Dragontown

Sir Andrew entered the deserted town near sunset, hearing only the distant wind and the scrape of his travel-stained sandals on the cobbles. Somewhere, a shutter creaked and slapped a stone sill.

Above the arch, someone had painted a black serpent, a warning to future visitors. He imagined one last brave inhabitant slinking back to paint the universal symbol, the sad admission that a dragon had invaded their land, eating cattle and brave defenders, finally tipping the balance of their harsh mountain existence from precarious to impossible.

Since starting his long climb into the highlands a week earlier, he had seen more of these empty towns and overgrown fields with scattered bones of cattle. He had noted many fresh graves, their rows of makeshift markers, hurriedly pounded into the ground, some leaning. He had walked over to one and read the scrap of unweathered vellum tacked to a rough-hewn board.

"Here lies our beloved Hildana. Rest well, brave shieldmaiden and protector." At the bottom, someone had drawn a sketch of an archer launching her last arrow into a dragon's eye even as the giant talons reached for her.

The invisible shutter creaked and slapped again, bringing his mind back to the black serpent painted above him. He pulled his hood back and looked into the sunset, remembering a time he blew his horn each evening to call on his fallen comrades. His battered horn was still at his side, still reminding him how a single moment can take a man's life far from his chosen path.

Movement caught his eye. A high speck circled on the evening wind. He breathed deeply, knowing in his heart that the distant dark stain was a roaming dragon.

The shutter creaked and slapped. Sir Andrew squinted at the dragon, still far away. He drew his sword, then put it back. No. He would try the other way.

He climbed up the spiral stone stairs of the highest tower, his old knees creaking and reminding him of nearing decrepitude. On the open parapet, he was easily visible. He took a deep breath and whistled, high and piercing, into the sky. It was his warbling "Converge on Me" call that he had used to gather his squad back when he was called "sergeant" instead of "sir."

The dragon turned instantly, gliding toward him on wings that were longer than ten men. Sir Andrew reached into his scarred leather pouch and removed a shiny disk, slightly teardrop shaped, about the size of his hand.

In five heartbeats, the dragon flashed overhead, craning its long neck to cast a black eye over the old ranger. Andrew noted the dragon's other eye was a scarred mess. Was this poor Hildana's dragon? He hoped so.

The dragon shot past, quick as a hunting hawk, and turned. As it came back, glistening ebony talons outstretched, Andrew raised the shiny disk, spinning it into the air to scatter the sunset into rainbow colors, and caught it.

With only a second to spare, the dragon back-winged with a blast of wind toward Andrew, stopping in midair and settling onto the tower's crenellated wall.

They stared at each other for a long moment, the dragon's forked tongue darting out to taste the man's air. The man smelled the unmistakable odor of dragon: part raw meat and part dank cave.

The dragon hissed, saying, "He greets you, dragon-friend." He turned his head to watch Sir Andrew with the good eye.

Andrew placed the shiny dragon egg scale, given freely years ago, back into his pouch. He switched to the peculiar phrasing used by dragonkind, saying "He greets you, great one, in the name of Hom the Wise who gave him this revered gift," Andrew patted his pouch, "for a small service he performed."

"Small service, indeed. His kind give no such rewards for small services."

"She was generous. And now he must prevail on your generosity, mighty one."

The dragon squinted, as openly skeptical as a merchant haggling over rugs at the market. "He would have your name, first."

Andrew knew this was coming, and he held up his battered hunting horn. "Hom the Wise named him Horn Blaster, thunderous one. And what may he call you?"

The long tongue flicked again, tasting for lies, no doubt. "He is called Sheep Bane."

"He is pleased to meet Sheep Bane."

They stared some more, not rushing the negotiation.

"Horn Blaster has asked for generosity."

Sir Andrew nodded. "He asks you to kill a man. A king."

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