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"Dragons aren't real!" They scream at me from the sidewalk. Half a dozen of them, standing there, bare hands stuffed into pockets, shivering in light jackets, jeans, and running shoes. Too "cool", I guess, to dress appropriately for our cold and deeply snowy weather.
I ignore them and keep working. Already I have eight snowballs, each as tall as me, lined up more or less in a row. I pack snow in and around them to form a long, sinuous body. Next I add a carefully tapering tail, barbed at the end, and wings laid back along the sides of the body. Then a ridge of spikes down the middle of the back, followed by fore and hind limbs with clawed toes. I mould scales all the way from tail to head. The details of the head take longer and much more careful sculpting. The brow with a pair of curved horns. Giant, heavy lidded eyes. Tooth filled snout. Lines of whiskers drawn carefully back along the face. I'm too focused on the work to be cold. Too engaged to notice when those on the sidewalk grow bored and walk away, laughing among themselves. At last the sculpture is good enough. I dig the scrap of paper from my pocket. Unfolding it, I smooth out the creases and crinkles. The symbol is as clear as when I copied it from the huge, old, leatherbound tome Grandfather keeps hidden in his study. He's allowed me to read it, a few pages at a time, under his strict supervision. Now, painstakingly, I copy the symbol onto the brow of my snow dragon. Then it's done and I step back to survey my handiwork. It's impressive, if I do say so myself. "Hey! Kid!" Frowning, I turn toward the street to see a man holding a professional looking camera. He's waving enthusiastically. "That's awesome work! Did you do it all by yourself?" "Yessir!" I can't help a proud grin. "Would you mind if I take some pictures of it? For a local interest piece." "Sure." I stuff the scrap of paper into my pocket. Then I step back, away from the snow sculpture. "Ed Trake, photographer," He walks across the much trampled snow of the open field to hand me a business card for the small local free paper. He has a laminated press ID on a cord around his neck which says the same thing. "My editor will love this." He adds as he holds up the camera and begins taking shots. He circles around to capture the dragon from all angles, "How long did this take you?" I glance at the sky which is beginning to darken, "All afternoon." "Just today?" Ed's surprise is clear, "Fast work for something this big." I shrug it off. When I'm focused on a project, I lose time and nothing distracts me. He takes one more picture and gives me a smile, "Thank you. This really is awesome work." Then he's gone and I have to run. The sky is nearing full dark and Grandmother is a stickler for punctuality, especially for meals.
As night is falling, they come across a grassy mound with a smoking chimney. Pix flutters over to the half visible door and knocks. Almost before she finishes, the door is opened by a wizened old man with long white hair and a matching beard. He squints at the sprite and delvar through half moon spectacles before grinning.
“Better get inside,” The wizened man rushes them into the mound, “You two are in big trouble, you know.” He closes and locks the door. “How much worse could it get?” Pix scowls, “We've been just ahead of the Athelon guard all day.” “You're wanted for the murder of a kitchen elf.” Pix and Gor exchange annoyed looks. The wizened man raises bushy eyebrows, “You didn't actually kill her, did you?” “Of course not,” Pix flutters over to a stool at the wobbly table, “But we left her cleaning up a big bag of her master's gold. Our last employer paid us off in stolen gold. We tried to return it... get the price off our heads for the theft.” The wizened man nods to himself, “Out of the cooking pot, into the flame.” Gor drops his sack beside the door before claiming the only large chair in the single room. Their host fills two tankards, one for each of the companions. Once they are sipping contentedly, he picks up a battered metal goblet. “How did you come to be paid in stolen gold?” He looks from Pix to Gor and back. “Well...” Pix sets down her tankard, “We were in a tavern and Gor was well into his tankard...” The wizened man is slowly shaking his head as Pix winds up the tale. He drains the last liquid from his goblet, then gets up to refill it. “The two of you certainly stepped in it this time,” The wizened man sips from his newly filled goblet, “You did both the worst and best things you could have done.” Pix cocks her head, “Worst and best?” “That weasel is one of Her agents.” Gor mutters into his beard. Pix shivers violently. “The gem's sole purpose is to revive dragons,” The wizened man continues, “Fortunately, you took the egg as well.” “What good is it?” Pix frowns. “Heat it well and it will hatch a dragon,” The wizened man sips from his goblet, “But a newly hatched dragon is a far cry from a revived ancient dragon.” “Aren't all dragons extinct?” Gor drains the last drop from his tankard, “Killed themselves off in some big war.” The wizened man shakes his head, “History makes the matter sound so much simpler than it was. The dragons left... that much is self evident. Killed themselves off... far from it.” “But why would we want to hatch a dragon?” Pix studies their host curiously.
I sit on the opposite side of the small, smokeless fire and set my weapons aside. From my pocket, I take a flask and drink deeply.
“We'll start by building a house out here.” My guard frowns, “So close to the road?” I nod, “This is a dangerous steading. Who would want to risk being too far from aid?” The words earn me a skeptical look and a shake of the head. “The bane of the dragons is worried about being far from aid?” I laugh. “One step at a time. I'm no foppish lordling to live beyond my means.” “No foppish lordling would accept this steading,” My guard chuckles, “So it's to be a house and close to the road? Why not a lodge for weary travelers?” I take some time to consider the idea before nodding, “The Earl granted me permission to hire whatever staff I deem necessary. Not that I have the coin at the moment,” A thought occurs to me, “You said we need a metal worker?” “Aye.” “Do you know of one who would be willing to risk coming out here?” “Aye,” A trace of a flush steals across his features, “A journeyman, mind... and a woman...” I study him with a raised eyebrow, “You seek my permission to marry already?” He flushes crimson, “I guess I do.” I chuckle, “Then you have it. Just be quick about it. I want this lodge to have a solid roof before snow season.” “Aye. Ye'll have that.” His eyes study me briefly, “The Earl will want to see ye married, ye know.” I shake my head, “The Earl would rather see me conveniently killed by a bear.” “Mayhap,” My guard adds a log to the fire, “But he needs to cement an alliance with Earl Haiver, who has a far too vocal younger son.” I sigh, suppressing a groan. If I had wanted to be married to some empty headed little lordling, I would have stayed home and allowed my father to marry me off. “Ye'll see.” My guard settles back onto the log he is using as a seat. I change the subject, “Hot supper or cold?” “I'm all for hot.” I pick up my bow and quiver, “I'll be back with something to roast.” My guard nods. |
AuthorAlexandra A. 'Lexa' Cheshire is the author of numerous novels and short stories published through Howling Wolf Books. Lexa is a wife, mother, cat owner, and music lover. Archives
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