For Those About to Fry

By Ulff Lehmann

“So that’s a dragon?” Bright-Eyes asked from his perch on Lloreanthoran’s shoulder. “Thought they were bigger.”

“Had you paid attention,” replied the Mage, “you’d know that those the Phoenix Wizards could recruit to their war of succession are among the least of the firelings.”

“This one’s really small, I mean, I’m bigger,” said the squirrel. “What was that?” The familiar knew his friend and master knew he wasn’t that dense, but he enjoyed a bit of levity before going into battle. Battle, so far had been the pair of them fighting human wizards spell for spell. For an elf, Lloreanthoran was far too gentle; he always tried to subdue the opponent. Bright-Eyes was too impatient for that. The last wizard they fought, he had reminded that she had once been an infant, and for a heartbeat she had reverted to a newborn, which was enough to snap her tiny neck. Dealing with this dragon seemed easier; then again, he had never fought a fireling, big or small.

“You planning to join a family dinner again one of these days?” Lloreanthoran asked.

“You cooking or Aureenal?”

“Aureenal, of course,” the mage replied.

“Well, then, yes.”

“Then you best pay attention.”

“Otherwise you gonna cook?” he asked, feeling a grin creep onto his face. For years he had tried to emulate elven expressions, humor, sadness, anger. His smiles and grins looked more like anger, and Bright-Eyes was certain a stranger would have considered the flashing of his incisors as anger.

Thankfully, the mage who had imbued him with intellect all those decades ago knew how to read his tone and his face. “Of course, pies are my specialty, remember?”

Bright-Eyes shuddered. “Unfortunately. – So, what’s the plan? I go in there, lure the little lizard out, and you douse him . . . blizzard the shit out of him. Blizzard for the lizard, I like that.” He chuckled at the rhyme.

“I was thinking of capturing it, maybe squeeze it for information.”

Here we go again, the familiar stifled a sigh. “You speak Firan? See? I pay attention, the language beyond the Veil of Fire is Firan! Do you speak it? I sure as fuck don’t.” Lloreanthoran pressed his lips against each other; a tell if ever there was one. “Ha! So, you don’t speak Firan either. That means you hope the little shit speaks Elven, yes? And what if he doesn’t? Want to put that thing in chains . . . do you even know if there’s a metal or wood that can withstand dragonfire? Even if the dragon in question is half the size of a pigeon.”

The mage sighed. “I’m tired of the killing.”

“So am I, but as long as the Wizards keep recruiting miniature dragons to keep their war going, and don’t butcher each other, what choice do we have? I mean, these idiots just want to grasp more and more power, but they’re unwilling to soil their hands unless they have to. – Huh, the Council isn’t that different, you know.”

“I know.”

“If it weren’t for that geezer, Julathaen, Mages would be in a civil war.”

“How . . . “

“I listen, I think for myself, you created me this way, remember? You wanted a ‘partner in crime’, remember? Which god or goddess did you give offerings to? Heard that some idiot mage, one of Rutharion’s line, had ignored a beggar and then sacrificed to Traghnalach, ended up offending Cingrib and got at least part of what he wished for.” He chuckled. “The bird kept shitting on his shoulder, and then corrected his every mistake. Pretty shitty for a politician, if you ask me.” Babbling on like that created the atmosphere he knew Lloreanthoran needed to think things through. So he kept talking.

“You know, humans are ignorant, right? Right. The majority of the Council is worse. I mean, humans don’t have the time to develop wisdom, so it’s kind of all right they’re idiots, but the Council, they’re elves, they have the time, they could have the wisdom, but they’re just as selfish as humans. More so, if you think about it, I mean, they deposed the last king, after the kings had expanded Gathran over the entire continent, and then they just fucked shit up. Limited mirror usage, argued over paying the Leghans, ignored what wasn’t relevant or profitable to them. And slowly the empire shrunk. Ever seen what happens to grapes left in the sun? Raisins, Gathran’s like a raisin; wrinkled, shrunken, instead of a vibrant green, it’s shit brown.”

“You’re right, my friend,” Lloreanthoran’s words cut short his tirade. “There’s so much truth in your words. Arrogance, ignorance, greed, they’re not just human flaws.”

“Great . . . now that we’ve got that settled, what’s the plan? I want to kill me a dragon.”

“You need to be fast . . . “

Bright-Eyes scoffed.

“Get in there, annoy the fuck out of it, and get out. I’ll summon a blizzard worthy of Lady Ice’s fury.”

“Wait? That’s exactly what I suggested.” He reached over, grabbed Lloreanthoran’s chin and turned the elf’s face around, forcing his friend to look at him in a goofy, cross-eyed gaze. “Are you kidding me? I babbled my way through the Council of Mages and their stupidity, only for you to conclude my idea was the best way to get the little shit out of his hidey-hole?”

“Well, I also reviewed the list of groceries I needed to buy for supper,” the elf grinned. It looked even more deranged from close up, with the cross-eyed stare.

Bright-Eyes laughed. “You . . . you . . . you bastard.”

Lloreanthoran turned away, chuckling. “That took a while.”

“Yeah, well . . . I didn’t expect you to be so devious.”

