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Fiction Short Story

by Wynelda-Ann Deaver

Dragon Breath

Merry ducked behind her shield just as the dragon hiccupped. Warm smoke carrying the stench of sulphur billowed around her. This was a bad idea. A very bad idea.
 
It had seemed like a good idea when Elian, her Elvin mentor and resident drunk of the Middle Magica School, had told her that she was ready. According to her knocking knees, his timing was off.
 
“Use the sword, Missy!” Elian’s voice ended in a hiccup. Was susceptibility to ale contagious? Had he gotten the dragon drunk? Perhaps, if she could get the dragon to eat him, it would fall down drunk.
 
“The name is Merry, you idiot,” she muttered under her breath. He was, doubtlessly, hiding somewhere nearby. But not too near to the dragon. That her mentor would stand beside her was a bit too much to ask for.
 
Merry knelt in the grass, keeping one eye on the dragon. By all appearances, it was a female. The scales glistened in the sunlight, whereas a male’s would have been dull. But the dead give away was its size. It was easily the size of a cottage. Thankfully, she was to all appearances, settled in for a nice nap. She lay curled up, tail against cheek like a smug kitten, in the bowl of the valley. Merry was directly in front of it, at eye level, a bit up the rise.
 
“This is exceedingly stupid.” Feeling somewhat safe, Merry rooted around in her karasack for the pieces of the sword that had been given to her. The ceremony had been full of pomp and circumstance, but in the end they had presented her with a broken sword. “I ask you, a broken sword to fight a dragon? And why? This dragon isn’t harming anyone. It’s just taking a nap.”
 
She looked up at a sound that resembled a gruff snort. Puffs of smoke were coming out of the dragon’s snout. Mayhaps it had indigestion? Her hand found the hilt of the sword and pulled it out. It glowed blue in the brilliance of the sun, but still in all was a broken sword.
 
“Go after her, Missy! Strike her when she’s down!” Elian’s voice carried across the field.
 
“Well, that’s not fair.” Merry stood, one hand on her shield and one on her sword. There were only about three ways that this could end. One, she could strike the poor dragon while it lay sleeping, and win. Two, the dragon could wake up and eat her. And possibly Elian. If the poor dragon had heartburn now, it could only worsen after that meal.
 
“Or I could run away.” The words came out of her mouth slowly. As if someone else had spoken them. “I wasn’t supposed to be trained as a dragon slayer in any case. How many ladies are dragon slayers? None. Ladies get herb-lore and healing. Maybe mage craft, if the talent is strong enough. I haven’t heard of one lately, but it’s been done. Never, ever, has a lady been taught dragon slaying.”
 
Merry hadn’t even known that they killed dragons; had never heard of such a thing. They never did it at her father’s castle. “This is wrong, Elian. I won’t do it.” Her voice carried through out the valley, echoing back at her.
 
The dragon grunted. Her heart bumped in her chest, traveling quickly to her throat. Elian’s laughter pealed through out the valley as he materialized before her. Materialized? That was something only a...
 
“Welcome, daughter, into the lore of mage craft.” The dragon’s voice rumbled, sending pebbles and small rocks tumbling from the walls of the valley.
 
“Missy, did you really think I’d send you to certain death? To fight a dragon with a broken sword?” Elian stood straight and his voice had lost its wobble.
 
“Well, yes.” She looked to the dragon, afraid of offending it. “You are a bit of a drunk, Elian.”
 
Both dragon and elf laughed. “Elves don’t process alcohol quite like humans. And mages can never afford to be in their cups.”
 
Merry felt her face burn. “But the ceremony… the sword. Why go through all that?”
 
The dragon cleared its throat. “The sword will glow in different colors in certain circumstances. When a mage has the sword in the presence of her chosen dragon, then it glows…”
 
“Blue.” Merry interrupted.
 
“Aren’t you the quick study? I will enjoy teaching you to harness the magic of my kind.” The dragon looked into Merry’s eyes. “Much as Elian has readied you for the choosing, now I shall ready you for your craft.”
 
Merry smiled. Mage craft was highly respectable. “How long before I return to my father’s lands?” She tried to sound respectful as she asked the question, but the answer was too dear.
 
“Never, if you so choose.” Elian’s voice was surprisingly gentle. It also had a pleasing lilt to it when he wasn’t pretending to be drunk. “A mage is beholden to no person, unless they so choose. You are linked to your dragon.”
 
“I don’t know her name, though.” Merry whispered to Elian.
 
“My name, daughter, is Nemar,” the dragon answered.
 
Merry turned to the dragon and began walking towards it. “Nemar is a lovely name.” She reached her hand out tentatively, and Nemar bumped it with her snout.
 
“I certainly hope you’re ready for an adventure, Missy. Because this is one that won’t soon end.”
 
Feeling the warmth of the dragon’s breath circling around her, Merry smiled. “An adventure sounds just right.”

© Copyright 2003 Wynelda-Ann Deaver


About the Author
Wynelda-Ann Deaver has been writing stories since she learned how to read. A confirmed read-a-holic, she keeps a day job as a secretary to feed her book habit. When not working, or writing, she hangs out in Middle Earth.