The Dragon's Tail

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. But there were harpies. Harpies whose screams pierced the stoic stillness of the night like a hammer on glass. Wails that made you look up to the shadowy sky in terror for those quicksilver claws to come racing down, bury into your flesh, and carry you off to some dismal cave smelling of rot and dank, filled with similar unfortunates. Yes, there had been harpies.

There had been trolls. Huge, green, warty, slimy things, wielding clubs from whatever giant thing they could find around them that would cause the most death and splatter. Trolls that lurked in the woods or rocks by the one good road that went through the valley, waiting to turn hapless travelers into paste. Fortunately for said travelers’ such deaths could often be avoided because the stench of a troll was so eye-wateringly disgusting that it could smelled from a mile away down wind.

There had been squirrels, and they had been the worst of all, until the big D, that is. The doleful black eyes, like looking into the midnight soul of the abyss. The quicksilver speed, which made any attempt at escape futile. Their maddening chattering. And their teeth, gods, those pearly long razors hidden under the seemingly smiling maw; waiting, ever only waiting to find purchase in your warm sinews, in the ethereal fibers of your very soul. Yes, this rather nasty valley had been full of the terror of squirrels.

But dragons?

Never.

Until now apparently.

A great beast had been sighted. It’s inferno red scales gleaming in the radiance of the noon day sun. Its mighty wings casting a darkened shadow like a great storm cloud over all that it passed. A roar that sent the birds panicked from the trees and the animals scurrying to ground all over the woods. No one of the few hardy people who lived in the valley knew where it resided. No one had dared to find out. But it did not seem to be just passing through. It had been sighted by multiple people over the last weeks, from what he had been told in the village that they had left which lay in comparative safety outside the valley.

When he had heard this, he thought well, that’s just great. He had been prepared for harpies. He had his anti-harpy spray, harpy-be-gone amulet and charms, and some rather sturdy earplugs, which came in handy as well because of Norbit’s snoring. Trolls, don’t make him laugh. Unless they had recently taken on bathing as a fad, there was no problem there. He had a nose for troll, his mother would always say. Better than a troll’s nose, he had reflected.

Squirrels, an involuntary shudder went through him, that was difficult and their most dangerous threat. But he had steeled himself and his soul. He had brought along all the protections he could against such foul beasts. The hard collected acorns rattled in his pouch, their sound both a comfort and a source of trepidation.

But a dragon? That was another level. That he was not prepared for. Honestly, there was not much you could do to prepare for a dragon, other than make peace with your gods or goddesses, and for him, there was no peace to be had between himself and the so-called divine.

So, what could he do about this dragon? Though the thought had crossed his mind in a moment of weakness, turning back was not an option. The message he was carrying was too important, too vital to future events to take the coward’s way out. He had to bring his news to king Lurien and his ears alone. King Lurien’s castle was beyond the valley and more defensible precisely because the only way to it was through said dangerous valley. Or over the impassible the Katalgard Mountains, which, unlike some things which were called “impassible” for dramatic effect, were labeled impassible for good reason.

Or with wings. He did not have those. None of his friends had those. Harpies had those. Dragons had those. But alas, and damn the universe for it, he did not. Unless you count the time as a kid he fashioned a pair for himself out of wire and feathers. But those, as his chipped tooth will attest, did not really work, so nobody was counting those, though he wished they would. Through the valley had been their only option.

Which is exactly the why that they had the misfortune to be in that where now. In the valley. The three of them. Already travel-weary from the extra precautions they were taking for safety. Traveling under the cover of night, aided by Norbit’s superior night vision, and traveling under the cover of the trees of the wood, near to, but avoiding the one road. Having fitful sleeps in shifts. On more than one occasion, deeply aware that he was in their territory, he had woken up from some squirrel-haunted nightmare, surrounded by the discordant cacophony of their vile chattering, making his head spin, getting louder and closing in on all sides...

They had been traveling for four days so far. At one point, they had to make a large detour around a patch of trolls which they had smelled from afar. They had heard harpies in the distance one night, but had avoided their notice thus far as well. As for squirrels, they had seen tufts of their fur in a couple of places that marked their ominous passing, and heard their chatter in the far distance, but thankfully, they had not been yet confronted by their terrible visages. The acorns, so far, had thankfully remained unused in their pouches.

They woke up as the sun was dying for the next day of travel. Norbit, who had last watch, had woken him up. After trying to shake the grogginess from himself which clung to him even stronger than the blanket in which he had slept, he said to Norbit, “What news? Any signs of trouble on the last watch? Any trace of...” the words caught for a moment in his throat as his eyes scanned around, “squirrel activity?”

Norbit, who stood looking up at him from his 3 1/2 feet of height, said exasperated, “You with your damn squirrels again. As I have told you oft before, squirrels are not going to hurt you. A harmless animal. Unless you’re a nut.” Norbit shot him a glance then as if to suggest that Fenrig was indeed one big acorn. Foolish Norbit, Fenrig mused, he simply did not realize the full truth about the sinister bushy tailed denizens of the forest, and the twisted eldritch secrets they were hiding; in their dark eyes, in the void like pits in the trees that they vanish into. Pray that that he would never have to.

And so it went on, moving slowly through the thick woods, with their practiced harpy, troll, and squirrel avoidance tactics. It went on until then, quite suddenly, on the sixth day, they came face to face with the dragon. They had not been able to explain it. At sunrise, and looking to make camp, they came upon a huge clearing in the woods whose edges were marked by trees that had been burnt. The clearing was empty. They had looked for dragon sign, but finding none had cautiously entered the clearing. It then happened in a flash. One moment there was nothing there, and then, dragon.

Were they fried instantly, as they expected they would be? Were they turned into shish-kabobs for the mighty beast to snack upon? Were the carried skywards only to be dropped from a great height? No, instead they were offered tea.

“Fancy a cuppa?” said the dragon in a powerful, yet smoothly sinuous voice that echoed throughout the clearing with a low rumble.

Quick on his feet as Fenrig had a reputation of being, he just stood there stunned, trying to process the situation. No dragon, then huge dragon right there in front of them. His cringing self expecting roasting, but instead was getting civility. His expectation was that of a feral enraged beast, but instead got this.

The this in question being a dragon, mighty, fearsome and impressive to be sure. Armored impenetrably with red scales the color of the fires of the abyss to be sure. Talons long enough to spear three men, great wings that could blot out the sun to be sure, but sitting upright, its wings folded behind it, using its front legs and feet as nimbly as a human uses his arms and hands, sipping gingerly on a dragon-sized cup of what he assumed was tea. The dragon’s poise and grace incredibly suggested more that of a human nobleperson than a gargantuan beast.

“Please sit down,” the dragon said, one arm outstretching towards the grass, and again, “Fancy a cuppa?”

That is when Fenrig noticed a small human-sized table in front of the dragon, which had a teapot with steam lazily drifting out of its spout towards the azure sky, and three empty cups.

“No…No thank you,” Fenrig stammered.

Norbit said, “Yes, your greatness, thank you your greatness,” and reached for the kettle.

Fenrig shot Norbit a look that he caught. “I always drink or eat when I am nervous” Norbit said in his defense.

Halfur just stood beside the two of them frozen, his teeth chattering. The dragon looked at them in silence for a minute, giving them time to gather themselves, then said, its deep voice seeded with meaning, “Fenrig, I need you to listen and to understand, for I am about to tell you something very important…”