Chapter Eighteen
Mynowelechw Somimah Cwigg
The Dragon
lla Chwæmmaim
The elf-mage wandered in the wilderness for nearly eighteen days. He thought about everything that had happened, fumed and cursed gryphons and dwarves. He meditated on his future as the desert sun continued on his journey, harsh and unyielding, and the night sky wheeled around, chasing the day away. And he meditated as the moon burgeoned into fullness then waned into a slim half-moon above him in the heavens.
The elf-mage still had the magic of hiding, and clever words, for, even in his student days as a wizard, so long ago, he had never fully trusted talismans, and so any spells that he could do without a talisman he kept to himself and did not place in the object. But his own magic had always been too meagre to do the great spells. It was Afazel who strengthened him, showed him how to use talismans, in the strange dreams and visions the bat-winged god had sent him on the odd occasion when an elf actually sleeps. He decided to sleep, and see if Afazel had any advice for him.
He cast a spell to hide himself from passers-by then lay down on the caked desert sands to sleep in the strange, eerie atmosphere of night in the wilderness. Few sounds disturbed the quiet, apart from the odd owl hooting, and the occasional scorpion scuttling.
Afazel was not much help – in a dream the bat-winged god appeared to him and shouted at him and abused him for losing two talismans, saying, “Fool! Fool! Your doom will be your own fault! You failed me, and you will pay, you stupid, stupid elf!”
While he slept, a passing dragon noticed the stench of magic, and came down to inspect. Not finding anything nor seeing anyone that could make the magic, he became very puzzled, and decided to wait there and see if some dwarf or gnome came out of the earth. At that very moment the elf-mage became visible to him, sleeping on the ground beneath a peculiar desert flower, for in deciding to stay and watch, the dragon had ceased to be a ‘passer-by’ any longer, and therefore the spell the elf-mage had cast no longer applied to him. Ever does magic follow the strict laws of logick.
The dragon sat upon his haunches and waited whilst the elf-mage slept. The elf-mage tossed and turned, and mumbled, “Afazel. Sorry. Stupid…” and other words that the dragon could not make out.
Then the elf-mage awakened. The dragon was looking at him with a bemused expression. “Bit of a bad sleep? Nasty dream? Nightmare?” said the dragon.
And the elf-mage knew right then that his troubles were over, for it certainly did not look like a very intelligent or strong-willed dragon, and, as even a student wizard will know, the less intelligent and strong-willed a Nyashallyamae creature is, the less it will be able to resist the persuasive power of a Mage’s magical voice.
Now the elf-mage replied, “Well, dragon, perhaps such a mighty creature as you are would seldom suffer from nightmares and bad dreams, for you are a very strong and powerful dragon, and could have few enemies that you cannot overcome.” For, ever do elves turn to flattery to accomplish their purpose, and ever do the vain and evil swallow such words gladly, as did the dragon, who puffed out his chest and willed himself to forget the terrible nightmares that often darkened his dreams – nightmares about the other dragons in the desert eating his intestines, nightmares about the people he had eaten coming to life and haunting him, and nightmares about knights, heroes, with big swords and armour and shields, attacking him and stealing his heart. Dragons especially hate shields, for by them do knights protect themselves from the dragon’s flaming fire. But most of all, this dragon feared and hated the sun, for it was far above him and looked down upon everything that he did, every evil thing, like an eye in the sky. So in the day, the dragon would pray to the sun, and at night, he would dream of it, staring at him like a burning eye, and striking him down with a fierce flame. But all of these foolish fears, he forgot, in the glow of the elf-mage’s flattery.
The dragon could not have been aware of how ludicrous he looked, with a puffed out chest, and the frills around his head erect, and his neck tall and proud, as he said, “I am a strong dragon, am I not, little Mage?”
The elf-mage said, “Indeed you are, and were you at the Emperor’s court you would surely be one of his royal dragons. They are glorified throughout the land. And you may well be more mighty and more beautiful than any of those!”
Preening himself, the dragon asked, “Indeed! And how does one get to this court you speak of?”
The elf-mage replied, “Oh, you would not do that. It involves an odious service of many years before a dragon is promoted to the Emperor’s court. You would be strong enough, but you are such a mighty and proud dragon that you would never humble yourself in this act of service. Indeed, you are of the wrong sort entirely.”
The dragon puffed himself up, saying, “I am mighty and proud. I am certainly good enough for the Emperor’s court. What service is this you speak of, Mage? Methinks you speak with a deceitful tongue.” And for a moment the dragon was, for a dragon, very close to the truth.
The elf-mage waved dismissively at him, and said, “A dragon who wishes to join the Emperor’s court must be the mount for a Chancellor. You shall allow a Chancellor to ride you and lead you and be his servant.” And this, of course, was the literal truth, but the elf-mage was certainly still deceiving the dragon. The fact is that the Emperor had his own breeding pair of dragons, and the dragons in his court were pure-bred, pedigree dragons, and this dragon, who was of a mixed lineage would never have been acceptable – yet even so, the dragon, already enthralled by the elf’s splendid tongue, felt that he was virtually destined to be the Emperor’s mount, and if being the Chancellor’s mount was the first step he would take it.
The dragon said, “Indeed. A Chancellor’s mount, you say? Pmmph. And where would I find a Chancellor?”
The elf-mage said, “I am a Chancellor.”
The dragon said, “Elf, you lie.”
The elf-mage said, “You have a level of intelligence, dragon. You should know that elves never lie. But I would never force you to do anything. To be my servant you would have to swear, in the name of the Nomoi Emperor, to serve me as my vassal, uncomplainingly and with unswerving dedication, forever, until such a time as I release you. You would have to swear by Afazel, Ellulianaen and all the gods, and pronounce that if you went back on your word, you would be cursed with all the curses with which men, elves and dragons curse their enemies. I am sure that you would not want to do that, particularly if you considered it for any length of time. Well, then, dragon, goodbye and farewell – it was nice to meet you.”
And the elf-mage began walking away, and the dragon watched his chance for fame and luxury and royalty receding into the distance. He stood there, stunned, for several minutes, before stumbling after the elf-mage, half-running and tripping clumsily, his wings flapping chaotically to preserve his balance. “I will be your mount. Please let me be your mount, elf. Please! Ride me! Let me be your servant! I will swear the oath! I beg you, let me swear the oath!” begged the dragon, desperate not to let his chance for fame and fortune disappear.
And the elf-mage graciously agreed.
After the dragon had sworn an oath the elf-mage took a set of rune-sticks from his knapsack, and, calling on the name of Afazel, asked the rune-sticks where the gryphon was that had taken his talisman, and he threw the rune sticks down upon the ground. And this, of course, was to be his undoing, for Afazel has ever been a trickster and loves to mislead even his own servants, and also it is often a great folly to rely on lot-sticks or runes when making important decisions.
The rune-sticks gave him an answer, and the elf-mage mounted the dragon. They flew off into the northwestern sky as the sun rose in the east and filled the dark places of the earth with light.