The Life and Death of a Crimson Dragon
By Caleb Call
A cluster of eggs sparkled in the gentle moonlight.
There were six of them, ranging in color from cheerful turquoise to cruel crimson. They had the luster and hardness of great gems, translucent enough to display the slumbering little forms within. The eggs were nestled into a crag of rock deep in the Gref Mountains, far away from the dominions of man.
Two dragons presided over the eggs, immense creatures of scale and wing, fang and talon. The heat of unending flame burned in their bellies, and the light of cunning intellect in their eyes. One of them, Teblith, had scales that were purple like a summer sunset, and Gomolit, her mate, was blue like the depths of the deepest sea.
“They are beautiful, dear heart,” said Teblith with an admiring rumble.
“Indeed they are,” Gomolit said, lazily licking at his mate’s scales. “And six at once! We will have a fearsome brood.”
“Of course, lifemate. It is nearly time to bathe them.” A dragon egg would not hatch until it was bathed in flame of tremendous heat, a secret that dragons guarded zealously. Teblith could sense that her eggs would soon be ready.
“You know,” began Gomolit, “they say there is war brewing down in the valleys. Skirmishes between Lord Seln’s men and those of Count Falas. It could draw the whole Eight Vales into conflict. Even the Slarish Kingdoms might join the fray.”
War. Men slaughtering one another in hopes of land, or gold, or honor. Dragons rarely quarreled among themselves, but humans paid handsomely for a dragon willing to fight, massive sums of gleaming yellow gold. A dragon needed no land nor honor from any human, but gold was another matter. Wherever enough men gathered to kill each other, there would be dragons drenching the earth with blood.
“Let me guess,” Teblith growled softly, “you wish to fight in the Vales and bring back a heap of golden treasure. Leaving me to bathe the eggs and raise the hatchlings alone, no doubt.”
“Of course not, lifemate,” Gomolit soothed, nuzzling her with his indigo snout. “I promise to return before the end of spring with whatever gold I have won, no later. It’s been too long since I’ve tasted the hot blood of battle. And our hoard is grand enough for ourselves, but surely our hatchlings deserve better?”
Teblith snorted. “Of course, all for the hatchlings.” But she did mull it over. “Just until spring, you say?”
“Just until spring.”
“Oh very well. But if you don’t return by then, I will come down and drag you back myself. And I still think that the violet one will be the biggest of the lot,” she said, gesturing toward the eggs.
“Dear heart,” Gomolit said, “the hatchling from the crimson egg will be the greatest. Trust me.”
“Great like his sire, no doubt.”
Teblith caressed each of the six eggs with her gaze, one by one, and smiled to her mate, bearing her viciously curved fangs. It was a smile filled with love, a fierce and burning love. Gomolit met her smile with his own.
Mirten Hushfoot strode down one of Winestone Keep’s many sumptuous corridors, passing gilded fixtures and exotic rugs without a second glance. That was unlike him. He had stolen many things in his long career, from a beggar’s last coin to a queen’s bejeweled crown. He was proud of nicking the crown, and not ashamed of nabbing the coin. The world was full of things to steal when you kept your eyes open.
But today was the biggest job of his life. It had taken him months to find out where it was kept, and months more to plan the theft. Today, Mirten Hushfoot was focused as tautly as a fiddle string.
His servant’s livery was authentic, though his demure expression was not. That and the tray of piping hot food that he carried made him all but invisible to the courtiers and minor nobles that he passed.
He turned down a modest side corridor, mentally consulting the floor plans that he had memorized. They’d better be accurate, Mirten thought. For all the money I paid for them, they’d better be accurate to the inch. Next came a spiraling staircase, then a small hallway. Every step took him farther away from Winestone Keep’s exorbitant treasury, but the main treasury was not his destination.
At last, Mirten came to a cramped passage of naked brick with a steel door at its end. The door was unguarded, undoubtedly in hopes that it would avoid notice. That which was guarded was worth stealing.
He produced a pair of slender metal rods and got to work on the lock, which lasted nearly five minutes. A quality lock indeed. His task done, Mirten swung the steel door open on squealing hinges.
Inside the dusty vault was a single object. It looked like an enormous ruby, glittering sullenly in the dim light, but a careful study of it showed an unmistakable shape sleeping beneath the translucent shell. Mirten’s hands trembled as he picked it up. A genuine dragon egg.
The dragons had wracked the land like the fury of a god, back in the early years of the war that had begun in the Eight Vales. The War of a Thousand Years they were calling it, though it hadn’t lasted a hundred yet. That same war still raged with no end in sight, countless petty kings and upstart lords vying to establish supremacy. But now it raged without dragons. They were dead now, all dead. Their lust for gold had drawn them in droves to the battles where they had killed each other, fighting for the highest bidder.
