Dragon’s Hoard.
The dragnar gazed lazily out the window. The sun was setting, burning its path across the sky as if in angry protest over its departure. Soon the night would come, soothing the scorched sky with its inky blackness, and the moon would ascend to her rightful place as mistress over all earthly beings. And with her rise would come the hunt. The dragnar licked its lips at that prospect. It was growing hungry, and restless. Its eyes flitted nonchalantly towards the doorway; it could smell the human standing there. The hunt would have to wait. There was business to be taken care of first.
Slowly it turned towards the door and waited. It watched with the same indifference as the old oak structure swung slowly forward and opened to reveal a slender, female human standing in its place. Her blue eyes flashed instantly to the table on which the dragnar sat. Cold, yellow eyes returned her gaze, its emotionless depths an antonym to the shock, and fear that swirled in her azure orbs. Swiftly she turned around and slammed the door shut. Hands shaking, she turned a large, gold key in the keyhole, locking the door.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed at the creature, “You’d have me burned for treason if any one saw you!”
The dragnar laughed, a scratchy, blood curdling sound. These humans and their pitiful fear of fire amused it. It remembered the way most humans recoiled from it whenever it opened its mouth, afraid of being charred to a cinder. If only they knew that it was a dragnar, a lesser dragon, which unlike its larger counterparts could not spew fire. But it was not defenseless, it could spew venom, which could paralyze, even kill a full grown human.
The woman watched the dragnar laugh. She felt her anger rise at the sound, the emotion giving colour to her pale visage.
“Well I’m gland the prospect of my death amuses you,” she snapped, “How well will your race fare if both Amos and myself die!” At the mention of her husband’s name, her voice cracked, breaking under the strain of weeks of worry and fear. Turning her back to the creature, she allowed herself one moment of weakness, before her iron will drove raging emotions back into their prison of composure.
The dragnar spoke again, the sound still coarse but not as unpleasant as before. To an untrained ear the sound would have been no more than husky vibrations of a kind no human could produce, and few understand. But for Elya the words were fluent as the common tongue.
“Forgive me, my lady,” the dragnar said, “I meant no offence. Have you found what ails Lord Amos?”
“Poison,” Elya replied, her voice almost a whisper. Her fingers twirled the ends of her raven black hair, a nervous gesture developed since her ascension to queen. “Poison…” she said again, “So subtle it could be barely traced…only one skilled in the lore of magic could have concocted such a potion.” With those words her eyes darted to the books of spells that lay on the desk behind the dragner. Her sorcery was no secret among her people. They knew what she was, and some hated and feared her for it. Even some in the palace. She knew what they had thought when Amos had chosen her for his bride. That it was a spell, cast by her to ensnare him and put her in a position of power. Power that would be unchallenged if he died. True, her sorcery alone was not enough to convict her, but the dragnar was.
The dragons and the humans had been at war for centuries now. In the beginning the creatures had held the upper hand, their size, strength, ability to fly and spew flame making them superior adversaries. But humans had their own fire: the unconquerable will burning inside of them, the sparks of ingenuity fueling their minds and the savage bravery that bordered on madness. Will to survive had driven the creations of weapons, both magical and mechanical, that could be used to fight the dragons, giving the humans an equal advantage. Eventually the wars began to take its toll, both sides growing weary of the bloodshed, yet too proud to end it. Until Amos.
Amos was the first human ruler that had attempted to contact the dragons to discuss treaties of peace. To most humans such actions were unthinkable, dragon’s after all, were to them savage beast. But Amos had studied the creatures, as any cleaver warrior would his enemy, to learn weaknesses and strengths. Much to his surprise he had learnt a lot more about the dragons: how intelligent they were, how similar they were to humans; having complex social structures, and most importantly that they understood human speech. So Amos had hatched a plan to capture one of the lesser dragons, the dragnar, in an attempt to speak to it. It had been a daring and dangerous plot, but after much effort he had managed to convince the dragnar that his intentions were honorable and he was trustworthy. And so began the first steps in an alliance that could end the conflict between the two species. That had been one season ago. Now Amos had fallen mysteriously ill, a sickness that many humans believed to be invoked by the dreaded dragons.
