The Dragon's Hoard Read online

  I shake my head. “No, no m-i-t-e-s, but the darn fungus is back. I bought some Winston’s. We also we need to feed him limestone.”

  Smokey wanders to the corner of the living room where his treasure trove is piled. Three slow spins and a thump and he is snoring.

  “What about all the sleeping and the stiffness in his wings?”

  “Parson said he’s just getting old. She also said he needs more gold and should be sleeping on bullion.”

  “Bullion? How are we going to afford bullion?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I can’t ask for a raise. After SiniTar Tec’s second quarter results, I’ll be lucky to avoid being laid off and Ellen isn’t due for a raise for nine months.

  The rotten egg, sulfur stinks hits us both at the same time.

  “Smokey, let’s go outside!” I shout, too late.

  He made it halfway to the door before his bladder gave out. Hanging his head, Smokey refuses to look at us as the puddle under him burns another hole in a carpet which already looks like radioactive moths have been munching on it.

  Ellen sighs. “Your turn.”

  She slips the leash over Smokey’s head and guides him out the front door on the off chance there is still some pee in the tank.

  Looking at the size of the puddle, I have my doubts.

  I don my heavy rubber gloves, led apron, and eye goggles and spray the area with Virturex dragon pee neutralizer. I tell myself it’s the fumes causing my eyes to tear.

  ~ * ~

  “Something wrong, Peter?” my boss, Elizabeth Drake asks as she sticks her head in my cube.

  “Oh, no, everything is fine,” I reply, guiltily closing the web browser showing CheapGold.com.

  “You seem distracted,” Elizabeth says.

  I can’t help noticing Elizabeth’s gold hoop earrings. My grandmother owned a similar set. I wonder who she left them to when she passed away last year. Might be worth a call to mom.

  “Hello, Earth to Peter,” Elizabeth waves her hand in front of my face.

  “Sorry, you were saying?”

  “I was asking if you checked in your code for the final build so we can finish the project?”

  “Yes. No. I mean, I’ll be done in a few minutes.”

  “Come on, Pete, be honest, what’s bothering you?”

  “It’s my dragon, Smokey. I took him to the vet yesterday and…” Despite my light tone, my voice quivers.

  Elizabeth’s expression softens. “I’m so sorry. I lost my Black Scale, Snuffles, three years ago to S.I.S, you know, Spontaneous Ignition Syndrome. Has Smokey been in your family long?”

  “Fourth generation.”

  Elizabeth nods. “Snuffles was second generation. It’s so hard. You grow up with them, and they’ve been part of your family for so long, and then, one day…Well, let me know if there is anything I can do.”

  “Thanks, he’s just really, really, old. I only wish I could afford a better hoard to keep him comfortable.” I wonder if Elizabeth will take the hint.

  She doesn’t.

  “Keeping them in gold is always the hardest part. I considered breeding leprechauns, but that’s more trouble than it’s worth. Although,” Elizabeth’s eyes glitter mischievously, “my friend, Rose, spotted one nesting in the park. If you caught it, Smokey’s hoard would never run dry.”

  I frown. “Aren’t leprechauns protected by the Environmental Protection Agency?”

  Elizabeth shrugs. “I suppose. Still, leprechauns are such vile creatures. They spit on couples walking on the trails, give candy to children and tell them it’s breakfast cereal, and then there’s the public urination. No one would be put out if the one in the park suddenly, migrated, away.”

  Glancing out the window, she adds, “The rain is stopping. The easiest way to find a leprechaun is to follow a rainbow. Once you finish your work, if you suddenly felt a little sick and needed to take the afternoon off, I would understand.”

  “Thanks Elizabeth.”

  She smiles. “We dragon lovers have to stick together.”

  ~ * ~

  I splash through the puddles in the park and the verdant scent of wet moss fills the air.

  It makes me want to puke.

  Hours of searching, and nothing to show for it. I never found the end of the rainbow and my butterfly net is as empty as when I started.

  My cell phone buzzes. It’s Ellen.

  “Some of the folks at the office are going out for dinner and drinks after work, so I was thinking of tagging along.”

