraling downward until the Message landed flat on Bedlam's chest.

"A letter for me," Bedlam hummed happily, immediately sitting up and tearing into the yellow oil-paper envelope. "It's been so long. Who do you think it's from, girl?"

The dragon did not answer.

Bedlam shrugged, pulling out the letter and scanning it over.

Action requested.

Status: Urgent.

Type: Resource retrieval.

Target outlined below.

Samantha Darling. Level 5 Laborer. Known aliases: 'Peaceful Fist'. Resident of Sheerhome. Potentially traveling north along Iron Road; destination unknown.

Potentially traveling with two companions, outlined below.

William Greene. Level 15 Cook/Explorer synergist. Known aliases: 'the Misfortune', 'One-Eye'. Engage with caution.

Matthew Caldwell. Level 11 Farmer/Builder synergist. Known aliases: 'Mongrel'.

Sam Darling is a potential pressure point against Wayward Learner due to suspected blood relations. Locate target and recruit/apprehend, then report in and await further instructions.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

Ensure the target's survival at all costs. Secondaries may be dispensed with however the agent sees fit. Find tracking medium enclosed.

Bedlam laughed as he read over the letter. A missive from the Strategist himself, eh? Sent through one of his proxies, assuredly, but all the same.

It had been quite some time since Bedlam had last heard from the bastard. He didn't exactly appreciate being ordered around like a scullery maid, but in this instance, he couldn't say that he minded too much. The girl didn't interest him at all—what the task implied, however? Finally getting to lock horns with the Nightmare King sounded like a good time.

Bedlam glanced up at the dragon and sighed. Suddenly, his present task seemed a chore. He refused to leave before seeing it through to the end, though.

"O Era," he said as he leapt to his feet, twisting his torso this way and that to work the stiffness out of it, "join our hearts, that we may become one."

[Familiar creation failed. Invalid target.]

"You're making this so very difficult," Bedlam said with a disappointed shake of his head, hopping off his flat rock and picking his way up the stony hill toward the dragon's ponderous head. "But you know what? I think I've finally come up with a name for you." He made a series of hand signs, and another wooden Scaffolding pole appeared in the air, then shot with force straight down, became another giant nail that pinned the winged beast to the earth.

The dragon roared in pain and rage and contempt. Acid spittle flew from its mouth, and would have landed on him if he didn't erect a Barrier between them. The dragon mustered some deep scrap of strength, thrashing its whole body against its bonds, tail swishing wildly and sending stones tumbling down the hillside.

Before long, however, exhaustion took it, and it settled into seething silence, huge round eyes fixed always on Bedlam, unblinking.

"I'm going to call you Whiskers," Bedlam said with a friendly smile up at the dragon. "I hope you like it."

She would break in another day or two. After that, he would go looking for the bullet with Jack Darling's name on it.

* * *

Sam

There was not anything particularly iron-y about the Iron Road. In fact, there wasn't even much stone to speak of, just a wide dirt path deeply furrowed by wheel tracks. Every once in a while, they passed raised, squarish stones by the side of the road, which Mongrel explained were mile markers.

Since they were meant to be traveling in secret, the chimps were forced to follow along through the forest on their left due to being too recognizable, far enough not to be seen but close enough to assist in case things got dangerous.

Sam and Mongrel walked side by side, the old man whistling a happy tune while leading his pack-laden mule by the bridle. Sam felt a bit bad for her, so she took two of the four saddlebags to wear across her shoulders like a yoke, taking a bit of weight off Zero's back.

"You don't need to do that, you know," Mongrel said. "The old girl's carried heavier than this."

"I'm happy to do it!" Sam chirped. "Besides, a bit of extra weight'll help me level up faster, won't it?"

"I suppose."

"Gotta think smarter and harder. Keep up, old man."

Mongrel snorted. "You do that. Me? I'm happy if I get some other sap to do the thinking for me."

"Like Nyx?"

"Like—" The old man shot her a sour glare, sucking noisily on his teeth. "That cock-tease is lucky I put up with her at all."

"Will mentioned something about her working for you now."

"I… guess so? Hard to say what that's all about, really."

"In that case, maybe you could teach her some manners? She doesn't seem to respect other people very much."

"Oh, sure. Right after I teach her to sit pretty and bark on command."

"And wear clothes on a regular basis."

"Actually, that's one personality quirk I think I can live with. Say what you want about the bitch, she ain't hard on the eyes."

“Do you love her?”

"Do I— Kid, did that Henke fella knock all the sense out of your head? Of course fucking not! She's a horrible, gold-digging, cock-munching, deceptively alluring little creature, and nothing but!"

"All right," Sam said, grinning. "Whatever you say. But methinks the lady doth protest too much."

"Stop talking all fancy like that. It's annoying."

"As the lady wishes."

"Shut up."

It was only mid-morning, but there was a surprising amount of traffic going to and from Sheerhome. There were small troops of mounted militiamen keeping the road safe, merchants in armored horse-drawn coaches protected by heavily armed caravan guards, humbler peddlers on carts drawn by mules or simply trudging on foot with overstuffed packs of goods. There were adventurers; hopefuls who did not yet understand the true nature of the Frontier. There were itinerant Entertainers, bards and the like clad in colorful garb and lugging instrument cases.

More than once, she saw a load of slaves rattle past in rusted wagon-borne cages, faces bleak and despondent. Sam wished there was something she could do for them, but she did not know what, and no one else seemed to care, barely glancing at the human chattel as they went about their own mundane business.

Contrasting against the human misery, both weather and view remained fair. They were mostly surrounded by conifers, pines and firs gently swaying, but sometimes the road drifted into view of the River Sterling, rocky and wild and foaming white.

The sun stood high, with a mild breeze to cut through the approaching noonday heat. Birds sang. Once, Sam saw a deer turn from the treeline at the sight of humans and hop off into the woods.

Sometimes, the trip felt like a regular hike—almost pleasant, if not for the fact that Will wasn't there. As soon as she began to get comfortable, though, some fresh horror reared its head to remind her exactly where she was. Once they came to an old crossroads, a disused path to some long-abandoned settlement forking off west, where five men had been strung up on rough-hewn gallows and hanged, arms bound behind their backs. The bluish, bloated corpses did slow, slow pirouettes on the wind, wooden signboards around their necks identifying them as bandits. Baking in the sun, they let off an unspeakable stench that made Sam retch.

People walked around the hanged men on either side, no one paying them much attention except for a pair of low-level adventurers who stood gawking up at them, looking very much like they had begun to regret their decision to travel inland.

Sam could not get out of there quick enough.

An hour or so down the road, a pillar of smoke in the distance warned her before they turned a bend in the winding road and found a group of militiamen burning a pile of what turned out to be grinners, wearing masks over their faces.

The corpses had smelled better. It was a miracle that she kept her breakfast down.