“Right.”

“You gave a beggar a Sun, didn’t you? Before you summoned your familiar, I mean.”

“I didn’t have any Twigs or Leafs on me,” the elf admitted. “That was before Lilanthias was born.”

“I know that. So before your child, you had more money? Makes sense. But a Sun? I ain’t complaining; Cingrib must have been pleased with your generosity. Unlike Rutharion’s relation.” He chuckled.

The Mage scoffed. “I hadn’t heard about that, you know.”

“They kept it secret, but, well, who notices a squirrel in a tree? The Mage of the Shitting Bird, they called him behind his back.”

Lloreanthoran stifled a laugh. “Ready?”

“I was born ready . . . well; actually, I wasn’t, unless you count becoming your familiar as birth as well, in which case I was definitely born ready.”

The elf made a shooing motion. “Go.”

“Going,” the familiar said, jumping off his friend’s shoulder and rushing for the minuscule crack in the mountainside that served the dragon as cave.

It was only when he had entered the crack in the stone, when the stench of sulfur assaulted his nostrils that Bright-Eyes wondered about how he could protect himself from the dragon’s fire, should the little shit decide to cough in his general direction. Someone beside him chuckled, and then he heard a voice in his head, “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine, little one.”

Only one person in the entire world could talk to him like this, and Lloreanthoran did not sound like that. “What?” he thought, stopping dead in his tracks.

“Who.”

“What who?”

“I mean the correct question would be who, little one.”

“I was getting to that,” he thought back.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are you going to ask?”

“Why bother? You’re either going to lie to me or speak the truth, the formalities of introduction and shit are pretty fucking useless when you’re already in my head. You know my name, it’s only polite you tell me yours.”

The voice giggled. Giggled? “You’re feisty.”

“And not stupid. You another mage?”

“No. This is fun, guess again.”

“You my long lost mom?”

Now the voice howled with laughter. “Oh, you are fun!”

“And annoyed. So who are you?”

“You were nice to a beggar not just once, but pretty much every time you passed one, you offered them food.”

Bright-Eyes swallowed. Her? How the Scales could his minor acts of kindness towards the hapless have attracted her attention? “It was stolen food.”

“Well, considering that you can’t carry a purse or a bag with rolls, you did more than others would.”

“Considering you really are who you didn’t say you were why the Scales do you worry with someone like me? I’m a bloody nuisance, and no fun at parties.”

Again the laughter. “You are fun!”

“That doesn’t . . . ” he trailed off, full aware the Lady of Mischief would read his thoughts all the same. It did answer his question. Not directly, of course, the gods, especially this goddess, rarely said directly what they meant. People, or squirrels, were to figure shit out for themselves. Getting told the ending of the story was spoiling the entire story.

Cingrib laughed again. Was that approval in the giggles?

Just a few morsels of food to the needy, well, fine, it were more than a few morsels, shouldn’t have made that much of an impression. After all, Lloreanthoran also gave freely. A Sun to a beggar, that’s a months worth of food for a family, shouldn’t he have got special consideration from the Maid of Mischief?

Again she laughed.

Was he the reward?

Well, at least he didn’t shit on Lloreanthoran’s shoulder.

Now the goddess was howling. “Stop it!”

So he really was the reward, the mage’s good luck charm. “So you’ve come here to bestow a gift on the gift? Am I, the reward, to be rewarded for my generosity? This wasn’t really that generous because I stole the food.”

“You’re unique.”

“For a squirrel?”

“Most people would have been honored, humbled even, to hear a goddess in their minds.”

“Most people who say they hear a god speak in their minds are fucking crazy. I already knew that.”

“You’re killing me,” Cingrib choked out whilst laughing.

“Figuratively speaking, I hope. Now, what the Scales do you want? I’m about to go into the dragon’s den to get fried. Want to watch a burning squirrel run out of this space?”

“No,” she said, chastised. Chastised? Had he really just managed to one-up a goddess? Was she pouting now? “No, I’m not. Something distracted me.”

“Ri-i-ight,” he said in the same elongated tone Lilanthias used when doubting something her parents had said.

“Anyway, I came to tell you that you will not die today, you’re too much fun to die.”

“Today, eh? What about tomorrow, or over-tomorrow?”

“Do you think that far ahead?”

“Not really, but you brought it up by specifically saying ‘you will not die today’.”

“Are you asking for immortality?”

“What? Me? No-o-o-o.” This time, he elongated the No.

The Maid of Mischief whistled, obviously relieved. “I couldn’t have explained that to da.”

“So I can go in there and the fire chicken won’t fry me?”

“Yup.”

“Because I was nice to a bunch of hobos?”

“Yup. You never asked me for anything.”

“I didn’t ask anything from any god, because, honestly, I thought nobody would bother with me.”

“Well, I did.”

“What about the stolen food?”

“Lliania’s Scales don’t count such things, when it’s done for people in need.”

He would have sighed in relief but wasn’t sure the dragon could hear him. “So, I go in there and you protect me?”

“Yes, little one.”

“Great, thanks,” he said and headed deeper into the cave.