  “Sure, I’m caught up at the office anyway.” I fib. Ellen is a rule oriented, law-abiding, woman. She would not be on board with the whole, stalking-leprechauns-and-violating-federal-laws plan.

  “What time will you get home?” I ask.

  “Not too late. Eightish?”

  “Okay, see you then.” I hang up.

  With the sun starting to set, I resolve to take one last walk around the duck pond.

  The pink and purple swirls of the sunset would make an artist salivate.

  I am so engrossed I almost miss the leprechaun sitting in a patch of clover with his back to me.

  He is a foot tall, with a shock of red hair stuffed under a green, pilgrim hat with a gold buckle. His jacket is green, as are his short pants. A wisp of smoke curls up from his pipe, tinting the evening breeze with a hint of tobacco.

  I cast a furtive glance up and down the trail. There is no one else in sight.

  Stealthily, I creep forward, net held high over my head. A yard away my foot comes down on a twig with a snap. I hold my breath, expecting him to disappear.

  Then I notice the ear buds. He bobs his head back and forth to the music cranked up on his MP3 player. I catch the distinctive thrum of drums, violins, and tapping feet. Riverdance.

  I sweep my net down. “Gotcha!”

  “Argh, let me go you monstrous buffoon!” the leprechaun shouts, struggling against the net. He only succeeds in entangling himself further.

  “I did it! I actually caught you!” I whoop.

  The leprechaun stops squirming and starts patting his pockets. “My pipe! My music player! Do you see them laddie?”

  “Sure.” Bending over, I retrieve his miniature pipe. Straightening up, I take a step back and hear an ominous crunch.

  “I see you’ve also found my music player,” The leprechaun glowers at me from within his nylon prison.

  “Sorry.”

  “Not yet you’re not,” the leprechaun replies, snatching the pipe out of my hand.

  “There’s no need for this to get ugly. You see, my pet dragon needs more gold for his hoard. If you give me some of yours, I’ll turn you loose.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s patoot about your stupid dragon. What makes you think I’m even a leprechaun? I might be a pixie.”

  “You’re dressed in green.”

  “Maybe I’m a fashionable pixie.”

  “You have an Irish brogue and red hair. Pixies, on the other hand, have wings and sprinkle fairy dust everywhere.”

  “I can sprinkle too,” the leprechaun starts to undo the fly of his pants.

  “Do it, and I toss you in the pond,” I threaten, wondering if leprechauns can swim.

  The leprechaun hesitates. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Try me,” I growl.

  “Fine, fine, there’s gold’s under the bridge. I’ll take you to it, I promise,” the leprechaun says.

  “I knew you’d see reason.”

  ~ * ~

  I peer into the darkness under the stone arch of the bridge. The beams of the rising moon fail to illuminate the darkness beyond the first few gloomy feet.

  The bridge is wide, as if the architect expected a marathon’s worth of joggers needing to simultaneously cross the shallow stream. Yet, from the weathered rails and moss covered cobblestones, it’s obvious most park visitors don’t know the bridge exists. There is a nasty stench as well, like a wet dog rolling in rotten eggs.

  “You live under
there?” I ask doubtfully.

  “Why? Is it not up to your standards, mister fancy britches? Pales in comparison to your fancy mansion, I suppose? I’ll have you know this bridge was my father’s home, and his father’s before him. It has always been good enough for hard working folk such as they.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Where is the entrance?”

  “Follow the stream.”

  “Is there a path?”

  “Not one wide enough for your fat feet. What are you, a witch? A little running water will cause you to melt? “

  My shoes fill with water as I stride through the shallow brook. Ducking under the bridge, I walk hunched over for ten steps, then stop.

  “You’ve got to go further in,” says the leprechaun.

  Taking a determined breath, I continue on. Soon we are beyond the reach of the weak moonlight. I take out my phone and turn on the flashlight app.

  “Where’s the pot?”

  “To tell you the truth laddie, I don’t have a clue where he keeps it.”

  “What do you mean you don’t…?” My net is empty. “How did you…?”

  The leprechaun’s voice echoes through the dark, seeming to come from everywhere at once. “Please bucko, if a klutz like you could capture me with a silly little net, why, I’d be broke all the time.”

  “There’s no gold?”