But there were rumors that an egg had survived, held by some king or another. Evidently, King Tekal had been unable to get this egg to hatch. It was said that the trick of it had been lost with the death of the last dragon. Not that Mirten knew the secret either. But he did know several people who would pay him a heap of gold for the crimson egg.
As he made his escape, passing through stairways and corridors once again unnoticed, he smiled. It was a wicked smile, full of greedy triumph. There was one last dragon after all, and Mirten Hushfoot was now a very wealthy man.
The crimson dragon stood on a smoldering battlefield, and the dragon was death.
He had no real name, for when he had hatched there had been no dragon alive to give him one. But men called him the Reaper, the Scarlet Flame, the Gaping Maw, or a dozen other names that mothers had long since started weaving into tales to frighten children. Today, men called him death.
The dragon was surrounded by foes, since no ally would dare to go near him. That suited him just fine. He felt armor rend as he lashed out with savage talons, and then the soft flesh beneath. A snap of his monstrous jaws nearly tore a man in two, and the sweet taste of blood filled his mouth. A gout of crackling fire leapt from within his belly, and the scent of burning meat entwined with the screams of burning men in the foul air.
He had heard that only a dragon could kill a dragon. These men certainly tried, their arrows and spears ringing against his impervious hide. Many armies fled at the sight of him now. To their credit, these men did not. Instead they assailed him in vain and cursed his many names as they died. Dragons did not laugh, but the dragon felt like laughing as he slew them.
The dragon currently served the Lady Silbate, though he had served many in the decades since he had hatched. It was Lady Silbate who offered him the most gold, and so it was Lady Silbate’s enemies that he butchered. For now.
Her gold reserves were running low, and she would be unable to employ his services much longer. But the dragon did not want to think about gold today, as much as he loved it. Blood was its own reward. He had been born for blood. Raised for blood. It was blood that made him feel alive in a way that even gold could not, and today he was enjoying a good slaughter.
Eventually the battle slowed, and then ceased. Just as it always did. By then the darkness of night hid the bodies of charred and broken men from the dragon’s eyes, but the pungent smell of death could not be hidden.
Then came the emptiness, the horrible gaping emptiness that filled him whenever a battle was done and his mind had cooled. The dragon lived only to kill; when he was not killing, he did not know what he was. Perhaps he was nothing.
Before he could sink too deeply into the emptiness, he spied a man approaching him: General Kist, one of Lady Silbate’s most trusted commanders. The man approached the dragon with hesitant steps, his ornate helmet grasped tightly in his hands.
“Your Eminence.” That was how they had decided to address the nameless dragon. “I am sorry to disturb you,” said the general with a gulp. “I know that you have taxed yourself greatly in combat on behalf of our Lady. But if you could find within your magnanimous—”
“Spit it out!” the dragon roared.
The general blanched, but managed to stammer: “There’s another battle, Your Eminence. King Raffon has turned on us, and his troops engaged our own a few hours ago. The battle goes poorly for us. The Lady Silbate herself begs you intercede, if you still have the strength.”
His message delivered, the general, one of the most powerful men in all of Slaria, prostrated himself on the ground before the dragon.
“Where?” the dragon growled. “Do not speak, just point.”
The man’s finger trembled as it pointed to the south.
The crimson dragon sprang into the air and wheeled away upon the waiting winds. He smiled as he flew. It was a hungry smile, the smile of one whose emptiness would soon be filled. For many men that night, that smile would be the last thing that their eyes ever saw.
Lord Herta knelt in the mud to pledge his fealty to the Empress of Slaria.
The War of a Thousand Years had lasted for over two centuries, and the crimson dragon had fought for more than half of it. Now it had finally come to an end. Lord Herta had been the last hold out. With his loyalty pledged, the woman named Tisra was the undisputed ruler of all Slaria.
They were gathered on the very field where the final battle had been fought the night before. It had not been much of a battle, with Herta’s troops throwing down their weapons within five minutes of the dragon’s arrival. He’d scarcely had the time to kill a dozen of them. Still, he had relished it while it had lasted.
Now the dragon watched Lord Herta kneel before the Empress. Her face was impassive as she graciously accepted his pledge, but the dragon knew that she was gloating behind that cool facade.
Gloat if you wish, thought the dragon, I gave you that throne.
He had fought for Tisra longer than he had fought for anyone else, simply because her gold had lasted longer. That was why she sat on a throne with the fealty of every noble in Slaria pledged to her.
