The Hunt for the Dragon King, page 7
“Um, Myra,” Jason said as he continued to look upwards.
“Yes, Jason,” she replied.
“Do you remember what you told me earlier about the job that Mr. Goatmen had given you?”
“Yes,” she replied. “Why do you ask?”
Jason turned and looked at her.
“Because I see them coming this way,” he said.
It took Myra a moment to realize the meaning of Jason’s words. Then she and Daniel rushed out onto the grassy ground in front of their home and looked up into the sky.
For a few short moments they saw nothing but then they came into view. They were faraway in the vast blue sky, but unmistakably they were dragons! Myra and Daniel saw dozens and dozens of them. Hundreds!
Myra had a large smile on her face as she looked up at them. She found herself wishing that she could go up there and fly with them.
“Myra,” she heard Jason say to her, “I have to get going now, but remember what I told you, and don’t you dare get into any trouble with them!”
Jason turned away and started walking down the dusty road.
‘*~~~~~~~~~~~*’
Myra woke up much earlier than usual. After she wrote a note telling her two friends where she was going she rode her bicycle down the road. The sun was still rising and the light of the early dawn glimmered off the wet dew on the grass. The air was cool that morning. It was very quiet. The only sounds that could be heard were the squeaking of field crickets and the chirping of prairie birds.
Myra stopped pedalling and listened. In the distance she heard a deep throated roar of a dragons’ call. She began to cycle again and continued to listen to the morning noises.
Within a few minutes Myra saw Mr. Goatmen kneeling down on a small hill by the road. He was looking through his black and yellow telescope. Myra got off her bike and quietly tiptoed her way up the hill. She was intending to surprise her teacher.
“You know, Myra,” Mr. Goatmen said while still looking through the telescope, “if you oiled your bike’s chain more frequently I might not be able to hear it so well.”
Myra stopped in her tracks. Her teacher stood up and turned to face her.
“How did you hear me?” Myra asked him in a baffled tone. “I always keep my chain oiled and clean. I can’t hear it. How did you hear it?”
“I have been dealing with dragons for nearly two thirds of my life,” said Mr. Goatmen. “They can be extremely silent when they walk in spite of their huge size. You’d be surprised to see how stealthy they can be. I’ve trained myself to hear their slightest sounds in order to prevent curious young drakes from sneaking up on me.”
Mr. Goatmen gave a shudder from head to toe and said, “It happened to me once before. I think I still have the scar…”
Myra was silent for a moment.
Mr. Goatmen smiled at his young pupil and handed her the telescope. He pointed towards a spot in the distance and said, “They’re over there. See for yourself.”
Myra looked through it and saw a group of dragons and dragonesses nesting on the ground. They were a mile and a half from where Myra and Mr. Goatmen stood. They were using their powerful claws to dig a shallow pit in the ground. Once the nests were at the depth that the dragons wanted they lined them with grasses and settled down to rest.
Myra saw several young dragons chasing and play fighting with each other in and around the adults. Most of these were Whelplings but there were a few drakes as well. The drakes were in the in-between phase of their growth – they were no longer Whelplings but not quiet adults yet either.
“Quite the view, isn’t it, Myra?” said Mr. Goatmen as she handed him the telescope.
“But that particular group wasn’t what I had hoped to see today,” he continued.
“What do you mean?” asked Myra.
“Do you remember when I asked you to help me with studying the dragons?” replied Mr. Goatmen.
Myra nodded.
“Do you remember that I told you that I was studying a few certain individual dragons?”
“Yes, I think I remember that, Mr. Goatmen,” answered Myra.
“Those dragons haven’t arrived yet,” said Mr. Goatmen. “It’s very strange. They should have already been here by now…”
“Maybe they landed somewhere else,” offered Myra.
“That is certainly a possibility,” replied Mr. Goatmen as he gazed through the telescope. “But they almost always return to the same spot year after year to nest.”
A loud roar boomed overhead causing both Myra and Mr. Goatmen to jump. They turned around to see three dragons flying very low overhead. One was a young bull, big and strong with hard lean sinewy muscles and grey scales. The second was a female, slightly smaller than the male but no less intimidating. She had rosy red scales and a soft white underbelly. The third was only a little green Whelpling that couldn’t be more than two or three years old at the most. Myra and Mr. Goatmen ducked as the three winged beasts whooshed over them and landed close by. The moment the bull touched down he threw his large horned head back and uttered a deafening roar, letting all the other bulls who were within earshot know that he was there and that he had claimed this particular patch as his territory. One or two answering calls could be heard in the distance, other big bulls letting the newcomer know that they had heard him and were now wary of him. The big grey bull snorted at this, blowing out jets of steam through his nostrils.
Myra, who had dove to the ground for cover, heard Mr. Goatmen laugh. She looked up and saw that her teacher had already risen to his feet and was observing the three dragons through his telescope. The old man smiled broadly.
“Amaron and Twizel, there you’re are at last,” he said.
“You named them?” asked Myra as she picked herself up off the ground.
“I think it’s more polite to use their names instead of giving them simple numbers,” replied Mr. Goatmen.
“How did you come up with their names?” asked Myra.
