Chapter 33: Chapter 33: The Snake

The dragon, still aching from its transformation, stretched out its neck and extended its claws. Its thoughts turned from its sore, over-used tissues to its favorite dream.

So young. He longed for the days when magic could be squandered, when he could afford to bite a seer in half, wasting the magic that would fly out of his mouth, for the joy of feeling the seer's bones crunch and tasting the warm goo of mashed flesh. Swimming through underground rivers of lava, the beast emerged through the cone of a volcano deep beneath the ocean. Up, up it swam through the water. With a swoosh of its great tail, it leapt from the sea into the air.

As it flew, the dragon pressed into the minds of hundreds of men. Some were locked tight, closed to his probing, these were the minds of honest souls filled with kindness and caring. Others, their self-serving brains bent with greed, or lust, like broken urns, dripped thoughts. The dragon's schizophrenic mind licked up this sludge, searching for one mind, one burning rusty orange with ambition and grayed with greed.

How easily, how quickly, the dragon found its ally—its victim. Catching an updraft, it gained altitude. Banking, turning in the current, it soared higher, then breaking free, it glided effortlessly toward a small hut some two miles from Keep Nathair.

Outside the wood-walled hut, tied to the branch of a tree, Lord Nathair’s terrified mount reared up, hooves raking the air. Whinnying, she desperately thrashed against the leather reins. Hearing her distress, Lord Nathair rushed from the hut, stopping as the dragon glided down. Another three men, those Nathair had hired, watched from the door, frozen with fright.

The dragon opened his mouth and incinerated the house and the three men. Crazed, the horse tore loose and galloped away.

The sweet scent of gold rising from the ash tickled the nostrils of the beast. Hmmm…not only gold, but copper as well. A chuckle reverberated in the dragon's chest.

“Diluting your own coin?”

Lord Nathair wet himself.

“Follow me.” The dragon turned and sauntered into the forest, crushing small trees as it went. With his heart near to leaping from his chest, Lord Nathair walked behind the beast, its wide path easy to follow, as was the beast's choking odor of sulfur and molten rock. Nathair coughed; his throat burned. Holding his arm across his nose and mouth he breathed through the linen of his shirtsleeve. It helped but a little. For half a mile they walked. At last, the beast settled down in a large clearing, curling its long tail around its huge, ebony body.

Lord Nathair stood fifty feet away, trembling and silent.

Its voice deeper than a lion's growl, the dragon spoke. “I have come to give you your heart's desire.”

Black spots danced in front of Lord Nathair's eyes; saliva pooled in his mouth; his breath was but shaky gasps. Reaching out, he took hold of a tree branch to steady himself.

“You will marry your son to Saoirse, daughter of Lord Togair. With that marriage, your son will inherit all that belongs to Saoirse. When Lord Togair dies, you will rule his lands.”

Nathair stammered, “I-I've su-suggested such a match, but—”

The dragon finished Nathair's sentence for him. “But Togair believes your son to be an idiot.”

Despite his fear, Nathair bristled. He's not an idiot.

Nathair's thoughts were loud in the dragon's mind. “We, of course, know differently. Your son is not an idiot.” Raising himself up on his forelegs, the dragon breathed out a small flame, directing it to a patch of sand that at once melted into glass. Around the molten glass a light glowed and moved as if the light itself were a hand, lifting and shaping the liquid glass into a flask. When formed, the flask remained floating in the air, cooling. As Lord Nathair watched transfixed, the dragon breathed into the flask, filling it with colors of green and gold. When the flask was full, the dragon again melted the sand. This time, the light formed the molten glass into a stopper. As the stopper dropped in place, the spell was broken. The flask appeared to be empty. It dropped gently onto the sand.

“Pour this over your son's head before you bring him to Lord Togair. Everyone who looks upon him will be enchanted. Even Lord Togair's daughter.”

Nathair's stomach churned. “What's in this for you?”

As if it had decided to sleep, the dragon lowered its head and closed its eyes. For a moment, the beast appeared to be slumbering. Lazily, its eyes reopened. “After the marriage is consummated, bring the girl to me. She will be my payment.”

“But without her . . . ”

The dragon's head jerked up, its voice now loud. “Do you not know the law? Alive or dead, her inheritance belongs to her husband.” The dragon rose to its feet and, swinging its great head around, stared directly at Nathair. “What say you, Nathair? Will you accept my offer of an alliance?”

“Surely you could wait until her first child is born. What is a year or two to a dragon?”

The air shimmered with the heat of the huge beast. The grass underneath the dragon smoldered. Leaves on the branches of the trees above it withered. On its inward breath, dead spring blossoms were sucked into the air. As it breathed out, they caught fire. “You can always refuse the deal.”

Nathair's voice shook. “You're sure the flask will work?”

The dragon took a step forward, then another and another, until its snout was a mere foot from Lord Nathair. “Yes, only true love would enable her to look through the elixir. And I've already taken care of that problem.”

The dragon's breath threatened to burn Nathair's face. Slowly, carefully, he took a step backward.

The dragon rumbled on. “The enchantment will last only seven days.”

