by Shannon Walch
in Issue 114, July 2021
Ten days past midwinter, a dragon attacked Castle Borwell. Its habitants failed to notice.
Said inhabitants were perhaps justified in this oversight given that Duke Borwick and his two sons had recently passed away in an unfortunate hunting incident. Upheaval accompanies any sudden transfer of leadership, but Castle Borwell also found itself promoted from a secluded residence suitable to the education of unmarried ducal offspring to the seat of the new, 13-year-old duchess. Kidnapping an heiress was considered a shameful but legal method to acquire her holdings, so the mood was understandably tense. The men-at-arms sent by the duchess’s mother were delayed by snow, and the captain of guard had slept only ten hours throughout the midwinter festivities. He had had to be ordered home to recover from a surprisingly isolated case of food poisoning.
Said inhabitants were perhaps further justified in this oversight as the aggressor was an adolescent frost drake. He was therefore equipped with the wedge head, short neck, and long tail of his kind, as well as the urge for jewels and mayhem of his age. Given the season, his white coat had thickened to full fluff, from which his wings emerged with their covering of finer fur. He stood an imposing (for a frost drake) eight inches tall.
Despite his handsome appearance, his lack of appreciable hoard meant that he commanded little respect amongst his fellows. Following a brutal snub from the lady drakes over his meagre property, he took himself to the valley below his home, eyes wide for the sparkle of treasure or for a suitable target on which to vent his frustration.
The attack commenced several hours before dawn when the drake spotted movement on the castle roof. An amorous tom cat stalked across the frosted shingles below, and the drake decided to have some fun. Swooping down to hover silently behind the cat, the drake spat frost at the unfortunate mammal’s rear.
The breath of a frost drake is its most devastating weapon, as it carries a spell of cold so intense it can render air unbreathable. Drakes do not, however, develop full strength in their breath until adulthood. It is believed that this prevents young drakes from freezing their mothers while nursing and is therefore beneficial for continuation of the species. This particular drake was also not interested in producing a fully frozen feline. He limited himself to sending only a small hailstorm at the cat’s tail.
The tom yowled loudly enough to be heard across the courtyard and levitated a foot into the air, its paws peddling. Its airborne run converted to a real one when it came back to the roof, and it shot away. The drake followed on wing, trilling to himself in enjoyment. With a final hiss, the cat dove into a gutter along the outer wall.
Muffled clanks and voices drifted from over the other side of the wall, catching the drake’s attention. The dragon landed on one of the crenellations and stuck his head out over the side of the battlements.
A group of seven kidnappers huddled around the small sally port tucked into a corner of the castle wall. An eighth held the leads of several horses on the other side of the protecting ditch. They all stood tense, hands on weapons, as their leader Baron Triting paid off the guardsman within.
The drake cocked his head to one side, watching with interest. The moon emerged from behind thin clouds, and light illuminated the group. The shimmer of gems at the baron’s neck seized the drake’s attention. In the soft light, a blue jewel sparkled amidst the twined silver of an ornate brooch, like a frosted lake under snow. The little dragon’s eyes grew big, and he leaned forward for a better look. The craving for jewels is endemic to all dragonkind no matter their size, and this drake was a fine example of his species. His small hoard of copper coins and rose quartz was nothing compared to this treasure. Lust for the diadem filled his heart. He had to have it. He roared in challenge and sprang at the man clearly unworthy to hold such a prize.
As the roar of a frost drake bears a remarkable resemblance to the yowl of a wet cat, the men were not immediately alarmed. The sound’s close proximity merely made them duck and hush one another. Their concern solidified only after a white, winged creature struck their leader.
In his single-mindedness, however, the drake failed to account for his target ducking. Scrambling to land on the moving shoulder, his wing hit the man’s face, knocking the dragon off-balance. The baron choked off a yell and struck the dragon across the back. The fabric in his claws tore, and the drake tumbled towards the ground. Flapping wildly to gain height, hissing in anger, the drake swerved around several stomping feet and found himself in the face of a horse.
The horse was less concerned with silence than its master. Finding itself with a face full of dragon, it screamed. Distracted by this new chance for chaos, the frost drake spun in mid-air, whipping the horse’s nose with his tail. He enjoyed an understandable moment of pride as the horse reared, pulled its lead free, and fell against its neighbors. The drake zipped down the line of horses, blowing hailstones at their nostrils and dodging flying hooves as the animals bucked, broke their tethers, and ran.
