“He always was faint of heart. Perhaps it was all a bit too intense. I know I should have warned him beforehand, but if I did, I feared he would have refused to even come. As you can tell, that approach backfired. My apologies.”
From the sidelines, Meg huffed, “I’m sure he was overjoyed when he came, expecting to receive the furnishings of a field marshal. Who can blame him for reacting the way he did when those cursed things came out? I feel sorry for him.”
She’d said something sensible for once. Perhaps it was going to snow.
“I have nothing to say to that.” It was Torson’s own fault for his dishonesty. Tricking a merchant to come here had already been enough grounds to turn down the offer.
“So where are my predecessor’s belongings now?”
“I have them piled up in a corner of the estate.”
Torson shot a sidelong glance at a mountain of junk.
“Why haven’t you burnt them yet?” Meg made little attempt to hide her disgust. “If you don’t act soon, you’ll have a vengeful spirit on your hands.”
When I inquired, she explained that cremation was the proper means by which to dispose of orcish bodies in this world. Otherwise, it was believed they would haunt the living and bring harm to everything around them.
Torson said, “I tried to burn them, twice. Both times, it rained. Sudden bursts of rain aren’t uncommon in these parts at this time of year, but everyone’s on edge thinking it’s an orcish curse.”
Even if it had been merely a coincidence, I couldn’t blame these religious folks for seeing the downpours as some sort of hex.
“They’re not yet fully dry from the last storm. I intended to check on them tomorrow to see if they were ready to try burning again.”
I walked over to the heap and scanned it from top to bottom. From within the pile of ominous pieces and firewood, those taxidermied heads stared back at me. For some reason, one rolled down to my feet at that exact moment, its tongue protruding as if it were baring its fangs in laughter.
“I hope next time they burn. It would be a huge ruckus if it were to rain again,” I heard Meg say to Torson forebodingly. It would indeed be viewed as a curse if burning the items failed a third time. Then again, another rain spell really wasn’t out of the question.
Meg then came closer to me. “Hero.”
“What?”
“Let’s have Veralgon burn it down.”
“I don’t think we have to go that far. The smithing grass he’d need to burn this doesn’t come cheap.”
Veralgon’s fire sack was already empty for the day. In fact, the grand dragon house’s stock of smithing grass was almost completely exhausted from our scorched earth tactics. There wasn’t much in general circulation, and the dragon riders’ supply managers apparently had to bid against city blacksmiths in order to obtain it. Thanks to that, prices were even higher than usual.
“Kadann Hill’s harvest wasn’t great this year, was it?”
“True, but what’s that got to do with anything?”
“If there’s illness and death over the winter, they’ll link it to the orc curse, no doubt about it. Then the people will turn their resentment on the lord who allowed it to happen.”
“The territory’s always had a shortage. That’s not my fault.”
“Fiefs don’t always run on logic. As long as the people think it’s that way, that’s how it is.”
I sighed, my gaze returning to that toppled head. Its expression made it seem as if it were sneering at me, taunting me. “If you think you can burn me, just try it.” I found myself growing irritated.
“Mr. Torson, do we have any smithing grass reserves?”
“Y-yes, enough for a breath or two.”
“Then tell the dragon keepers to feed Veralgon. Also, send a runner to the village chieftains.”
“Very well.” Torson blinked. “What do you want to tell them?”
“Tell them, ‘I’ll burn that junk for you. Come and watch.’”
I’d burn it right in front of their faces to allay those annoying rumors. It took a while after eating smithing grass before a dragon could breathe fire, as they required enough time to digest it in their fire sacks. By my estimation, the chieftains would arrive at just the right time.
For a moment, Torson seemed to want to say something, but then turned away to carry out my orders.
Daylight was meager in the winter days. The sun had dropped significantly by the time preparations were in order, the light around us going dim. The sky looked uncanny, with thick clouds hastening the arrival of darkness. The people who had gathered to watch the junk burn looked up at the sky anxiously. I had intended to call only the chieftains, but for some reason, every resident had come as well. This was most likely the work of Rick, that fast but careless messenger. Perhaps it was time for Torson to stop sending him on errands. Speed wasn’t the only priority when sending a message.
The cramped yard was filled with villagers, their numbers stretching farther than the boundaries of shrubbery. Was it really wise to light a fire with such a crowd congregated around?