The dragon tried to feel anger at Tisra for her smugness, but there was only the yawning emptiness. There had been fewer and fewer battles as Tisra’s enemies submitted one by one, and the emptiness had grown accordingly. Now that the war was finally over, it seemed like it would swallow him whole. Dragons did not weep, but the dragon felt like weeping.
After the ceremony was finished, it was Tisra herself that came to speak with the dragon. Her gait was confident and her face poised. One might have thought that she wasn’t nervous at all.
“Your Eminence,” she began.
“Empress,” said the dragon.
“Your services are no longer needed. An extra portion of gold, beyond that which was agreed, has been added to your hoard, a token of my undying gratitude. With that, I humbly request that you retire to your caverns, or to fly away to wherever your fancy takes you. It is time for this land to know peace.”
The Empress eyed him warily as she awaited his reply, as did everyone else.
Peace. Had a dragon ever known peace? He did not know. He certainly had not. He had killed men his whole life. And what had it earned him? A cavern full of yellow gold, and the frightened stares of the people he had served. They looked at him as if he were a beast, because he was a beast. They looked at him as if he were a monster, because he was a monster.
The dragon thought about lashing out, tearing every human present limb from limb. Perhaps that would fill the emptiness, if only for a moment. He thought about retiring to his caverns and lying down on his gold until he died, of defiling that glittering hoard with his corpse. He thought about flying away, of letting the wind carry him wherever it would.
He wished then that he were not alone, that there were some other dragon to guide him, to tell him what a dragon should do when faced with the threat of peace.
That thought expanded in the dragon’s mind until it filled every crevice of it. Another dragon.
The world was wide. Who was to say that there were no dragons left at all within it? If he had to search the rest of his life to find another dragon, it would be worth it. If he could find one, it would fill the emptiness once and for all. The dragon was sure of it.
The thought made him smile. It was a thin smile, a smile that struggled to surface from beneath a sea of hollow anguish. But when the dragon left, leaping into the air without a word, the wan smile grew stronger. He had begun his search for the dragons.
The crimson dragon had death on his mind the day that the stranger entered his cave.
The dragon felt old. He did not know how long a dragon’s life was supposed to be, but he felt old. Death would come soon, and it could not come soon enough.
Such were the dragon’s thoughts when a man walked into the glittering gloom of his cave. He was a short man in his middle years, with bright brown eyes that seemed to be dreaming of far-off places. He carried an immense book bound in red leather underneath his arm. The man’s entrance into the cave was so improbable that the dragon froze at the sight of him.
The man cleared his throat. “Ahem. Good morning, Mister Dragon.” His voice was reedy and birdlike. It sounded very kind.
The dragon replied with a wary, “Good morning.”
The man cleared his throat once more. “Yes, very good. Would this be a good time for an interview?”
“An . . . interview?” repeated the dragon. Then he roared, as if remembering who he was. What he was. “Do you not know that I could slay you, human, with the most casual swipe of my claws? Who are you, that dares to come before me?”
The man coughed, not looking the slightest bit fazed. “Ahem. Very dusty in here. Yes, well. My name is Yesmir of Caldorn, and I am a scholar. I try to know something about everything, and I know very little about dragons. You being the last one, I’ve come to speak with you.” The man blinked. “Oh, yes, and I humbly ask that you not kill me, if you please. Ahem.”
Instead of killing him, the dragon decided to listen to him. He scarcely knew what else to do. No one else had ever talked to him unless necessary, and never while looking him in the eye. He who had butchered armies and conquered kingdoms hesitated before this small man.
“Very well,” said the dragon after a moment. “You may commence with your . . . interview.”
Yesmir nodded as he withdrew a quill pen and opened his red leather book. “Thank you, Mister Dragon, I had quite hoped that you would say that.”
The interview lasted for hours. Yesmir never seemed to run out of questions, many of which the crimson dragon could not answer. The dragon himself knew little about dragons in general, having never spoken to one. Still, Yesmir jotted down every word that the dragon said.
“Very good,” Yesmir said with a cough. “One last question, Mister Dragon. What is the biggest regret of your long and legendary life?”
Everything, was the dragon’s first thought. But no. Yesmir sat with his quill poised over the page, his brown eyes intent on the dragon. No, he would give Yesmir something good to write in his book.
“I do not regret the thousands of men that I have slaughtered,” the dragon said. “They would have all killed each other anyway. The War of a Thousand Years would have lasted a thousand years indeed if I had not won it for Tisra. But I do regret that I learned only to kill. I found out too late that it could not fill my life.”
The crimson dragon paused for a long moment before going on.
“My other regret,” he said softly, softer than he had ever known that he could speak, “is that I never found them. Other dragons. I searched for decades. I scoured the world from top to bottom. They are gone, and I am truly the last of my kind.