A muffled clang brought the dragon back to his original purpose, but it was too late. The men had disappeared into the castle, abandoning their vanishing escape plan in favor of stealing mounts within. The gem was gone. Anger ignited in the drake’s gut. His beautiful jewel was disappearing into this pile of rocks. He hissed, thrashing his wings against the wintry air, and spat a blast of cold at the gate.
He had hoped for the tell-tale white billow of arctic frost to assuage his rage. He got hail. The dragon hissed again as the rain of ice shards clanged off the metal bars, anger turning to deep frustration. Moonlight glistened from the frosted snow, recalling the sparkling silver and blue of the lost jewel. The drake yowled in longing and glared up at the blank walls of the castle, refusing to accept that his treasure was gone. With a pump of his wings, he soared up over the wall in pursuit of his prize.
On the rooftops, all was quiet. The drake scanned a barren landscape of frosted gutters and shingles. The empty roofs gave him no clue where the men had gone. The dragon landed on the crest of the steepest gable, sitting on his hind legs to scan further, and then paused and sniffed. This building smelled strange.
The dragon pitched himself forward and stalked along the edge of the roof to a flying buttress. In the shadows, the windows looked opaque, but direct moonlight sparked flashes of jewel-toned colors from the stained glass. Intrigued, the drake dropped down onto a ledge to more closely examine the window. One of the panes clinked against its frame when he landed, a long crack loosening it from the lead cames. The dragon cocked his head to the side in thought, and inhaled deeply. He spat cold at the window.
Hope for that billow of super-cold air died as a heavy rain of ice chips pinged loudly on the window, webbing it with further cracks. Hissing to himself over his continued failure to achieve an adult’s frigid breath, the dragon rammed his head against the pane, breaking it completely and half-falling into the castle’s chapel.
He stared as he dangled from the window frame. The colored windows kept the chapel dim and shadowy even with the bright moon, but they did not hide the sheen of the gilded alter or the brass candlesticks along the walls. His eyes grew big at the sight of so many treasures. The drake pulled himself free of the window and glided through the incense-laden air to the alter, landing next to the reliquary placed there. It was ornate, befitting the chapel of a ducal castle, and decorated with a large number of pearls. Sitting up on his hind legs, the dragon hooked a front claw around one of the gleaming orbs and pulled.
The laws of physics are strict with eight-inch dragons, and he succeeded at neither dislodging the pearl nor moving the reliquary. He tried again with both forelimbs. The stubborn object refused to move. Biting the metal only cut his tongue. Feeling thwarted at every turn, the dragon roared again and wrapped all four sets of claws around the pearl. Flapping madly, he pulled.
The pearl did not come free, though the thin gold surrounding it bent under the stress. Instead, the dragon began to drag the reliquary across the altar, its metal feet screeching against the inlaid surface.
A light appeared down the chapel aisle, and the priest ran in, carrying a lantern. He stopped in wonder when the light fell on the reliquary moving beneath a pair of whirring, white wings. “An angel . . .?” he whispered, awe-struck.
With a mighty flap, the drake pulled the reliquary off the altar. He yowled in triumph as the golden box crashed to the floor, revealing the small dragon to the priest.
“A demon!”
The priest fled towards the chapel door, his lantern flapping, the dragon in instinctive pursuit. The portly man showed a most unusual drive, however, and the drake did not overtake him until they reached the castle’s entrance corridor. There the priest plowed into the group of kidnappers as they exited the cellar and ran towards the ducal apartments.
The men were not carrying torches, so all involved must be forgiven for the collision.
The priest rammed into the side of one of the men, knocking him sideways against his comrade with a strangled shout. The two struck the wall hard enough to bounce back into the middle of the corridor. One of the off-balance intruders tripped the two men behind them, and there was a loud crack as a sword snapped in the fracas. The priest landed on the pile, bashing helmets with the lantern and spilling a small quantity of burning oil onto the men and floor.
Their wool cloaks began to smoke. The rushes on the floor began to burn. Baron Triting did not turn around. He charged up the staircase at the far end of the corridor as the shouts of castle guards sounded from the entrance hall.
The drake had sufficient time to swerve around the pile of would-be kidnappers and see the jeweled brooch on the baron’s torn cloak. The gem called to him across the corridor, filling his view. He flapped madly after the baron.
