telling way out of proportion.”
Farloft’s eyes popped open. “Out of proportion?” he squawked. The words choked in his throat. “No power????” he shouted indignantly. “Out!” Farloft yelled. “Out! Before I change my mind about eating wizards.”
All of a sudden the cave became stiflingly hot. Laval saw Farloft’s scaly skin melt from an iridescent green to an almost blinding red glow.
Laval gathered up his robes and made a hasty retreat toward the mouth of the cave.
“I’m going,” he shouted loudly over his shoulder, to make himself heard above the rumble in Farloft’s throat. Any minute now, flames would be licking out the mouth of the cave toward Laval’s fleeing backside.
“I’m going,” he repeated, “but I’ll be back.”
Laval just made it to safety behind a boulder outside the cave as the opening was engulfed in the flame of Farloft’s anger.
- JAMES -
James stood knee deep in the mud of the bog. His breath formed small puffs in the chilled air as he huffed and grunted to cut the peat from the bog. Soon the ground would freeze too hard to chop the peat, used as fuel to warm the villager’s small homes. The last three mornings a light dusting of snow covered the land when James woke up. During the day the sun did not warm the earth enough to melt it. Soon the heavy snow would come. If he did not have enough peat cut and stored by then, he would likely freeze this winter. James’ stomach growled. He had not eaten a decent meal in weeks. Freeze or starve, he thought, what a choice.
The crops were meager this year - the soil poor and too few hands to work them. The plague hit the village hard this past growing season. James’ family died along with almost two-thirds of the rest of the inhabitants. James was now an orphan with no one to care if he joined the numbers of the dead.
He side-stepped an area of the bog where one of the villagers marked a warning at the edge of a sink hole with a stick. Before he died his father made James swear not to come to the bog alone. It was dangerous, he warned. There was quicksand. A body would get swallowed up before help could arrive. James broke that promise to his father. He had no one to come with him. Everyone in the village was looking out for their own family, or at least what was left of it after the plague. No one had the time, energy or resources to take in another mouth to feed.
At the age of ten, James was left to look after himself the best he could.
He pulled his tattered cape up close around his neck and bent over double once again, to hack at the peat with his dull spade.
He was exhausted and cold when an older man and his son approached the bog.
“Whose there?” the man called.
“James,” he answered. He could see now that it was the blacksmith and his son. There would be trouble.
The two came closer. “You been out here a bit,” the Smithy said. “Nice pile,” he commented as he hefted one of the squares of peat. “You wouldn’t mind sharin’ would you?”
The man’s son took a defensive position between James, in the bog up to his knees, and the pile of peat. The older man picked up several pieces and piled them in his arms. “We’ve sick at home need warming. You look healthy enough to cut a few more pieces ‘fore the cold sets in.”
James took a step forward. “And you and Tithe look healthy enough to cut your own peat.” He started up out of the bog to defend his hard day’s work.
Tithe pushed him backward into the bog with his spade. “And we be strong enough to take what we want,” Tithe said.
The Smithy picked up two more pieces and gave James a smile full of rotten teeth. “Thank ye lad.” Tithe backed up waving his spade maliciously.
James could do nothing. The Smithy was the largest man in the village even with the weight loss from the lack of stores this year. His son was twice James’ ten seasons and almost twice his size. James had never been big.
He stood shivering in the bog, nothing for it but to cut more. He pushed his long dirty brown hair out of his eyes and got back to work.
-LAVAL FACES THE PLAGUE-
Laval was frantic. Upon his return to the castle he found that a kitchen maid had come in contact with a peasant while searching the orchards for any overlooked apples for the King’s table. She had come down with the plague. There were now two kitchen maids, a stable boy and Laval’s only child, Megan had the plague. Megan went to administer to the sick in her father’s absence. She was very ill. Laval knew he could not save her. He simply must convince Farloft to lend his power in order to battle the disease.
He bent his head down to Megan and took her hand. “You must rest, my dear. I am going to get something to help you recover.”
Megan clung to her father’s hand. “Don’t go father,” she pleaded. Her body was racked with a cough from the effort of speaking.