  “Oh, there’s gold, although it’s not mine. Leprechaun gold can only be found at the end of rainbows, I thought everyone knew that. Still, I promised to bring you to the gold under the bridge, and, well, it’s here somewhere. You only need to convince its owner to part with it.”

  “Its owner…”

  From out of the dark, the largest, furriest fist ever, smashed me in the nose.

  “For as much fun as I’ve had, I must be going. I have to purchase a new music player. Give my regards to your broken down dragon,” the leprechaun cackles.

  My witty retort is cut short when a scabby foot kicks me in the jaw and I bite my tongue.

  ~ * ~

  The house is dark when I arrive home. Ellen is still out with her friends, which is for the best since I won’t have as much explaining to do.

  I am soaked from head to toe and my face and hair are caked with mud. I am missing a sneaker and my dignity.

  Needless to say, I don’t have a pot of gold. I will also never, ever, return to the park.

  I limp into the kitchen, and fill two towels with ice. One I place on my scratched, bruised face. The other, I rest on my groin. Fair play is a foreign concept to trolls and they do so like to work over the tender bits.

  There is a groan from the other room. Smokey is asleep on his small hoard, his legs pawing the air. His wings quiver and occasionally give a half flap.

  “Chasing hawks again, big guy?” I ask as I slowly, painfully, lower myself down beside him.

  “Remember the afternoon you caught two?” I scratch his frill and slowly his twitching stops. A satisfied smile creases his crocodile face.

  “I’m sorry old man, I couldn’t find any gold. We’re just going to have to make due the way we have been. Which reminds me,” I reach into my pocket and pull out a molar the troll knocked loose. The gold crown flashes in the light.

  “Probably best if you don’t let mommy see this,” I say, slipping my tooth under his claw.

  Smokey half opens his eyes, then curls his leathery tail around me protectively, and places his head in my lap. He emits a deep, satisfied moan, and drifts back into a dreamland where he chases hawks across endless blue skies.

  I smile. I don’t know how much time we have left, but we’ll make the most of it.

  ~ * ~ * ~

  John Lance lives in New England with his beautiful wife and two lovely daughters. His stories have appeared in Dark Moon Digest, Stupefying Stories, and in the anthologies Zombified III, These Vampires Don’t Sparkle, and others. He has also written a collection of childrens’ short stories, Bobby’s Troll and Other Stories and the picture books Priscilla Holmes, Ace Detective and Priscilla Holmes and the Case of the Glass Slipper. His blog is at www.johnmlance.com.

  Hoard

  Deby Fredericks

  Strangers were camped at the ford. The dragon Carnisha slithered up to a rock ledge where her tawny scales blended in. Her tail lashed across dead needles under the scrub pines until she stilled it.

  “Well, well,” she growled to herself.

  Two menservants did chores as she watched with cold intensity. One cut firewood while the other swept out a fine, brocaded tent. A well-dressed gentleman stood aside, contemplating the play of morning light on the River Lyre.

  “Humans,” Carnisha hissed. “They think whatever they see belongs to them.”

  Long ago, the mighty Cragmaws had been a kingdom of dragons. Until humans invaded the mountains. Other dragons had been killed or forced to retreat, but Carnisha would never give way. At last the seeds she had been sowing were about to bear fruit.

  Carnisha studied the gentleman, with his silken robes and pearly skin. A nobleman, she assumed. However, she had some suspicion about the servants. Though sun-darkened and strong, they worked with little skill. Nor did their rough clothing match their master’s finery. They had knives in their boots and sharp eyes glancing about. What nobleman would travel with such ruffians? Perhaps they were bodyguards.

  The she-dragon eased back and circled down to the road. Before she left the trees, Carnisha hunched forward. She tucked leathern wings against her back and tail close to her ankles. Concentrating, she turned around slowly, drawing on the powers of sky and land to spin the change. Horny hide and glinting talons reshaped into a dingy dress and ragged hood. Gray hair wisped about a wizened human face.

  Disgusting, but needful.

  Gone was Carnisha, scourge of the mountains. An old woman stepped onto the road, bowed by the weight of a peddler’s pack. Muddy clogs grated over gravel and dirt. She set off, humming a shrill drone so those ruffians would hear her coming and think themselves clever.

