The Dragon's Death

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. They’d been driven here, years ago, as people moved into the areas opposite the mountains. Their cats and pigs let loose hunted for dragon eggs, and the huge rats that stalked cities stalked dragon nests as well. Their numbers dwindled, and survivors from all over fled into the valley, turning it into a cutthroat land of mismatched species.

Not long ago I’d found a Banded Sand Dragon frolicking on a riverbank. They have long, slender bodies that once burrowed and swam through the Colorado’s dunes. In the valley, they’ve learned instead to slink through the river’s shallows. As I waited for the striped dragon to move on a River Wraith rose from the depths of the river, white wings gliding through the water like fins, and mercilessly tore it to pieces.

I don’t collect water from that area anymore.

Even so, not all bloodshed in the valley is the caused by territorial dragons. The keratin of a dragon’s claw can be carved into an immensely powerful wand, and dragon tongue steaks and hors d'oeuvre are cultural traditions of celebration and luxury. Hunting endangered dragons is increasingly illegal, but no one can tell a dragon’s species by tongue alone.

As the most well stocked habitat for hundreds of miles, every dragon hunter knows where this place is and how to get to here. Consequently, this beautiful valley of sky scraping conifers is called the Dragon’s Death.

Pine needles make for a cushioned forest floor to kneel on. The sun is well passed its zenith but, fortunately, shadows haven’t begun to streak the woods yet.

My day has largely been spent weaving nets, and setting traps, for the three Whiskered Dragon hatchlings sleeping peacefully in the earth below me. A dozen nets are already connected to bowed branches and saplings, and spread across five entrances to the sett – the old badger tunnels where the baby dragons nest.

Only one opening still offers them escape. Two more nets are draped across my shoulders and my arms are full of branches, some carved to points. But instead of constricting the last traps, I’m paused with my ear in the mouth of the tunnel, listening.

A faint, rhythmic sound is leaking from the sett like a whisper.

I close my eyes and think of heat. I visualize the cold of shadows, and the heat of life, and the sun’s warmth permeating and radiating out from everything its light touches. Gradually, the black of my own eyelids is tinged with color.

The ground is cool but not cold; it glows green with spots of warmer yellow. And inside the sett, past the cool blue of its shaded entrance, a fiery-red shape is emanating an array of orange, yellow, and green. Its flank rises and falls a little with each steady, sleeping breath.

Through my magic I can only see the brilliant red of its body heat, but I can imagine its narrow snout lined with two rows of teeth on top, and lithe muscles under its covering of scales.

Suddenly, hammering stakes into the ground here doesn’t seem like a good idea.

Opening my eyes cuts off the spell, but I’m otherwise careful not to move.

If I was a prepared wizard, I could enchant the pegs into stability. A prepared wizard, at this point, would probably have a white birch wand, a lot of comfrey, and abundant hours to weave the enchantments.

Clearly, I am the unprepared kind. I have about an hour before dusk, no comfrey – and I only ever bring one wand. It’s hanging from a leather sheath on my belt and is the beautiful, black keratin of a sun dragon’s claw. An Indigo Dragon, to be specific. Unfortunately, blowing up the hatchlings is not in my job description.

Barely breathing, I’m forced to retreat from the sett as softly as I can. A stately old oak stands about a dozen meters away, with widely spread limbs and a great crown of pronged leaves. I toss the useless branches into the bushes below and catch my breath under the oak.

Complacency is a killer. How many times had I heard that? Yet, it was simple luck that I glanced down the tunnel.

Years ago, when we were both kids, I read a book about a Whiskered Dragon to my little brother. Young ones are popular with children because of their big eyes and tiny, adolescent whiskers that curl up around their noses. It was a warm, cutesy little book; the dragon couldn’t wait to have magic like his parents, so he stuck dried needles under his scales for spikes, and fixed branches to the knubs on his head to look like his parents’ horns.

I don’t know why he thought looking like his parents would give him magic, but I remember my brother giggling as the pictures on each page were drawn sillier and sillier.

The book failed to mention how Whiskered Dragons can slide their entire bottom jaw backwards after taking a bite, to better serrate their victim’s flesh. The hatchling might have woken and fled deeper into the sett. Or it could have sprung out and sunk its teeth into my throat.

I think it will be a while before I get complacent again.

My leather bag is hidden under a modest cover of leaf litter between the oak’s roots, while a weathered bag of fish guts hangs from a rope above me, the outside coated in chili oil. All my other gear is left with my mule about half a kilometer away; he didn’t feel like coming today.

I grab the leather bag and lift myself onto a low branch to keep the dragon’s tunnels in view. It’s the same branch that I’d perched on at dawn and dusk the last several days, after baiting the sett’s entrances with meat and guts. Preparing for the day I would eventually set the nets.

Now that the immediate danger has passed, it’s easy to see the funny little irony of the situation. Why would a hatchling sleep so close to the unsecure opening of its home? To be closer to it’s next free meal.