“You should not have come,” Elya spoke quietly, yet urgently, “Unless I can cure Amos, any hope of peace between us will be lost. They blame you for this, and if they see you here, with me…”
“They’d accuse you of consorting with the demons,” the dragnar finished. The vibrations it was making had changed; lowered in a manner that Elya knew indicated sympathy. She studied the creature intently for a moment; it was strange that one so fierce and cold could display such sentiments. Yet she knew, even without her gift to divine emotion, that it was sincere. She opened her mouth to speak but before she could the dragnar cut her off.
“I know my presence here is a danger, sorceress but you must know. Amos’s ailment has shaken the elders. Mardarb is losing control, the others fear retribution. They wish to strike at the humans before your people attack them.”
At those words Elya began to pace. Lines of worry creased her brow. She needed time. Time to heal Amos. She didn’t need a war with the dragons now. Her people would not fight unless she gave the word, a word she was not willing to give. But if the dragons attacked, she could not let them be slaughtered. Her hand drifted from her hair, down to the amulet she wore. The amulet that Amos had given her on their wedding night. She studied the golden object sadly. It was pitiful; the war with the dragons had begun because of gold. Dragons had for ages survived by eating ore containing the precious metal. Then the humans had started mining it for purposes of wealth and useless trinkets, and the dragon’s hoard began to diminish rapidly.
Elya shook her head, dropping the amulet. As the metal object hit her chest, an idea struck her. Quickly she removed the amulet and handed it to the dragnar.
“Take it,” she said to the creature.
“My lady,” it replied shocked. It seemed unbelievable that a human would willingly give gold to a dragnar.
“Take it to the elders, as an offering of goodwill. It bears the royal crest. Tell them no harm will be done to them, if they do not attack.”
The dragnar stared at her, still shocked. Then it nodded and bowed slightly. Turning towards the open window, it spread its wings and flew out. Silently Elya watched it go, hoping, praying that the gesture would be enough to bid her some time.
(c)Geeta Boodansingh 2006
Slowly it turned towards the door and waited. It watched with the same indifference as the old oak structure swung slowly forward and opened to reveal a slender, female human standing in its place. Her blue eyes flashed instantly to the table on which the dragnar sat. Cold, yellow eyes returned her gaze, its emotionless depths an antonym to the shock, and fear that swirled in her azure orbs. Swiftly she turned around and slammed the door shut. Hands shaking, she turned a large, gold key in the keyhole, locking the door.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed at the creature, “You’d have me burned for treason if any one saw you!”
The dragnar laughed, a scratchy, blood curdling sound. These humans and their pitiful fear of fire amused it. It remembered the way most humans recoiled from it whenever it opened its mouth, afraid of being charred to a cinder. If only they knew that it was a dragnar, a lesser dragon, which unlike its larger counterparts could not spew fire. But it was not defenseless, it could spew venom, which could paralyze, even kill a full grown human.
The woman watched the dragnar laugh. She felt her anger rise at the sound, the emotion giving colour to her pale visage.
“Well I’m gland the prospect of my death amuses you,” she snapped, “How well will your race fare if both Amos and myself die!” At the mention of her husband’s name, her voice cracked, breaking under the strain of weeks of worry and fear. Turning her back to the creature, she allowed herself one moment of weakness, before her iron will drove raging emotions back into their prison of composure.
The dragnar spoke again, the sound still coarse but not as unpleasant as before. To an untrained ear the sound would have been no more than husky vibrations of a kind no human could produce, and few understand. But for Elya the words were fluent as the common tongue.
“Forgive me, my lady,” the dragnar said, “I meant no offence. Have you found what ails Lord Amos?”