  As she neared the ford, a man bellowed, “Hoy! Over here!”

  A wide grin split her sagging face as she feigned surprise at seeing the camp.

  “Hoy to you, young’un!” Carnisha waved, then tottered as if the pack would drag her to earth.

  “Show courtesy to your elders, Robin,” the nobleman chided. “Go help the poor woman.”

  Stone-faced, the man who had been cutting wood strode over the flat rocks that paved the ford. He grabbed her scrawny arm.

  “What a kind young man,” she beamed, as if he wasn’t dragging her along. “Taking care of li’l ol’ Nisha.”

  “Mum,” Robin grumbled.

  “Are you indeed the famous Nisha?” The nobleman fell in beside them, taking Robin’s place. “Fetch us another chair, Nick, and see if there’s tea to share.”

  “Famous, is it?” Carnisha cackled. “How would a grand lord such as yourself know of ol’ Nisha?”

  “No lord, alas. I am but a humble scholar,” the gentleman corrected indulgently. “Edwin Frastian, at your service.”

  “I be Nisha o’th’ Glade.” Carnisha bobbed a curtsey. “Well met, good scholar.”

  “Well met, Nisha o’th’ Glade.” Frastian eagerly explained, “Recently, a friend of mine acquired a fascinating pendant from an antiques dealer. It was very old. I was truly envious.”

  “Ah,” Carnisha smirked. “Was this an emerald pendant, or pearl?”

  “Pearl, dear lady.”

  “Pearl, you say? That would be Berlack. What a nice young man. So glad he found a home for that trinket of mine.”

  “Indeed he did,” Frastian agreed. “Upon inquiry, Berlack revealed he had acquired the piece from a sweet old peddler woman at the ford of the River Lyre, near Mount Cragmaw. And here I am, ready to buy.”

  They reached the camp. Robin had built up the fire and Nick unfolded a wooden chair by the fireside. At the mention of emeralds and pearls, they both studied her with hungry eyes.

  “Do sit, de
ar mother.” Frastian helped Carnisha into the chair.

  “Why, isn’t this lovely?”

  She let him fuss over her, knowing how anticipation would build. He doted, offering dried dates as well as tea, while the alleged menservants lingered nearby. After Carnisha had eaten and drunk, she bent to unflap the top of her peddler’s pack.

  “I sell only to a few, like Berlack,” she prattled. “Those who have shown I can trust them. An old woman can’t be too careful.”

  Nick coughed a little, and Robin elbowed him.

  Frastian frowned, until she twinkled up at him. “Since you’ve been so kind, I suppose there’s no harm.”

  “You flatter me.” A narrow hand touched his chest in modesty.

  Carnisha started with a jumble of second-hand wares. Tunics of cotton cloth, only a little stained. A copper pot darkened by use. Wooden sandals with frayed straps. The scholar made interested noises, but kept trying to see into her pack.

  At length she unrolled a felt bundle. “Not sure what these are, but I find ‘em lying about. They do have a shine, eh?”

  Oddly shaped flakes curved from the ground of drab felt. They were tawny brown, no two the same size, and might have been horn, though the glint spoke more of metal.

  Frastian leaned forward, knuckles white over his chair arms. “My dear Nisha, these are dragon scales!”

  Carnisha knew that quite well, since she had shed them. She bobbed her head. “Dragon scales? You don’t say.”

  Nick stepped closer. “T’would make a fine armor if you had more of ‘em.” Robin nodded wisely.

  “Get back,” Frastian snapped. “You’re shadowing the wares.” Nick gave his master a dark glance, but obeyed. Frastian picked up a scale.

  “Careful, they’re sharp,” Carnisha warned.

  “So they are.” Frastian dropped the scale to suck on a fingertip. He explained, as if Carnisha was a child, “We know there once were dragons in this province, but they were wiped out long ago. The Cragmaws, here, were their last refuge.” His other hand gestured to take in the rocky peaks looming beyond the river.

  He sounded so pompous, Carnisha could hardly bear it. She brought out her finest baubles.

  “Maybe that’s why I found these.”

  The sword hilt was leather, cross-wrapped in a style long out of use. The blade had broken off a few inches down.