A dragon hatchling had, unknowingly, outsmarted me at my own game.

Unfortunately for the little dragon, avoiding my traps isn’t a gateway for survival.

Most people don’t know that a dragon has a perfect sense of time and days. Even though they seem to abandon their eggs after taking over a sett or fox burrow, a dragon knows the exact day her eggs could start hatching by the angle and length of the sun’s path, or phases and direction of the moon. And when the time is right, they return.

But the undergrowth around me, easily trampled by the massive beasts, is pristine. Even though the nights are getting colder, no pebbles have been enchanted with heat and left for the hatchlings to warm their sett. And without a mother, it’s improbable that they’ll learn to hunt for bigger prey than grubs. Winter would kill any hatchlings I don’t catch.

I push the last net, which had been draped over my shoulders, into my bag and pull out my flask. The surprising chill of the water finally gives me an idea. My family might just get three baby dragons yet.

I drop from the tree, flask in hand, and toss the leather bag unceremoniously against the trunk. The shadows are starting to lengthen, inviting darkness into the woods and limiting my time.

Under the pine needle cover, the forest floor is full of small rocks. I run my fingers through the dirt and pick up any that are small enough to fit inside my flask. Even though I’m rushing, it feels like it takes forever to fill. Finally, I fasten the flask to my belt and run back to the tree for the bag of guts.

It’s squishy and a bit vile to reach inside, but at least it isn’t rotting. Temperature magic is my forte, and I’ve been using it to keep these scraps on ice. Now, at each entrance except the un-trapped one, I plop down a little pile of organs and entrails and reheat it just enough to release a gamey smell.

The last pile of warm bait has barely hit the ground before I’m off, running straight towards the last open tunnel. Twilight is close enough now that the soil may be masking the sounds of waking dragons below.

Then I’m standing next to the black, sandy hole of the entrance. With steady hands, I pop off the top of the flask and dump every rock and bit of water at my feet. Even when a dragon snout, little whiskers curled around its nostrils, becomes visible through the gloom, I don’t hesitate.

It’s something funny I noticed growing up – choosing to jump in front of a train feels very different than being pushed. I raise my black wand and breath to myself, “Boom.”

For a heartbeat, the hatchling and I stare at each other. It’s not very big – about the size of large cat. Its scales vary from rusty to the color of a dried pine, and it’s claws are long, grey, and barbed at the base.

I think it starts to open its jaws, but that’s as far as it gets before a shocking crack sends us both flinching back. In the span of seconds, a dozen of the wet pebbles explode as they’re superheated, and the little dragon disappears back into the obscurity of the tunnel. Quickly, I kick the leftover pebbles in after it, while keeping the magic flowing into the spell.

Underneath the crackling and popping of the rocks, two faint whooshes signal two leafy branches snapping back into place.

Either baited by the food or terrified by the explosions, the other two hatchlings have tripped the nets. One tan and the other syrupy brown, they’re suspended from different nets over the same entrance. Both are curled up tightly with heads pressed against their bellies, completely silent and still.

The little orange dragon had yet to show itself.

Another rock splits with a pop, and I feel the magic of the spell splatter with no direction left.

Was it enough? Or would the little dragon cower in the tunnels, safe from my traps?

With its siblings occupying both traps at their entrance, it could escape if it followed them. Or face me if it came back.

And suddenly, a bent sapling next to the farthest tunnel sprang up, carrying with it the small, orange dragon.

Exhilaration washes over me, so strong that I shout into the half-light. The towering pines witness my victory, and I call out to them too.

After two weeks in the Dragon’s Death, I finally feel like I’ve made my family proud. I’ll return home with my head held high, delivering three, perfect condition dragon hatchlings back to my family, and the grant money will let us keep our land, and our jobs, for another year. My brother’s face fills my mind as I sheath my wand; I know he’s going to love these guys.

And, after I’ve turned over the hatchlings, my next task will be raiding our cupboards for anything that’s not fish or rabbit meat.

My heart remains light and joyful as I take my time dismantling the unused traps and admire the last whisps of gold in the night sky. On the opposite horizon, a thick moon rises and sends trails of goose bumps down my arms.

The hatchlings stay quiet throughout their wait, instinctively remaining curled defensively while suspended. In my bag, a thick glass bottle of pink valerian potion is waiting to be administered to them.

The potion is a specialty commission, better than I could brew and too potent to be legal. Luckily, my family has connections who readily deal under the table in support of our work. The single bottle would likely knock out a fully grown, two ton Whiskered Dragon. For these babies, I only need to prick them with the needle on the underside of the potion’s lid.

Once they’re unconscious I’ll return them to the safety of their sett, while I walk back to my stubborn mule, readying to argue dominance.

I look towards the oak, and my bag thrown under the tree, but stumble forward before taking a single step.