While it worried me, it was too late to repel them. I told Torson to keep the spectators away from the pile as best as he could, and he in turn ordered the manor’s staff to push people back. The villagers pushed back too, and scuffles started breaking out. There were growls; there were cries. The general atmosphere had become unruly.
How had the simple act of burning trash devolved into this? Had Meg spread her foreboding warning about curses? She was off to one side, observing the proceedings with a grin, though I had no idea what she found so amusing.
Tensions continued to mount, but just before the first serious fistfight broke out, an angry roar reverberated through the air, stopping all in their tracks. The star had finally taken the stage.
Veralgon was being slowly led out of the dragon house. He had already been displeased upon arrival, and now he was far past that stage. It was understandable. He’d been force-fed smithing grass while feeling under the weather, and now, as he was dragged out of the dragon house, he was being swarmed by people without the talent. Of course he’d complain—I would too.
The dragon again roared at the heavens. Screams broke out among the crowd, and even the dragon keeper looked weak in the knees, so I rushed over and took the reins. Veralgon looked at me irately, but it appeared he would comply. As I led him along, the crowd parted at once, clearing a path to the pile.
I sensed Veralgon’s wrath grow as he spotted his target. This was bad. I stroked his leg to establish a connection with him. Though such minimal contact could only form an incomplete link, I still detected his intense hatred for the orcish race. By synchronizing his spirit with my own to some extent, I was just barely able to contain his madness.
“Clear a space behind the pile too!”
Hearing my shout, the villagers behind the heap scattered like baby spiders. The dragon was impatient, and he couldn’t be held back any longer.
“Do it!”
Veralgon lifted his head, sucked his lungs full of air, then opened his jaws wide as if snapping at prey. Flames sprang from his maw, enveloping the pile of rubbish. In an instant, all of it was turned to a massive pillar of flame, blazing toward the sky. Not a word was uttered by the dazed onlookers as all eyes shone with fire. The former clamoring had been replaced by awed silence, the only sounds coming from the crackling of burning junk and the low murmur of the flames. The fire continued to hold the villagers in a primitive sort of fascination as sparks danced and twirled above them like fairies, floating away into the darkening ceiling of clouds.
Not long after, a droplet struck my face. In looking up, I was pelted by more of them. It was actually a comfortable sensation after my face had been subjected to so much heat. The droplets quickly gained momentum, soon turning into a downpour. Those who stared fixedly into the cold rain seemed shocked out of their daze, raising anxious voices. However, the dragon’s flame remained undeterred by the downpour and continued to burn strong.
The shower was over in no time at all. Veralgon spread his wings wide before the mountain of junk, which still burned as brightly as ever. He roared, as if proclaiming his victory over the elements. Inspired, the villagers answered the call, no longer fearing the roars of this mighty creature.
“It’s a sacred dragon!” someone cried. “The hero and his sacred dragon have cleared the orcish curse!”
Now a different sort of heat was building. A number of folks had begun dancing around the pyre, their long shadows wavering in the flickering flames. Upon seeing this, more men joined in, grabbing one another by the shoulders and stomping their feet in rhythm. The dancers spun and jumped, creating one strong and steady beat. Their wives sang along to these movements in strange melodies, alien to my ears. I couldn’t decipher any of the words, unless they were simply meaningless sounds.
Torson whispered into my ear, “This is a dance for an ancient god. It has been prohibited.”
I nodded, but continued watching without a word. Some men, too old to dance, kneeled and prayed to the white dragon. The lord’s manor had suddenly become the scene of a festival.
Having let off some steam, Veralgon turned away from the villagers and trudged back toward the dragon house. The dragon keeper hurried after him nervously to take the reins, but by now, Veralgon had calmed down and was docile.
As I watched them depart, I murmured, “Mr. Torson, break open the ale.”
Torson headed off to begin ordering the servants. When the barrels were rolled out, the villagers cheered, and so the merrymaking continued. At times, young men and women would take each other by the hand and disappear off into the shadows.
The ruckus continued until the pile had burned down to cinders. Wine barrels from the manor’s cellar were emptied one after another, and once empty, those barrels were tossed into the pyre to keep the blaze burning. The fire only dwindled once the wine was exhausted, and with the flames, the festive mood subsided. The villagers stared longingly at the dwindling embers before finally returning to their homes.
The impromptu festival was over, leaving behind nothing but ash.