Up the stairs he went, around a tight corner. He kicked off the wall to give himself more speed while the man charged through the door at the upper landing. The drake zipped through the opening as the door swung shut, ducking a falling tapestry. Unable to stop himself, he latched onto a painting on the far wall, sinking claws into the canvas as he looked around. A wink of blue light—the baron was at the end of the corridor, rushing through another door. Hissing, the drake sprang forward and flew like an arrow into the duchess’s lighted bedchamber.
The light blinded the young dragon, so he didn’t immediately see the duchess standing before her kidnapper or the serving woman crouching on the floor. He then didn’t see them because he crashed into the man’s ribs.
Lights exploded across his vision. The room swirled as the drake flipped over the baron’s shoulder and careened through the air, crashing into the duchess’s dressing table. He blinked, but sparkles remained in his eyes.
Gold sparkles. Ruby sparkles. The duchess’s jewelry surrounded him, a rich pile of rings and brooches that shimmered in the dying firelight. The drake reached out a claw, hardly daring to touch the wealth before him. The heavy thud of the door slamming shut, the crunch of furniture breaking, meant nothing to him.
But a flash of pure blue broke through the red and gold. The baron stood by the open window and freedom, pinning the struggling duchess against the wall as he unwound a length of rope. The beautiful brooch glimmered from the baron’s shoulder.
The drake launched himself away from those interlopers for his affections, yowling louder than the duchess as he shot toward the baron. The man jerked in surprise, and the duchess broke free, scrambling towards the door.
The drake struck the baron, knocking him against the wall, but a heavy arm crushed his wings in a bear hug. Fingers caught his wing, his neck, peeling him away from his prize, pinning him to the window frame. The drake thrashed, but his wings were trapped. The baron ignored the blows of his tail. Beard wild and cloak shredded, the baron snarled at him and lifted a dagger high for the killing blow.
The dragon’s focus narrowed to the beautiful blue stone. In this brighter light, it shone like a cold star. With eyes for nothing else, the dragon opened his jaws and blew.
Blistering cold rolled off his tongue. A frigid, white billow erupted from his jaws and struck the baron full in the face, engulfing him in mist. The man tried to yell and choked on the glacial, stale air. The drake twisted free, ducking the dagger that fell from limp fingers, and roared in triumph. He inhaled deeply, ready to freeze his opponent solid.
Clang!
Duchess Borwick struck Baron Triting across the back of the head with a brass bed warmer. The baron collapsed.
The dragon hopped to the side to avoid being squashed by the falling man. Gurgling to himself in pleasure, he strutted towards his downed foe, wings and tail high. The baron groaned but did not attempt to rise as the dragon seized the brooch in his mouth and finished shredding the woolen cloak with his front claws. The brooch came free after a moment’s work, and the dragon licked his new treasure, savoring its smooth surface under his tongue and admiring the sparkle of its facets.
The thump of booted feet made him look up, hissing. Ducal guards ran into the room, skidding to a stop just before falling onto the furry, winged creature on the floor. Holding his prize close, the dragon glared at these potential thieves. He hissed again, loud and long, tendrils of white air slipping from between his fangs.
The duchess stood before her guards, studying the dragon as the men studied the room in bewilderment. Half the guards were dirty with hay and manure from a fight in the stables that had been largely won by the old duke’s grumpy war stallion. The other half were streaked with soot after addressing the intruders and fire in the entrance hall. The duchess stood tall amidst the wreckage of her furniture, streaked with ash from the bedwarmer. She stared down at the small drake.
He stared back. His claws tightened around his new treasure. He must return his prize to the safety of his hoard. He edged toward the window and took a deep, warning breath.
The blue gem flashed under a fresh torch as the dragon leapt into the air. The duchess threw up an arm to halt the mass drawing of swords. The dragon roared in triumph as he took off into the starry sky.
His triumphant flight arced steeply downward. As aforementioned, the laws of physics are strict with eight-inch drakes, and the brooch was heavy. He landed on the chapel roof to get a better grip on his prize, and then flew to a tree outside the castle walls. He then flew to another up the hillside, and then another further on.
The light of dawn peaked over the mountain’s top before the drake finished his piecemeal journey and landed by his small cave. He arranged his pieces of quartz in homage to the new centerpiece of his hoard and fell asleep curled around his finest treasure. In the valley below, the inhabitants of Castle Borwell awoke to a new day, unaware that they had been plundered in the night by a dragon.
©July 2021, Shannon Walch
Shannon Walch’s received a silver honorable mention in the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future contest. This is her first published story.