“Do you think,” the dragon asked Yesmir, or perhaps he asked himself, “that a dragon can love? Could I have loved another dragon, had I found one? Surely I must have had parents, though they died long before I hatched. Did they love each other? Would they have loved me? I regret, Yesmir of Caldorn, that I will never know love.”
Shutting his book with an audible snap, Yesmir approached the dragon and gently laid a hand on his scaled foreleg.
“Yes, well, I’m sure a dragon can love. Why not? And besides, I think that anyone, dragon or not, would find your company as pleasant as I have found it. Thank you, Mister Dragon.” The man patted the dragon’s leg and made to leave.
“Yesmir!” the dragon called.
“Ahem. Yes?”
“Do you want my gold?” asked the dragon, gesturing to the immense hoard of golden treasure that occupied much of the cavern.
The man regarded the gilded mound without so much as a glimmer of avarice. “What you have given me today is more precious than gold. Ahem. But I thank you for the offer, Mister Dragon.” The man bobbed a slight bow, and then was gone, leaving the glittering gloom of the cave just as silent as he had found it.
The dragon’s thoughts returned to death then, but his great crimson heart was not so heavy. He wondered if dragons had a soul, if he might have some afterlife like the humans spoke of. Maybe he would finally find the other dragons that he had sought for. Maybe he could love them.
The thought made the crimson dragon smile. It was a wistful smile, as full of pain as it was hope. That smile stayed on the dragon’s savage face until the moment that he died.
The old woman welcomed the young woman into the room.
The young woman was probably a noble lady, the older woman guessed, dressed as she was in a well-cut dress of green silk and sparkling jewelry. The old woman was attired in a similar fashion. Though not an aristocrat of any sort, she had made a comfortable living for herself. After all, she had the gift, and the tools to match.
“So,” the old woman croaked, “you’ve come to have your fortune told.”
The young woman nodded, rubbing her hands nervously. All of the people who came to see the fortune teller were nervous. Some were hopeful, some distraught, but all were nervous.
“Very well, child. But first, there is the matter of payment.”
The noblewoman handed over a pouch that clinked with the conceited sound of gold. The old woman counted out the coins before nodding.
“You see,” the young woman said, “I’ve come because I—”
“No,” the old woman cut in. “Tell me nothing. The bones will know your fate, and I will read what they tell me.”
The old woman produced a voluminous bag of crimson velvet, and from it she withdrew the bones.
They were large bones, many longer than her forearm. Some were actually wickedly curved teeth. Each bone had various symbols carved into it. Depending on how the bones landed when tossed, one symbol might be displayed on the bone, sometimes another. Sometimes none.
The old woman had used these bones ever since she was a child. Her mother had had the gift as well, as had her grandmother. The old woman did not know how many generations of fortune tellers lay behind her, nor how long the ancient bones had been in her family. She did not know what fearsome and fabled beast they had once belonged to either, though she liked to imagine that they were the bones of some dragon or sea serpent from a bygone age.
What she did know was that the bones spoke to her. Not only when she tossed them, but whenever she touched them. They carried a vague sadness, amplified whenever they told of a dark and tragic fate. But the bones loved to give good news.
“Let your fate be shown,” the old woman said, and tossed the bones. They landed with a dozen muted clicks, and the young woman flinched.
The old woman muttered to herself as she scanned the tangled jumble of bones, but it did not take long. Their message could not be more clear.
“Your life will not be free of difficulty, child,” the old woman told the other, “and many of those that you hold dear will be lost to you as the years run on.”
The young woman sucked in a slow breath, her eyes beginning to well up with tears.
The old woman chuckled. “But as for your husband, the bones tell me that he loves you dearly, and that he always will. They also say that he will recover from the grim illness that now afflicts him. The two of you will live long lives, and death will not part you for many years yet.”
The young woman did cry then, but they were tears of happiness. She thanked the old fortune teller profusely between joyous sobs.
“I don’t do most of the work,” the old woman said with a chuckle. “You should thank the bones.”
After another round of thanks and tears, the young woman left, laughing and weeping.
The old woman gathered up the bones, holding them in her gnarled hands for a while. Perhaps she imagined it, but the old bones seemed to smile. It was a smile filled with love, a serene and tender love. As she returned them to their bag of crimson velvet, the old woman smiled back at them.
Caleb Call is a writer of speculative fiction, as well as poetry of various kinds. He lives in Missouri, surrounded by farmland and potholes. He enjoys reading and thinking about all of the books that he will write one day, when he gets around to it. He is currently pursuing a master's degree in Communication Disorders. He spends his days dreaming and his nights sleeping, with a little time for eating in between. Mostly, he’s just happy that someone is reading this. Check out more of his writing at calebcall2.wordpress.com.