Chapter 1 – A Cost of Grandmas

“Curse all dragons and the day their mothers were born,” the purple-robed individual muttered as he followed the winding trail up Crasse’s mountain. He swung his oaken staff at a stray rock, watching as it cascaded down the face of the mountain. He swept his sweat drenched mop of hair out of his eyes as he squinted toward the summit.

"One would think the temperature would drop as I climb. And why twisty-turnies?” he complained. It had been almost an hour of trekking, but it seemed as if he hadn’t made any progress.

The sweltering heat only became more pronounced as he followed the winding trail up the slope. Gravel crunched beneath his laboring steps and his ever-present staff. The sun began to descend until his robe took on a shade of blue in the failing light. Not a breath of wind stirred the low-lying scrubs along the path.

The mage pulled up at two looming towers of boulders piled precariously upon one another. A small gap lay between the towers large enough for two men, or maybe three especially skinny men, to walk abreast. A large rock formation stretched to either side forming a cliff around a valley.

The man took a swig from his canteen as he surveyed the entrance to Crasse’s home. Within was said to lay treasures none could ever imagine. Hoards of gold, jewels, legendary weapons of old and anything else of worth were said to be stockpiled by the great dragon of Arbandule. Centuries worth of plunder lay uselessly gathering dust thanks to the great greed of dragonkind. No man had seen the great hoard with his own two eyes and lived to tell the tale.

A nervous cough issued from the mage’s throat. He was crossing paths with a mighty power.

“Crasse! Crasse you bag of scales! Come out! I have something you’d be interested in!” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

Rule number one of the magical world: Never show weakness. Only a fool would give an enemy an opening.

He waited for several minutes before he felt rather than saw the sun begin to set behind his back. His eyes remained on the valley entrance. The old lizard was testing him. Patiently, he leaned on his staff. The dragon would come.

The wind shifted as soon as the sun set. It was barely perceptible at first, but soon, a rush of wind emanated from the valley. It grew until it gathered the force of a gale whipping the branches of lonely trees and bending their trunks until they creaked with the strain. Shrubs uprooted and flew through the air, tumbling down the mountainside.

If the mage had felt hot before, he felt virtually on fire as the wind reached him. Sweat cascaded from his brow in rivulets and he clenched his teeth and stood his ground. He pushed his staff as deep into the earth as he could and willed the air around him to cool. A spell took shape around him in the shape of a cocoon, making the air shimmer with a blue color.

Green rose from behind the cliffside. A sea green colored mass more resembling the waters of a certain kelp-infested seashore millions of miles away flapped its two back wings as it ascended into the air. A third wing unfurled from beneath the mass, larger than both of the back wings combined, and with a lazy woosh that sent the mage flat on his back, the mass came closer.

Crasse hovered over the fallen man, her two back wings open and catching unseen air currents while her underwing split into two and flapped lazily, keeping her aloft. Fins of a darker green color lined her back, and a large scar ran the length of her body stopping at a wide stub at her back end that used to be her tail. Two bright yellow eyes bore into the mage, and her snout issued bouts of steam with each breath.

“Pauline’s little pup,” Crasse remarked as she studied the mage who was quickly getting to his feet. Her voice bounced off the mountainside, echoing as it traveled down to the base. “What could you possibly have that I would want?”

The mage brushed the dirt off of his robe as best as he could while gathering his courage. It wouldn’t do to show weakness now. He reached down and grabbed his staff, finding comfort in its familiarity. His spell of coolness had broken down, and he dared not waste effort in trying to reset it.

“Yes, it is I, Alamastir. It’s good to know you haven’t forgotten dear mother. I’m sure she’d have much to say if she were here now.”

The dragon snorted in annoyance. She landed with a resounding thud, tearing up the ground and threatening to throw Alamastir’s balance again. She blew a puff of air at the mage.

“Pauline was such fun. I can remember that one time she wiped an entire city off the map trying to bind me. Such fun days,” the dragon mused. “So, what brings her offspring to my doorstep?” she asked with a gleam in her eyes. “You had best not be wasting my time.”

The hood to Alamastir’s robe had fallen back revealing a nest of blonde hair pasted to his scalp in every which way. Beads of sweat joined together to form little streams as they fell to the ground. He’d die of dehydration if this kept on any longer.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Turn the heat down, lizard. I’ll be forced to use my magic,” he very unconfidently postured.

Crasse merely smirked, but a definite decrease in temperature could be felt. Finally not feeling like he was being baked alive, Alamastir reached down to his belt where a felt pouch hung on two little strings. He tugged roughly, breaking both strings, and threw the pouch at the dragon’s feet, or claws, whatever they were called.

“I recovered something the other day that you might be interested in.”

The dragon sniffed the pouch warily. She extended her senses, searching for a trap. Finding none, she prodded it with a talon. As soon as she made contact, her eyes widened and her pupils dilated.

Crasse growled threateningly at the mage as she shoved her head straight into the pouch. First her snout, then her eyes and then her entire head disappeared until a headless dragon stood in front of Alamastir. The mage stood patiently, knowing he’d hooked his prey. After what seemed like an eternity, Crasse reemerged with a murderous look in her eyes.

