The Dragon's Hoard Read online

  “My name’s Miriam by the way, Miriam de Livres. Some of these books are true rarities. They should be in an atmosphere-controlled room on acid free shelves, not touching each other…” She rambled on about the best way to store and preserve the books. All the while, the square footage behind her shield took on a neatness the likes of which this cave hadn’t seen in centuries.

  “This cavern is precisely climate controlled. If you’d been less concerned with overdue fines than where you were you’d have noticed how deep you came into this hidey hole. The temperature and humidity do not vary more than ten percent no matter the weather outside,” I explained to her. “I bought those books new and they are still in pristine condition.”

  I puffed out my chest with pride, to disguise the fire building within me. If Miriam of the books lost just a tiny bit of her concentration, I might be able to work a line of flame over or around the shield and she’d be ash. What was one more dead body among the refuse. I just wanted to be done with her and get back to my reading.

  “These books are in good condition, despite the dust,” she said in a dazed sort of voice. She skootched closer to my chaise lounge, (recliners don’t fit my body nearly so well as old fainting couches) leaving order in her wake.

  I noticed an old favorite among the rows of books I had forgotten about. I snatched at it with two delicate talons.

  Miriam slapped my paw with the flat of her sword. Where did that come from? “Don’t you dare make a mess of these books.”

  Chastened I withdrew to sulk on the other side of the chaise. She shifted the shield, still keeping it between us.

  Jenks hopped off my muzzle onto my favorite reading chair beneath the crack in the ceiling that allowed a little extra light in. A puff of dust rose around him when he landed.

  The librarian stifled a sneeze, still working away in search of “her” books. If possession was nine tenths of the law, then the books should be mine after a century or two had passed.

  “Maybe we can work a deal,” Jenks said in a stage whisper meant to induce a sense of privacy but loud enough so I could hear.

  I’d hear his quiet words anyway, dragon ears and cave acoustics made this a perfect whispering gallery.

  “We let you retrieve your books and take a couple of special rarities and you waive the fines. And you keep this cave a secret.”

  Little Miss Neatness tilted her head to listen. Her free hand kept working.

  “No! Not my books. You can’t take my books away from me,” I wailed, wringing my forepaws. When did I lose control of this battle?

  “Hush,” Jenks admonished me. “I’m saving your ass. You ever tried to match a librarian for stubbornness, determination, and greed for books?”

  “Actually, removing some of these books from this cave might damage them irreparably. But it’s a shame scholars don’t have access to them. We could learn so much about history, literature, lost sciences…”

  “Scholars?” I asked. A plan began to create a pattern in my brain. “Scholars with grant money to pay for access to research material?”

  “Scholars with grant money to pay for someone else to do the research?” Jenks looked pointedly at me.

  “Scholars with grant money to pay for solid shelves and a card catalogue,” the librarian confirmed, eyeing me speculatively. A glimmer shone in her eyes. Those brown orbs grew large with excitement.

  “Librarians to help with the dusting?” Jenks asked.

  Both the librarian and I stared at him in disgust.

  “Okay, I’ll dust, you catalogue and shelve.” Jenks pointed to Miriam. “And you do research.” He shifted that accusatory finger toward me.

  “Agreed.” Miriam finally dropped the shield and held out her hand.

  Jenks brushed against it, the closest thing to a handshake he could manage.

  Then they both turned to stare at me. I extended a talon the size of Miriam’s hand. She grasped it and gave it a yank. I guess that sufficed for shaking on the deal.

  “Can I get back to my reading now?” I asked plaintively. That was of course my primary objective.

  “No!” both Miriam and Jenks screamed.

  “If I haul out one armload of garbage, can I read a book?”

  “I don’t know. How fast do you read?” Miriam looked pointedly at the rotting magician against the far wall.

  “Too slow,” Jenks said.

  “Two piles of garbage per book, and you have to let us put the book back where it belongs when you are done,” Miriam insisted, hands on hips.

  “Which of course means I don’t have to put it back!” I chortled.

  “Would you anyway?” Miriam asked. A delightful smudge of dirt graced her pert little nose.