“Poison,” Elya replied, her voice almost a whisper. Her fingers twirled the ends of her raven black hair, a nervous gesture developed since her ascension to queen. “Poison…” she said again, “So subtle it could be barely traced…only one skilled in the lore of magic could have concocted such a potion.” With those words her eyes darted to the books of spells that lay on the desk behind the dragner. Her sorcery was no secret among her people. They knew what she was, and some hated and feared her for it. Even some in the palace. She knew what they had thought when Amos had chosen her for his bride. That it was a spell, cast by her to ensnare him and put her in a position of power. Power that would be unchallenged if he died. True, her sorcery alone was not enough to convict her, but the dragnar was.
The dragons and the humans had been at war for centuries now. In the beginning the creatures had held the upper hand, their size, strength, ability to fly and spew flame making them superior adversaries. But humans had their own fire: the unconquerable will burning inside of them, the sparks of ingenuity fueling their minds and the savage bravery that bordered on madness. Will to survive had driven the creations of weapons, both magical and mechanical, that could be used to fight the dragons, giving the humans an equal advantage. Eventually the wars began to take its toll, both sides growing weary of the bloodshed, yet too proud to end it. Until Amos.
Amos was the first human ruler that had attempted to contact the dragons to discuss treaties of peace. To most humans such actions were unthinkable, dragon’s after all, were to them savage beast. But Amos had studied the creatures, as any cleaver warrior would his enemy, to learn weaknesses and strengths. Much to his surprise he had learnt a lot more about the dragons: how intelligent they were, how similar they were to humans; having complex social structures, and most importantly that they understood human speech. So Amos had hatched a plan to capture one of the lesser dragons, the dragnar, in an attempt to speak to it. It had been a daring and dangerous plot, but after much effort he had managed to convince the dragnar that his intentions were honorable and he was trustworthy. And so began the first steps in an alliance that could end the conflict between the two species. That had been one season ago. Now Amos had fallen mysteriously ill, a sickness that many humans believed to be invoked by the dreaded dragons.
“You should not have come,” Elya spoke quietly, yet urgently, “Unless I can cure Amos, any hope of peace between us will be lost. They blame you for this, and if they see you here, with me…”
“They’d accuse you of consorting with the demons,” the dragnar finished. The vibrations it was making had changed; lowered in a manner that Elya knew indicated sympathy. She studied the creature intently for a moment; it was strange that one so fierce and cold could display such sentiments. Yet she knew, even without her gift to divine emotion, that it was sincere. She opened her mouth to speak but before she could the dragnar cut her off.
“I know my presence here is a danger, sorceress but you must know. Amos’s ailment has shaken the elders. Mardarb is losing control, the others fear retribution. They wish to strike at the humans before your people attack them.”
At those words Elya began to pace. Lines of worry creased her brow. She needed time. Time to heal Amos. She didn’t need a war with the dragons now. Her people would not fight unless she gave the word, a word she was not willing to give. But if the dragons attacked, she could not let them be slaughtered. Her hand drifted from her hair, down to the amulet she wore. The amulet that Amos had given her on their wedding night. She studied the golden object sadly. It was pitiful; the war with the dragons had begun because of gold. Dragons had for ages survived by eating ore containing the precious metal. Then the humans had started mining it for purposes of wealth and useless trinkets, and the dragon’s hoard began to diminish rapidly.
Elya shook her head, dropping the amulet. As the metal object hit her chest, an idea struck her. Quickly she removed the amulet and handed it to the dragnar.
“Take it,” she said to the creature.
“My lady,” it replied shocked. It seemed unbelievable that a human would willingly give gold to a dragnar.
“Take it to the elders, as an offering of goodwill. It bears the royal crest. Tell them no harm will be done to them, if they do not attack.”
The dragnar stared at her, still shocked. Then it nodded and bowed slightly. Turning towards the open window, it spread its wings and flew out. Silently Elya watched it go, hoping, praying that the gesture would be enough to bid her some time.
(c)Geeta Boodansingh 2006
Comments
Post a Comment