“You dare attack my brood!” she shouted menacingly.

The mage held his hands up in a gesture of neutrality.

“On the contrary your Sliminess. I merely stumbled upon it during my travels to the north. Your grandson, wasn’t it?” he cheekily offended.

Embers began to burn at the back of the dragon’s throat before she held herself back. Centuries of experience told her that she’d be able to turn the mage into paste but not without a price. This wasn’t the perfect time and place for a fight.

Crasse tipped the pouch over allowing gold coins to spill forth in such quantity that the mage was left standing ankle deep in gold before she shut the magic of the pouch off.

“Explain yourself.”

“Not before we seal the trade. I have need of your powers.”

The dragon snorted irately, shifting position so as to better pounce on the mage and tear his throat out. How many years had it been since she’d last fought?

“What would a mage need from me? Your kind would never associate with the lizards of fire,” she sarcastically remarked.

Alamastir held a dirty finger up. He scrunched his face upon seeing the dirt and hastily rubbed it off on his robe.

“My studies have brought me to a point where I need an artifact that can only be procured through your abilities.” He paused for effect before pushing on. “A Heart of Crum is all I need.”

It was now Crasse’s turn to pause. A Heart of Crum was a simple make, but it required a dragon’s flame. Cooking a rare crum toad’s heart with a dragon’s flame for seventy days without burning it was more than just keeping the right temperature and keeping track of time. It required an intimate control of magic as well.

But it was the uses that bothered Crasse. What could the wily and infuriating mage be up to? The answer was not clear, but the man’s history was telling. If her informants were correct, he’d spent the last decade searching for a cure for his mother’s state of deep sleep.

“Trying to revive mother, are you?” she asked.

Alamastir hissed a breath before composing himself. “That has nothing to do with you. Now, do we have a deal?”

Crasse rolled her neck slowly. A glance at the now dark sky and its bright, full moon reminded her of the days she’d flown about recklessly wherever she wanted, destroying whoever she wanted and plundering whatever she wanted. Those days had been full of purpose but also dangerous. Did she truly want to help revive a mage that might come to harm her in the coming days?

The mage waited expectantly, thinking he’d won. Crasse pondered on her next step. She could attack the mage, but that would lead to a fight and injury that would leave her vulnerable to other enemies. She could also refuse, but that was out of the picture. The horde of her grandson was nothing short of spectacular. Lavish thrones, detailed tapestries, swords and axes of precious metals, jewels the size of a fist and gold in quantities any mortal king would salivate over what lay within the pouch. Secretly, she was proud to have had a descendant who’d amassed such a large treasure. Maybe she’d have had to fight her grandson, a massive blue dragon if she remembered correctly, over such a treat. It only made her more perplexed as to how the scrawny mage had gotten his hands on it.

“First, the story,” she said as she rested on her haunches.

Alamastir cleared his throat. “A small matter really,” he said as he waved his hands aimlessly about. “A dragon lay dead near a mountain range far to the north,” he continued, purposely not giving as many details as he could. “It took a bit of searching, but being the genius that I am, I was able to find his hoard. It was a small matter to clean it up. Would’ve been a shame if someone else had gotten to it.”

The dragon looked unimpressed. “Who killed him?”

“Can’t be sure. He was surrounded by skeletons. Maybe a necromancer. Or maybe he roasted all of his attackers. I really didn’t take the time to look,” Alamastir blatantly lied. “So, will you make it?”

Crasse stood up, making sure to throw the mage off balance again with the shifting of the wind.

“And this is all of it?” she asked.

“Of course. I’m not stupid enough to steal from a hoard and then offer it. If I wanted that wealth, I’d have stolen all of it. Revealing dragonmarked coin to a dragon is a stupid way to make enemies.”

Crasse shook her head in disgust. The weasel of a man had a good point, and he also had something any dragon would covet.

“Very well. But at a cost.”

Alamastir protested with a sound that sounded like a raven choking on a pinecone. “The hell do you mean at a cost?” he protested. He infuriatingly swept a hand over the pouch. “This is a kingdom’s ransom and more.”

Crasse chuckled mockingly. “We both know I’d never let you leave alive with this. But before you cry foul,” she said, cutting off Alamastir’s continued protests. “Before you cry foul, listen to the deal.”

Alamastir shut his mouth, clenching his teeth in frustration. There was no way he’d bow down to a dragon. Without allowing the dragon to notice, he reached for his magic, preparing an offensive spell.

“Well? What is it?”

Crasse allowed her eyelids to close as she prepared for a possible attack from the mage. She prepared her defenses and gathered the magic of the world.

“Think of it as a favor. A small matter that should take little effort from a big-time mage such as yourself.”

“Spill it, lizard,” Alamastir angrily retorted.

“All I want is for you to fulfill the wishes of ten grandmothers. Just ten,” Crasse spoke as she opened her eyes. Either the mage would acquiesce, or else they would battle.

Alamastir’s mouth hung open in shock. He’d clearly been caught off guard.

“What in the name of all that’s magical?” he questioned. “Grandmas?”