  “Well no. I get to pick which book I read next, though.”

  They both sighed and nodded.

  I grabbed a stack of anthropology texts ranging from the Mayan pyramids to Hindu polytheism.

  “One book at a time. Your check out limit is cut until we get this place clean and we have money coming in.” Miriam gently removed four of the five books from my hands.

  “But…”

  “Think about it, Your Laziness Lea,” Jenks consoled me. “The sooner we get this place ready for company, the sooner you can indulge in reading anything and everything. Then you can write book reports, you can answer questions about what you just read. You’ll be acknowledged as the world’s greatest authority. People will actually pay you to read.”

  I grabbed the nearest pile of skeletons and rotting fabric and practically danced to the cave mouth. “Where do I put it?” I asked.

  “Sort it into recyclable categories and dump the non-biodegradable stuff on the plateau above the cliff. That will mislead stupid, uncouth, illiterate adventurers into searching for your treasure further up the mountain,” Miriam called through the entrance tunnel.

  Good idea. Why hadn’t I thought of that? I carefully picked through the stuff to make certain I didn’t accidentally discard any books.

  Oops! I found a book of alchemy diagrams amongst the dead magician’s bones. I peeked over my shoulder to make sure Jenks and Miriam weren’t watching. Then I tucked the book amongst my neck frills for safe keeping. What would it hurt to just look through it to make certain it wasn’t damaged?

  In loving memory of

  My mother

  Miriam Bentley Radford

  School librarian.

  She taught many, including me

  That reading is the greatest gift

  you can give a child.

  ~ * ~ * ~

  Irene Radford has been writing stories ever since she figured out what a pencil was for. A member of an endangered species—a native Oregonian who lives in Oregon—she and her husband make their home in Welches, Oregon where deer, bears, coyotes, hawks, owls, and woodpeckers feed regularly on their back deck.

  A museum trained historian, Irene has spent many hours prowling pioneer cemeteries deepening her connections to the past. Raised in a military family she grew up all over the US and learned early on that books are friends that don’t get left behind with a move. Her interests and reading range from ancient history, to spiritual meditations, to space stations, and a whole lot in between.

  Mostly Irene writes fantasy and historical fantasy including the best-selling Dragon Nimbus Series. In other lifetimes she writes urban fantasy as P.R. Frost and space opera as C.F. Bentley.

  Life with Smokey

  John Lance

  Doctor Parson leans forward and flashes her penlight in Smokey’s eyes. My dragon’s filmy pupils slowly constrict, tightening into black slivers on lemon spheres, like cats’ eyes.

  “Hmmm,” the veterinarian says.

  “What? What is it? Is that bad?” I ask, peering over her white coated shoulder.

  “Mr. Spear, you’re hovering, you need to give me room. Please don’t make me ask again,” Parson says in a polite, but firm, tone.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, taking two steps back. Despite her whi
te hair, wrinkles, and grandmotherly demeanor, Parson is not above banning ‘troublesome’ owners from the examination room. Last time it took me six months to get back into her good graces.

  Parson gently spreads Smokey’s neck frill and runs her thin fingers along the edge. Smokey moans.

  “He groans whenever I scratch his frill,” I say quickly.

  “Of course he does. Everyone loves a good frill rub, don’t they boy?” The veterinarian kneads Smokey’s frill and he moans louder. The tip of his tail twitches wildly and he nearly topples off the examination table.

  Parson continues examining Smokey’s scaly, eight foot length. She extends his wings to check edge wear and peals away some of the dead skin I missed after his midmorning molt.

  “He’s constantly shedding. And,” I drop my voice to a whisper, “his scales are duller than they were at the beginning of the summer.”

  “I’m sorry, could you speak up?”

  I raise my voice a smidgen. “His scales used to be like scarlet rubies and now he looks like, well, a pile of bricks. Do you think he has Scale Mites? Ellen, my wife, looked it up on DragonMD.com…”

  “Why are you whispering?” Parson asks.

  “I don’t want you-know-who, to hear” I casually nod in Smokey’s direction. He’s trying to slip his snout into Parson’s coat pocket, but his ears swivel back and forth like radar dishes. He is obviously listening.