The feeling is startling and unexpected, but my hometown has just as many witch families as it has wizard ones, and I recognize it immediately from school yard fights. I have just enough time to wrap my arms around my head protectively before I’m lifted off my feet and thrown, violently, backwards though the air.

Gravity brings me down and my head slams against the earth. Dead leaves and pine needles pad the landing, but I’m winded and disoriented. Bushes and alders occupy most of my vision – I can’t see my attacker at all.

Adrenaline keeps me moving. My hand reaches for my wand, but not fast enough. I feel the pull again – a slight jerk like someone is yanking on my buckskin jacket. Then I’m thrown in the opposite direction, rolling through the undergrowth until my face collides with the rough bark of a tree.

Scratches sting my face, and my hips and shoulders feel bruised. Still, I reach for the sheath on my hip.

Then the cool point of a blade rests against my throat.

Above me, moonlight shines down on the pastiest witch I’ve ever seen. It’s possible that her garish, unnaturally red hair worsens the condition. She looks tiny, diminutive even, although it’s hard to tell from my position in the dirt.

“I like your traps,” she says, offering me a blithe smile.

I have to stop myself from trying to swipe the sword from her cocky hands. “I’d love to trade compliments, but I’m afraid it’ll seem forced with my life on the line.”

Several yards behind her, the dragons are still captives in their nets. They’re not alone, though. Half a dozen people have suddenly appeared in the woods. They all seem to be wearing various kinds of tough, leather hide, and they’re moving around the sett with tiny contraptions of chains and shackles. They’ve come to steal the dragons.

Meanwhile, the woman in front of me laughs. “What’s your name?” she asks.

I hesitate. She’s incongruously friendly for someone who was whipping me around the woods moments ago, but I definitely prefer this attitude over the previous.

“Chase.”

“Chase!” she exclaims, like I’ve said something great. “Cause you chase dragons! Oh, that’s such a good one. Guess what I call myself?”

She removes the sword from my throat so anticlimactically that I’m jarred, only to kneel and present it back to me hilt first.

I just stare at her. My brain feels numb from the rapid confusion. Is this a test? Is she checking to see if I’ll grab the sword from her hands? Does she realize that my wand, concealed in it’s sheath, is made from a dragon’s claw?

But she just grins and gestures gaily towards the fuller of the sword. It’s wood. The rest of the blade is dull grey, likely aluminum, but a wand has been inlaid into the thickest part of the metal.

I laugh despite my tension. “Okay,” I admit, “that’s fantastic.”

“It’s. . . Willow.” She holds the sword up to her face and smiles cutely.

Suddenly, I feel like a fool. Willow is a common witch’s wand; it’s a pun. Why did I need to overthink a joke?

Willow grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. Standing, the crown of her head barely reaches my shoulder. Dried leaves and pine needles entangle my hair and cling to my hemp woven pants.

Just then, a scream rips through the woods. Willow spins around as I take in the scene over her head.

The scream came from a huge, brute of a man with bulging abs on display from a startling lack of shirt. His forearms are wrapped in a thick, tan leather that I don’t recognize, and a dark moustache embellishes his face. But most noticeable is the small, orange dragon grinding it’s teeth into the meat of his hand.

He whips his hand down, as though to sling it off, but it’s teeth hold fast. Then he grabs the little dragon by the throat until it’s mouth gapes for air. He opens his fist, and the baby dragon crumples to the ground.

I’m momentarily frozen by the brutality of the scene, but beside me, Willow is laughing.

The hatchling is restrained, and though it’s hard to discern in the dark of night, I don’t see it move as they maneuver its legs and neck into the shackles. The brute stalks off into the woods, blood streaming down his fingers, while the other hatchlings are removed from the nets by a woman wearing thick, leather gloves.

Willow’s hand touches my arm, and she gazes up at me sweetly. I try not to recoil.

"You know, that reminds me,” she ventures. “I noticed right away that you didn’t have any gloves or chains. How on Earth were you planning on transporting those little beasts?”

Her voice is casual, but my heart freezes. I had completely forgotten about the powerful valerian potion hidden in my bag. My neck naturally wants to turn and look for it, but I crush the urge.

Willow watches me with a small grin playing on her face. Nothing about her has changed, but instead of seeing a friendly witch, I suddenly see a dragon hunter clad in a scaled, crocodile skin vest. The material has been cut and crafted to place the lizard’s bony ridges upon her shoulders, like the armour of a war general.

“I don’t know,” I finally answer out loud. “I was making it up as I went.”

Her fingers trace my jawline, as she pouts up at me. Her other hand, I notice, hasn’t sheathed her sword this whole time.

“Were you going to sedate it?” she asks pointedly.

I give her nothing but silence. Somehow, she already knows. But how could she know about the potion, if she’d been by my side this whole time?

She steps back, and lifts her sword back to my throat. “I’m going to give you one last question, Chase. You’re not a dragon hunter, are you?”