“I didn’t,” he replied.
Myra was about to ask him what he meant when the little green Whelpling leapt up into the air, opened his leathery bat-like wings and began to fly in circles above his mother.
“That Whelpling must be Twizel’s little hatchling,” said Mr. Goatmen.
“What’s his name?” asked Myra but her teacher either ignored her or didn’t hear her. He was too busy gazing at the Whelpling through his telescope.
“He must be at least six or seven feet long by now,” Mr. Goatmen said to himself. “My goodness how much he has grown in the past year. I barely recognized him from the last time I saw him!”
“Which dragon is Amaron?” Myra asked him.
Mr. Goatmen lowered the brass telescope and turned to Myra.
“Oh yes, Myra, I forgot that you wouldn’t know who was who. You see.” He handed her the telescope and pointed at the grey. “That young bull is named Amaron and the red female that is following him is called Twizel.”
Myra looked through the telescope at the two dragons as they lumbered to a nearby rocky patch where the Whelpling had landed. She saw that the bull had three thin black scars running down the right side of his long and powerful snout; he looked very fierce. The female was standing close by the bull, nudging her young offspring gently with her snout. Being a female, she appeared to be more gentle and nurturing than the bull.
“Is Amaron Twizel’s mate?” asked Myra.
“Oh good heavens, no, Myra,” replied Mr. Goatmen. “Amaron and Twizel are brother and sister!”
As Mr. Goatmen said this his face suddenly went pale as if he had just forgotten something. He stepped forward and yanked the telescope out of Myra’s hands.
“Wait a moment!” he cried, “Where’s Rorik?”
“Who’s Rorik?” asked Myra.
“Twizel’s mate and the whelping’s father,” replied her teacher without looking at her. The man began scanning the skies, his eyes darting from horizon to horizon. Each time he saw a distant dragon he peered at it through his scope but saw that it wasn’t the one he was looking for. The man began to curse and mutter under his breath. Myra couldn’t quiet hear what he was saying but she knew that her teacher was deeply disturbed by Rorik’s absence.
“Mr. Goatmen, why are you so upset?” asked Myra. “Maybe Rorik landed somewhere else or is off hunting?”
“Dragons pair for life, Myra,” he said to her. “They are inseparable once they join together. What has happened to Rorik? He should be here by now!”
Mr. Goatmen looked very agitated. He continued scanning the skies and the surrounding fields for any sign of the unseen dragon but he could find no trace of Rorik.
“No, no, no, this cannot be!” said Mr. Goatmen in tones of despair.
“What is it?” asked Myra. “What’s wrong?”
Her teacher was still looking through the telescope while he answered her.
“There is only one possible explanation for Rorik’s absence; he’s dead…”
Mr. Goatmen sounded very sad. When he turned to face Myra she saw tears forming in his eyes.
“‘Dead!” Myra echoed.
“On their migration routes,” Mr. Goatmen began to explain. “The dragon flocks sometimes fly over lands that are less than inviting to their race. Over the years there has been a number of dragons who have been shot down and killed by the local inhabitants for one reason or another. I fear Rorik has become another statistic.”
Myra could see that her teacher was greatly saddened by this turn of events.
“Maybe he’s only late,” Myra suggested.
“No,” answered Mr. Goatmen. “No, he’s gone. Rorik is dead, I know it. I just know.”
A single tear trickled down his cheek.
He then said in a low voice, “This is going to complicate things even further. I needed three dragons, not two! This is going to throw off all my calculations…”
“What calculations? What are you talking about, Mr. Goatmen?” said Myra.
“Myra,” said Mr. Goatmen after a moment, “you don’t need to be concerned with what I have been planning. When the time comes I will tell you what I mean, but right now.” He paused a sighed deeply. “We have more important things to do.”
“What are you planning?” she asked stubbornly.
“I leave that up to your imagination,” replied Mr. Goatmen with a slight smile.
Myra shook her head at him and rolled her eyes.
“Have it your way,” she chuckled.
“Myra, I need you to stay here while I run back to my tower and grab a few things that I forgot. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes I can,” answered Myra. “Will you be long?”
“No I won’t be long,” said Mr. Goatmen. “10 minutes at most. Oh, you’ll need this by the way.” He handed her the brass telescope and said, “Continue to watch Amaron and Twizel and the Whelpling until I come back.”
Mr. Goatmen turned and walked quickly down the road.
Myra gazed through the telescope at Amaron and Twizel who were beginning to make a nest. The little Whelpling played around them, trying to get their attention.
“He’s cute,” Myra said to herself.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
In the distance Myra heard the roaring of cannons, the faint popping of machine-guns and the cracking of rifle shots. The sounds were coming from the direction of the Bumper Mounds.
‘The militia exercises must have started,’ Myra thought as she turned to face the noises.
The sudden squalling shrieks of the terrified baby dragon reached her pointed ears. Myra spun around and looked through the telescope. She saw Twizel draping her large bat-like wings over her frightened young one. The dragoness was holding her little Whelpling close to her. Amaron, meanwhile, stood to his full height and puffed out his broad chest and uttered a deep-throated roar that could be heard for miles. When he opened his large jaws, the young bull revealed all of his teeth. Myra thought they looked more like white and yellow railroad stakes.