  “Ah, I understand, you don’t want to upset Smokey. Mr. Spear, I thought we had this conversation. Despite what Hollywood would have you believe, dragons are only as smart as dogs or parrots. And, like dogs and parrots, they cannot have conversations, or solve crimes, or play professional basketball, or do any of the other silly things you see in the movies.”

  “Yes, I know, but Smokey is exceptionally…”

  “When did he break his nail?” Parsons asks, lightly touching a cracked claw. Smokey draws his ivory talon under his belly and gives the vet an accusing look.

  “He tumbled down the stairs two days ago. We thought a new one would grow in place like always. Why, is there something wrong?”

  “Nope, you’re absolutely correct.”

  “I’m really more concerned about the s-c-a-l-e,” I take a breath and continue spelling, “m-i-t-e-s.”

  “Mr. Spear, how old is Smokey?”

  “Let’s see, he was a dragonette when my great great grandfather received him as a birthday present and he’s been in the family ever since. So about,” I do some quick math in my head, “one hundred twenty years, give or take a decade.”

  “Well then, aside from a touch of Frill Fungus, that I’ll prescribe some tonic for, what you have here is a reasonably healthy, very, very, old, Flaming Flyer.”

  “But he hardly flies anymore, and his eyesight is getting worse, and he sleeps all the time.”

  Parson pats my shoulder. “Despite the myths, dragons are not immortal. We all wear out eventually.”

  “There must be something I can do,” I wave my hands helplessly, like a mime with stage fright.

  Taking pity on me, Parson asks, “What’s in his hoard these days?”

  “Oh, his hoard, well, it’s the usual. You know, gold, some silver, a few rubies and emeralds.”

  “What sort of gold? Eighteen karat? Twenty-four?”

  “Mostly fourteen, some ten,” I wince at my admission. I don’t mention the eight karat ring I purchased at a garage sale last weekend.

  “He goes through gold faster than I remember,” I add.

  “I’m not surprised. At his age, his scales absorb the gold at an accelerated rate, and the low quality means there is less gold to absorb. That’s why his scales lost their luster. If you want to restore his ruby glow he needs to sleep on pure bullion. If you need a supplier I can refer you to one. Very reliable.”

  “No, no, that’s okay, I already have a bullion, um, guy.” Hopefully the lie sounds more convincing to Parsons than it does to me. A garage sale scavenger has no need for a bullion dealer.

  “The silver won’t hurt him, will it?” I ask.

  “Not as long as you mix in the gold. However, if you continue to use low quality gold you need to keep an eye out for Rubber Scale. You should also consider feeding him some lime.”

  “Limes?” I raise an eyebrow. Car tires, old sneakers, nasty dead things in the woods, a waffle iron, my dragon will eat anything, except fruit. If a bag of oranges lay beside a bowl of rotting fish, I could count on having fresh juice with my breakfast.

  “Not limes, lime, as in limestone. It’ll help the sulfuric pee.”

  Hazy, yellow steam rises from the marble examining table as the Smokey’s urine rolls down its gutters toward a reinforced drain.

  “I’m so sorry. He’s been having a tough time with his control…”

  “Don’t worry,” Parson waves a hand speckled with white, tear drop shaped scars. “If you’re going to be a dragon doctor, you’ve got to be prepared for the occasional acid spill. I’ll let the front desk know you’re all set.” She gave Smokey a final frill scratch.

  I carry my dragon to the lobby. Fortunately, eighty percent of Smokey’s eight feet is tail. Still, seventy pounds is a lot of dragon to tote around. On the plus side, his scales are warm to the touch, like a brick walk on a spring day, and his spikey mane smells of cinnamon.

  “Alright Smokey, I’m putting you down on the linoleum. There is nothing to worry about.”

  I tell him this every visit in the hope he will believe me.

  As usual, I am wrong.

  The moment Smokey’s toes touch the floor he begins scrabbling his talons as if I’ve placed him on the icy edge of a yawning crevasse. Finally he gets his feet set. Legs splayed out, knees locked, one wing half extended for balance, he stands stock still and pants like he’s just run a marathon.