“I won’t be gone long,” he assured her. “And when I return I will have a cure,” he said with conviction. He would not leave Farloft’s lair without the wing piece he needed.
He left his daughter in the care of her former nursemaid, saddled one of the King’s finest steeds and raced back toward the dragon’s cave.
- JAMES SINKS -
James was once again working in the bog. It seemed an endless task trying to cut enough peat to stay warm. He longed for his father’s strong arms and his mother’s warm ones.
He was on his last cut of the day. By now, his legs were no longer aching, but numb from the cold of his wet task. He had ceased to have any feeling in his feet an hour ago. Twice he stumbled and sunk to his crotch in the mire of the bog.
James took a step to his left. He immediately began to sink. He struggled to pull himself from the sucking ooze of the quicksand. The more he thrashed about, trying to gain a purchase on solid ground, the faster he sank.
He could find nothing on the bog to grab hold of. Within moments he sunk waist deep in the muck.
He tried to reach the spade he dropped. If he could reach it, he could drive its head into solid ground and possibly succeed in pulling himself out. He strained toward the handle, his fingers just touching its tip.
The quicksand made a gurgling sound, almost like the earth was belching and James sank deeper into the bog.
“Help!” he screamed.
He knew it was useless. The village was too far away and the villagers were all inside trying to stay warm.
In panic, he called again. After all, it was all he could do.
“Help! Please help me!”
By now, only his shoulders were above the quicksand.
He never should have broken his promise to his father and come out here alone. Better to freeze to death than be buried alive.
James shouted at the top of his lungs.
“Can anyone hear me? Please help me!”
- FARLOFT HEARS A CRY -
Farloft was out hunting when he heard James’ cry. The dragon shifted his wings in the air current that held him aloft, in order to get a look at whomever it was who was in distress.
A boy.
Farloft’s keen eyesight made him out clearly. A lad stuck in the bog. The dragon scanned the fields below and saw no one coming to the boy’s aid. He appeared to be all alone.
Farloft tucked his wings a bit closer to his body which angled him into a steep glide toward the bog. By the time he reached the boy, James was almost totally submerged.
There was no time for pleasantries. Farloft popped his wings fully open above the bog. He used their great mass against the air to bring himself to a stop. He flapped twice to position himself just above the boy, and with one huge front paw reached down and yanked the lad from the quicksand. One more backward thrust of his giant wings, and both he and the boy were on solid ground.
“Please don’t eat me,” James pleaded. For he felt sure that was the dragon’s intent. Why else would he pull him free? What misfortune, James thought. To be dragged from quicksand only to be eaten by a dragon.
“Eat you?” Farloft retorted. “I would rather starve than put anything as filthy as y
ou in my mouth. Where are your people?” Farloft demanded. He didn’t give James time to reply before breaking into a tirade. “Did your father not warn you about the dangers of cutting peat by yourself? Had I not come by when I did you would have drowned. I cannot believe your parents let you out alone on a day like this.” Farloft stuck his nose up in the air and inhaled deeply. “By the smell of it, it will not be more than a few hours before it snows again.”
Farloft looked down at the boy. The lad stood before him coated with mud from head to foot, doing his best to remain standing. The cold, a close brush with death, and a dragon encounter left him unsteady on his feet and close to tears.
“Are you all right?” Farloft asked, in a gentler tone.
The boy wiped at his nose with one muddy fist. “Yes, sir,” he replied.
“Do you think you can make it home?” Farloft asked.
“Aye,” the lad replied quietly, but made no move to go.
“Well then, off with you.” Farloft commanded.
James barely took two steps before his knees buckled and he collapsed to the ground.
Farloft clucked his tongue in dismay. “This will not do at all.” He moved around in front of the boy. “I suppose if I leave you here you will freeze to death.” He pushed at the boy with one massive claw. The lad, unconscious, failed to cringe from Farloft’s touch. “And I suppose if I flew you home your people would either chuck pitchforks and rocks at me or run from me and leave you to freeze. Either way, you freeze,” Farloft said to himself. Dragons were used to talking to