“You’re scared of the gunshots,” Myra said. “You know what they are. You’ve heard them before, haven’t you?”
Amaron began to beat his large and powerful wings and roar in the direction of the Bumper Mounds.
Another blast of a cannon made Myra turn around and look in that direction. She found herself wondering what Jason was doing over there. She wondered if he would keep his promise about coming back in time for her birthday party.
`*~~~~~~~~~~~~~*’
Jason held his Springfield rifle in the crook of his left arm. His Tommy-gun was strapped to his back while his pistol hung holstered at his side. His trench-knife stuck out of the top of his right boot. The flake vest and metal helmet weighted him down as he trudged up the narrow path.
More militiamen were arriving at the foot of the hill. They came by whatever means they could; some walked, others drove, and a few rode their bicycles or their work horses.
When Jason reached the top of the hill he looked about at his surroundings. A row of cannons and machineguns shelled practice targets set up on the far side of a valley. The noise was deafening.
“Been awhile since our last party, eh?” he said as he shook hands with his squad mates.
“Yep,” answered one of the militiamen. “Let’s make sure this one doesn’t take too long. I’ve got work to do back home.”
“You and me both man!” laughed Jason.
“Heads up!” warned another militiaman. “Here he comes!”
Jason cursed under his breath when he saw Gilbert Bowlson or Goggle-Eyed Gilbert, so named because of the ridiculously thick glasses that he wore. He was one of the commanding officers of the Agro-Caelestis militia. He had the power to call for a full scale exercise at any time he wanted. Whenever this occurred all militiamen had to drop whatever they were doing and report immediately to their barracks.
Goggle-Eyed Gilbert was extremely disliked by the Territorial Army for conducting unnecessary exercises almost every other month. But Gilbert was also hated because he was incompetent, arrogant, cowardly and utterly ignorant of his own faults! He enlisted in the militia after the war with the Soolian Empire and thus, he never saw action. In spite of his character and war record he had been given a number of promotions while better qualified men were completely overlooked. The little egg shaped man was arguing with his underlings on how to attack the mock enemy emplacement that was currently being shelled. Gilbert squealed that a full frontal attack was the only way forward while his subordinates maintained that such a move would end in disaster.
“Hey, where is Captain Evens?” Jason asked one of his squad mates.
“You didn’t hear?” replied the militiaman. “He’s on vacation with his family out east, in the Dot-Land isles I think. By the time he hears about this exercise and makes his way back, all the fun will be over.”
“And that means, the voice of reason is not here to counter Gilbert’s idiot plans,” said Jason. “Well, that’s just great!”
“Yeah, lucky bastard won’t have to deal with him like the rest of us,” grumbled the militiaman.
Jason was chewing on a long piece of grass that was sticking out of the corner of his mouth. It calmed him but when he saw the short, balding, scruffy-faced and doubled-chinned Gilbert he spat it out in disgust.
Jason continued talking with his squad and hoped that he would not be noticed by Goggle-Eyes.
“You there, Argonaut, stand at attention!” Jason heard Gilbert shout at him in his nasally voice.
“Sonofabitch!” Jason swore under his breath as he turned to face his loathed commander. Gilbert’s angry face was tiresome to Jason, and yet at the same time, rather comical. The thick lens of his glasses made his eyes look almost fish-like. Jason thought that Gilbert resembled an overgrown pouting child.
“Yes sir, what is it, sir?” Jason asked Gilbert through gritted teeth.
“Did you think I missed that?” Gilbert snarled while his reddening jowls heaved with every breath he took.
“Missed what, sir?” Jason asked him, knowing full well what Goggle-Eyed Gilbert was talking about.
“That piece of grass you spat at me, you stupid disrespectful wretch!” Gilbert shrieked.
Jason thought that this display of juvenile rage made Gilbert look even more like a very overweight child having a temper tantrum.
It took every ounce of Jason’s strength to stop himself from laughing at this thought.
“What about that piece of grass, sir?” Jason asked him.
Goggle-Eyed Gilbert looked at him through his thick glasses and replied, “You will bend over. You will pick up that piece of grass. You will put it back in your mouth. Then you will salute me with the respect I rightly deserve as your commanding and superior officer!”
“Respect is earned, not given,” Jason muttered under his breath.
“What did you say?” Gilbert snapped at him.
Jason looked at Goggle-Eyes and said through clenched teeth, “Yes sir, I’ll get it, sir.”
Jason stooped down to the piece grass. He purposely knelt in a manner so as to make sure the barrel of his Springfield was pointing directly at Gilbert. Jason smiled to himself for doing this. He rose to his feet and then began to wipe away the mud that covered it.
“Did I give you any orders to clean it, Private Argonaut?”
“No sir, you did not,” answered Jason.
“Then why are you cleaning it?” asked Gilbert. “Put it back in your mouth the way it is!”
Jason couldn’t believe his ears.
“Well, Argonaut?” said Gilbert. “Are you going to do as I say, or are you disobeying a direct order from a superior officer?”