Nathair found his voice. “But…but the wedding feast itself will last one full day. There may be a tourney and a fair. If Togair decides to wait until the Fall Festival—”

The dragon lifted its head and roared, the sound like thunder. The air in front of the dragon rippled with the heat of its breath.

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Nathair felt the warmth of his own feces fill his undergarment and slide down the back of his legs. His heart skipped a beat. He fell to his knees. “Please, please, I only seek to see the job completed, to do as you ask.”

“Very well, human. I will aid you twice. If the elixir fails, use this.” With those words, the dragon bit off its single, shining, obsidian claw. Larger than the others, it was as long as Nathair's forearm. The gaping hole it left behind oozed black blood. As Nathair watched, another claw, dull and black, grew in its place. “Take it.” The beast dropped the claw at Nathair feet. “If Togair does not marry Saoirse to your son immediately, use the claw to blind the girl. Kidnap her and bring her to me. When I have her, I will destroy Togair and give you the crown.”

Lord Nathair nodded.

Again, the dragon spoke, its words resonating in Nathair's ears. “Listen, fool! Keep the claw in a box, until you intend to use it. Do you understand? Keep it in a box.”

“Will the claw blind me, too?”

“IS IT BLINDING YOU NOW?” roared the dragon.

“No, no of course not.” Hurriedly, Nathair bent and picked up the claw. Cursing at its heat, he juggled it from hand to hand. Crossing to the sand pit, he dropped the claw, removed his shirt and wrapped both the claw and the flask in his shirt.

“Do we have deal, human?”

Lord Nathair coughed out a ragged, “Yes.”

“If you fail to bring me the girl within three days of the marriage, I will burn down Keep Nathair. I will turn you and your son and all your household to ash. If the marriage is delayed, I will give you one month to bring her to me at our ancient home, the volcano at the port of Tirikan. One month, then you burn.”

With one hand clutching the flask and the claw to his body and the other covering his mouth, Lord Nathair nodded, and like a frightened rabbit, scurried away.

When he was gone, when his footsteps were replaced by the whisper of the wind through the trees, the dragon peered into the green of a hillside. Some hundred yards to the southeast, their auras glistening blood red with fear, crouched five men. With a tired sigh, the dragon flapped its wings, pushing down the air and rising upward. As it crossed above the men, it opened its mouth, breathing out a shaft of flames.

For a fraction of a second, their screams pierced the night.

Nathair stopped on the long walk home to wash himself in a stream no more than a few feet wide. He had abandoned the road, traveling as the crow flies, through the forest of his childhood.

Nathair's hands trembled as he stripped off his breeches and dunked them in the water. Unsteady on his feet, he stumbled, falling into the stream, knocking the claw off the bank. Frantically, he dropped his soiled pants to retrieve it. The claw, large, heavier than water, sank quickly to the bottom of the shallow stream; his pants floated off like a frightened fish. When he had secured the claw on the riverbank and fetched his fleeing garment, he sat on the gravel bank, naked from the waist down.

Sobs convulsed out of him. He tried to sing to himself like his mother had sung to him, “Bluebird in the old tree, sings a song so . . . ” He quieted a little, but trying to stop his tears was like trying to stop the tide. He plunged himself into the stream, lying down in the chill water, soaking his shirt, his vest, his fine jacket embroidered with gold thread. “Stop! Stop crying, you fool!” It worked. Shivering replaced the sobs. Freezing in the spring air, he stripped off his wet clothes only to have the wind kick up and send goose bumps racing along his arms and legs. Three times he tried to start a fire. He laughed at the absurdity of it.

I thought to die from a dragon's breath, and I can't start a fire.

Night had long fallen before he had dressed himself, in his still-damp clothes, and walked to the edge of the forest. Across a broad meadow stood Keep Nathair. Above in a pine, a nightingale called. If he took only three steps backward, the undergrowth would hide him. He could make his home in the trees.

Be calm! Everything I have always wanted is within my grasp!

Above, a crescent moon lit the darkness. He took a step backward. The dragon wouldn't find him, would it? A rider galloped on the road toward Keep Nathair, raising dust.

Fallon.

He squatted down on his haunches, hugging his arms around his chest for warmth. The wind blew cold. A thought took flight like a bird to wing.

The dragon wants Saoirse Togair.

Thought followed thought. How easily he reasoned out the truth.

She is magic. I've but to marry Fallon to Saoirse, and with that marriage secure for my son the throne—and the dragon a meal.

Like a weevil into wheat, or a blood-sucking tick into flesh, another thought pushed and prodded its way into his brain. And when the girl is eaten, when she has slid down the throat of the beast, what will you bargain with then? How will you control the dragon?

He flicked away the thought as if it was no more than a troublesome insect. Powerful alliances are always…tricky. He nodded. “The only other recourse is to ally myself with the weak. And how exactly would that benefit? Is not Togair already enough of a fool? Compliment him and his wits become as malleable as potter's clay.” He looked back at the forest. How often had he dreamed of hiding there?

I am not a child.

He strode forward, crossing the large, open meadow that encircled Keep Nathair. Reaching the gate, he called out, “Fallon! Fallon!”

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