Only that deeper wasn’t really much of a thing, at all. The fire-chicken, he decided to call the odd creature thusly at the moment, made a lie of everything he had ever heard about dragons. He’d have to ask Lloreanthoran about that, or maybe the Maid of Mischief, should she ever deign to talk to him again. He also hoped he hadn’t imagined the voice. That would mean he was insane, and while it was fun right now, he had seen cases of crazy that were no fun at all.

The crack in the mountain that was the corridor the fire-chicken had taken now felt glassy. It was getting darker. How many astars was he inside now? The remaining light dimmed then it was dark. Could he dare a magelight? Was the chicken asleep? Would light wake it? Magelights didn’t come in variations, really. One couldn’t remind the air what it was like at false dawn. Or could one? Somewhere up ahead it sounded as if a bellows was fanning on a smith’s forge. Then again, judging by this corridor, the fire-chicken’s domicile might well be only a few feet across, and equally high, so sounds were bound to echo and be amplified by the glass. A chicken wasn’t loud, but this was no poultry. So maybe a dragon’s breath sounded like bellows no matter the size? Its fiery breath would still be mighty hot, judging from the glass the rock had become.

A gentle reminder of having felt the false dawn on it and a bit of air cast a pale, grey light, cascading off the glass around him. The breathing continued, undisturbed.

Bright-Eyes caught himself before he let out a sigh of relief, with his teeth it might well have become a whistle. And that would surely wake the fire-chicken. On he walked, his feet finding little purchase on the smooth surface.

The breathing became louder. Now it was like a roar, echoing off the glass. How could anyone sleep in such condition? Ahead of him, there was no reflection of the false dawn. The dragon’s lair.

Two sgoltadhs to freedom, maybe, he had lost count. Up a tree, across a tree, down a tree, two sgoltadhs were no distance at all, but this wasn’t a tree. In his thoughts he thanked Cingrib, it could have been much worse. A thought, and the false dawn wandered back a little farther, illuminating just enough of the corridor ahead that he could see the hole in the wall’s outline.

Two sgoltadhs, on slippery ground, in false dawn’s light.

Hobbling to the entrance, he looked inside.

Right at the tail end of the dragon. He hadn’t imagined their size, but the shape was right, only smaller. Smooth skin, not the scaly stuff some of the lizards here had, but still, tail, wings, long neck, toothy mouth.

Toothy mouth? Why?

“Shit!” Bright-Eyes cursed. “Hello, I’m here on behalf of all the poultry farmers in the region. They want you to stop fucking their chickens.” The dragon’s long neck pulled back for an instant and then whipped forward, two rows of teeth snapping. Bright-Eyes ducked, instinct taking over. With his left arm, he pushed himself out of the way of the jaws. His right hand balled into the resemblance of a fist, and he punched the fire-chicken with all his might.

The little bastard didn’t move. And both his arm and his fist hurt. “Fuck me,” he said. Then looking at the snapping teeth, he added, “On second thought, don’t.” He turned and sprinted towards the false dawn, and then towards the outside world. Please no fire, he prayed. The prayer was pointless. Why would Dragh’s children hear him? Until now he had never considered what flames did in an enclosed space. Now he knew. And he ran faster, slipping, once, clawing himself upright again as the fire licked at his feet, singeing his fur. Then the flames engulfed him, stealing air, sight, smell.

“Run, little one,” the goddess said in his head. “Straight ahead, you know the way.”

Did he? The heat had him in its grip. Straight! No breath, he shut his eyes, but the fire’s brightness remained. It was as if . . . Run! And run he did, the flames licked but did not touch. The heat caused his fur to shrink, shrivel, but the flames did not touch him.

Then he was free – of the cave, not of the cylinder of flame following him outside. He dove to the right. Was that Lloreanthoran’s voice he heard above the din? The roar was maddening. Now he was free of the fire, and the fire-chicken stopped its assault. He heard fleshy feet and claws sizzling on molten stone. Then the creature thrust its head out of the hole, shards of cooling glass flew as it looked about.

“Here’s chicky, chicky,” Bright-Eyes wheezed, hoping to draw the dragon’s attention toward him. The thing was fast! And unlike the stories, it didn’t need to take a breath to vomit forth a stream of flames. He was up on his paws again, fleeing for the mountain above. The sizzling of grass, brush, stone followed him as he stormed upwards. Suddenly he heard stone grinding on stone and glass, and the spout of fire stopped, leaving behind a surface as smooth as any mirror’s. Try as he might, he could not see the dragon, frozen or otherwise, only Lloreanthoran standing a few dozen feet away from the mountainside.

He looked to where his friend was staring, saw the boulder shrink into the stone it had been before. And beside it, the crushed dragon’s head.

“Guess a blizzard is a bit tough to summon in summer, eh?” he wheezed, chuckling.

“I need to work on that.” Then the elf asked, “How did you manage to keep the flames away from you?”

“Now you worry about that? Figures. I ain’t telling!”

Lloreanthoran huffed, but accepted his decision.

Later, as they entered the human village of Crossads, they encountered a beggar. “Leave that gal a sun, will ya?” Bright-Eyes said.

Lloreanthoran did so without complaint. They both had to thank the Maid of Mischief.