  I shake my head. “After twenty years you would think he would get used to it,” I comment to Muriel, the cheerful, round faced receptionist.

  “They’re quirky, funny old things. And they get quirkier and funnier the older they get, isn’t that right Smokey?”

  Halting his panting, Smokey turns his snout toward Muriel’s voice, slowly cocks his head, and flicks his forked tongue. I swear, his eyes even grow larger, like a Disney cartoon.

  “Oh, you! You know I’m a sucker for the look,” Muriel says. She reaches into the bowl of meaty, knight-shaped dragon treats she keeps on the counter and tosses one to Smokey. He snaps his jaws shut too soon and the meat knight bounces off the tip of his snout. With a snuffle he locates the treat on the floor and snatches it up.

  “His eyes are getting worse, huh? Ah well, what can you do? How was the rest of the check up?” Muriel taps at her keyboard. “Whoops, looks like that stubborn Frill Fungus is back. It happens to everyone when the weather is warm and damp. Let me grab a bottle of Winston’s Tonic.” She hurries into the back room.

  I don’t know who Winston is, but he owes me a debt of gratitude. I have purchased enough Frill Tonic to put his children through college.

  The bell on the front door jingles and in walks a middle aged, aggressively permed, woman leading a winter wyvern dragonnette on a leash. The wyvern’s scales are blue with white speckles, and she hops and flaps and twists her head around so much I fear she will literally tie herself into a knot. The spike on the tip of her nose marks her as less than a year old.

  “She must be quite a handful,” I say to her owner.

  “Six feedings a day, three rats each feeding, and she’ll only eat albinos. Even my son wasn’t so fussy.”

  Spotting Smokey, the wyvern begins squeaking and chirping like a flock of parakeets. She reminds me of my four year old nephew whose favorite phrase is “Play with me!” After ten minutes of incessant nagging, you pick up a Hot Wheels and play with that boy just to shut him up.

  Smokey weaves his head back and forth, trying to focus on the bouncing ball of energy skittering her way toward him.

  The wyvern squawks and gives him a playful nip on the snout. r />
  I tighten my hold on Smokey’s leash and prepare to step in. Fortunately, Smokey just gives a great snort, sending the little draggonette spinning across the floor.

  Yelping, the wyvern cowers behind her owner’s leg.

  “Sorry, he’s old,” I explain.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve been tempted to do that myself on one or two occasions.”

  “Here we are,” says Muriel, returning with a liter jug of Winston’s. “Four times a day, rub three dabs…”

  “Into the creases of the frill. Yes, we’ve been around the block a few times.” Muriel and I exchange smiles. Then she hands me the bill.

  I sigh. Another month of eating in. As I turn over my credit card, I wonder how much the visit would’ve cost if Smokey did have scale mites or something serious. Probably best not to dwell on that question.

  I lug Smokey out to my SUV and put him in the rear. The edge of the rubber mat is gnawed and torn and the backs of the rear seats are shredded like a disemboweled deer carcass.

  I climb into the driver’s seat, hold my breath, and turn the key. The engine roars to life, and I slowly put it into gear. Maybe this time…

  Smokey lifts his head and begins to howl. “Crap,” I mutter.

  Howl is a generous description of my dragon’s warbling. While Smokey’s stance, with his neck arched and head held high, gives the impression of a wolf baying at the moon, the sound is more like the rumbling “brrr” of an eighty pound bullfrog followed by the squeak of an equally portly mouse.

  The first time, I pulled over to look under the hood. It was only after two more stops I realized Smokey was the source.

  Unfortunately, there is only one way to get him to stop.

  “The wheels on the bus go round and round…” I sing. Ellen refuses to tell me how she stumbled on the solution or why it works.

  It’s an open question as to whether the cure is worse than the disease.

  Thirty minutes and 622 verses later we arrive home. I am seriously contemplating moving closer to Doctor Parson.

  I unload Smokey and he meanders across the lawn toward the front door, stopping every few steps to scratch a random patch of grass or lick the air.

  Ellen meets us at the screen door. “Was it s-c-a-l-e…?”