Mary Herbert - Dragon's Bluff

Everyone who volunteered to stay behind gathered in the new festival ground. Most of the kender were there with their containers of pickled eggs and their faces unclouded by fear. The city council, Mayor Efrim, and those of the Vigilance Force not guarding the camps made their appearance. There were enough people there, Lucy hoped, to give the dragon the impression that the whole town had come for the festival.

At her request, the firepits were uncovered and the sides of meat on their spits were raised and set to keep warm over the coals. Sniffing appreciatively, Ulin pulled out a leather bag and sprinkled the contents liberally over the roasting meat. He and Lucy watched as the white powder blended with the meat juices and slowly disappeared.

“What will that do?” Kethril asked curiously.

“With luck? Buy us some time. It is supposed to make the dragon drowsy for a short while. Don’t let anyone touch that meat. And the same with these barrels of beer.” He pried off the lids of three large kegs of beer and poured the contents of a second bag into the golden liquid.

Notwen tugged Lucy’s sleeve. “Sheriff, I’ve been meaning to tell you. The reason we had to make these powders …?” He hesitated and looked at Ulin then back at Lucy. “Well, I did some calculations last night, and I’ve rechecked them dozens of times. My, uh, trap will hold, but not for long. I estimate you will have about fifteen minutes before he breaks out.”

Appalled, Lucy stared at him. She had thought they would have ample time to convince the dragon to see things their way. “Fifteen minutes?” she gasped.

“It was the best we could do in such a short time,” Ulin said apologetically. “You and Kethril will have to talk fast.”

“Me?” Kethril exclaimed. “Why me?”

“I have to handle the rockets and the ropes and be close by in case the trap doesn’t work properly. You started this whole mess.” Ulin said pointedly. “You can help finish it.”

Lucy’s father nodded gloomily. His fingers went to the silver ring on his right hand and began to twist it around and around.

Challie and a guard arrived, driving a laden freight wagon covered with a tarp. They parked it near the fire pit and unhitched the horses.

Around noon people brought out the rest of the food prepared for the feast and set it out on tables under fly-proof screens. No one ate very much. Almost everyone stood around and watched the sky. A few musicians set up their instruments and played dance tunes, but no one danced. Lucy, as she walked around the grounds, thought the festival did not look very festive. The day was very warm for spring, and the heat rose in wavy sheets above the dry hills. The wind stirred dust into tiny whirlwinds and sent them spinning through the streets of the town. A large tumbleweed broke loose from its dry stalk and rolled through the festival grounds, enticing the kender to chase it. Notwen checked his trap for at least the thirtieth time and made sure the lamps were lit.

An hour after noon Lucy, Saorsha, and Aylesworthy climbed the path to the top of the Rock to wait for the dragon. In the meager shade of the hidden guard post, they sat without saying a word. Lucy kept her eyes to the west where the sky remained maddeningly empty.

“There he is.”

The guard’s soft words did not penetrate Lucy’s thoughts at first. She tore her eyes away from the sky and said, “What?”

Instead of answering, the guard lifted his horn to his lips and blew the first signal to the town below. In the festival field, the people froze in place and waited, their hearts pounding, for the second signal.

“There,” Saorsha said, pointing to the north. “There he is.”

They could all see him now, a dark shape against the summer sky, coming fast on his beating wings. The guard blew the second signal.

“Here we go,” Saorsha muttered. The three of them climbed out of the guards’ post and walked across the windswept stone.

Fyremantle flew over the last row of hills and swept down over the town. He circled once, twice, his head lowered to see the buildings and streets. He curved south and angled over the festival. The people below screamed and shouted and ran in all directions. Huffing his pleasure, Fyremantle beat his wings and soared over the Rock.

Abruptly the sun was blocked out on the headland. Lucy tried to look up, but fear of the dragon nearly overwhelmed her, and she screwed her eyes shut and tried to stifle the scream that gathered in her throat. She heard the heavy rustle of his leathery wings and the scratch of his claws on the rock as he came in to land. A rush of wind blew the sulfuric stench of his body around her and made her gag.

“Mighty Fyremantle!” she heard Saorsha say. The older woman’s voice was tight with strain, but at least she could say something. Lucy forced her eyes to open and looked up into the face of the massive dragon. His scales gleamed like blood in the hot sun and radiated heat in shimmering waves.

His smoldering eyes were fastened on the empty stone where the barrels and boxes were supposed to be. His blackened nostrils curled in disdain. “This is all you were able to scrape together?” he said in withering scorn.

Mayor Efrim and Saorsha quickly fell to their knees and bowed low. Lucy followed suit. “Oh, no, inestimable lord. The taxes are here as required,” Mayor Efrim explained. “The boxes are still below. We had to make a final accounting to be sure everything was accurate. It is being loaded as we speak.”

“Below!” the red roared. His voice pounded at them like thunder. His anger sparked little flames around his teeth. “I gave you ample time to gather my tribute. Why should I bother to fly down into that dung heap of a town? Bring it up here this instant.”

“Of course, of course,” Saorsha said hastily.

Fyremantle suddenly cocked his scaled head. “What is that I smell?”

“We have prepared a feast for Visiting Day, your magnificence,” Lucy said. “If you will be patient, we’ll have the taxes—”

“Why should I be patient?” he rumbled. “You have disobeyed me.”

“Oh, no! No, lord. We have only been delayed. The treasure will be here any minute.”

He snorted a blast of hot, scorched breath. “It had better be.” He lifted his head and gazed toward the festival ground. He sniffed the air appreciatively. “Perhaps I will wait for a short time.” Abruptly he leaped to the edge of the headland and dropped off. His wings stretched out to slow his descent, and he glided down to the field. His massive weight landed with a shuddering thud. His crafty eyes gleaming, he snaked between the old buildings.

No one waited for him. Even the kender had disappeared into the grass or the nearest buildings. With a bound he landed amidst the trestle tables and crushed them under his body. His tail swept back and forth like a scythe, demolishing everything in its path. He snatched up the bowls and platters of food and dumped everything down his insatiable maw as he made his way toward the fire pits. Two of the sides of meat vanished between his jaws in just a few bites. He used a claw to pry open three beer barrels left standing near the fire pits. Each barrel was emptied down his throat. When he was finished, he looked around in satisfaction. The festival was in ruins; only the two remaining sides of beef were left.

On the headland, the sheriff ran down the road toward the festival, leaving the councilwoman and the mayor to follow in the pony cart. The hidden townspeople peeped nervously through cracks to see what he would do next. Not even Ulin knew for certain how quickly the sleep potion would affect a large dragon, and the greatest fear was that Fyremantle would leave before the trap could be sprung. A small fire had already started near the firepits where the wind from his wings had sent embers from the cooking fire flying into the dry grass. To their relief the dragon did not seem to notice the fire, nor did he try to start any of his own.