Dragon on a Pedestal (35 page)

“I mean I was flying—a little,” he said. “I stayed up for two, three beats, instead of coming down on one. When I touched her, I had magic.”

Irene paused. This was significant. “Are you sure? It wasn’t just an extra high jump?’

“Sure I’m sure, maybe. But I could only get a little way off the ground without losing my balance, and nobody else noticed. I’m an old goblin; it’s too late for me to learn good magic. But I guess the horserear was right—we
do
have half talents. And harpies have the other halves.”

“That’s amazing!” Irene said. This indicated that her private caveat about the significance of Hardy and Glory’s matchup was not well founded. The talents did not necessarily align, and if a goblin with half levitation encountered a harpy with half invisibility—well, she wasn’t sure what would happen then, probably nothing. So at least to some extent, there were proper and improper matchups, and Hardy and Glory were a proper one. That was reassuring.

“That’s amazing!” Irene said again, remembering Gorbage. “It’s a whole new horizon for your two species—and a new insight into the nature of the magic of Xanth! All this time, goblins have been fighting harpies when they should have been cooperating, so as to discover and use their combined magic. Now that can change. Never before has—”

“Well, we’ll see,” he said. “I can’t say I like harpies, but I do like magic, and especially power. You human folk have had it too good, too long, because of your magic talents. Maybe now you’ll have some competition.”

“Maybe we will,” Irene agreed, undismayed. This development had provided the warring factions the most powerful incentive to change their ways. Why try to kill a creature who might enable a person to develop a wonderful new magic talent? And if the goblins and harpies no longer warred, Xanth would be a safer place. Maybe both these species would become relatively civilized and would join the human and centaur folk as responsible societies.

Irene was really enjoying this wild dance now. Her dreadful initial vision, which had so appalled her at Castle Zombie, was being replaced by a vision of wonderful new things.

New shapes appeared above the enclosure. More harpies were arriving, attracted by the noise. Haggy flew up to screech the glad news at them. Her wings sparkled; now that she was clean and happy, she seemed to be a different creature

“We’d better be on our way,” Irene murmured as the dance broke up. “The day is getting on—”

They managed to make their partings and climbed over the wall. Haggy presented Chem with a whistle made from a hollow feather. “Blow this if you ever need harpy help,” the old hen said.

Chem accepted it with due appreciation. Then they were on their way, leaving the celebration behind.

T
hey had been traveling northeast toward Hugo’s home before encountering Glory Goblin and veering east. Hugo did some intelligent mental calculation and concluded that they ought to proceed straight north now to intersect their former route. That was better than walking all the way back the way they had come.

They took it easy, pausing to rest and eat, so progress was not rapid. Even so, Ivy was getting tired by the middle of the day and was wondering whether it would be in order to suggest an afternoon nap period. She decided to wait until someone else thought of it.

They crested a low hill and entered a clearing—and were brought up short by a sudden ferocious hiss. Alarmed, they looked about them.

There, switching his tail angrily, was a drake—a small, ornate, winged, fire-breathing dragon. They had unwittingly trespassed on his territory, and he was not about to let them escape.

The drake stepped toward them, still switching his tail. He eyed Hugo and Ivy, then slurped his tongue around his snout, obviously hungry.

“Maybe we can run away,” Ivy said without much hope.

The dragon was small, but still far larger than Stanley. Flying dragons tended to be lightweights, with large wings, and they could move much faster than a person could. Children afoot could never escape the drake.

However, there was a thicket at the side of the knoll. The plants were very thick there, which was, of course, why it was called a thick-it. “Maybe if we went in there—” Hugo suggested.

But though the drake massed much more than they did, his body was small in diameter. He could furl his wings flat back against his torso so that it was streamlined, and he could power his way through the brush in the manner of a snake. There was really no escape in the thicket.

“But we can’t just let him eat us up!” Ivy protested with some justice, on the verge of tears. Her hand reached for the Cyclops’ bone tied in her hair but halted; this was daytime, and Brontes would not come out of his cave.

Stanley stepped forward, huffing steam. He was perhaps a quarter the mass of the drake, and his wings were inadequate for flight, and he had no fire. It was plainly a mismatch, yet Stanley was ready to defend his friends.

“Oh, Stanley!” Ivy cried, clapping her little hands. “I forgot about you! Of course you can beat the monster!”

The notion was ludicrous, yet Stanley was ready to try, and it became more credible with Ivy’s belief. A baby steamer could not hope to oppose an adult firebreather, but a baby steamer buttressed by the potent and subtle power of a Sorceress could indeed hope. But it would have helped had Stanley known about the support he had. As it was, he was indulging in an act of foolhardy courage.

Stanley placed himself between the children and the drake, his green body quivering slightly, his ears set back against his skull.

“You’re so brave!” Ivy said enthusiastically. Stanley’s shuddering stopped, his ears perked up, and he assumed a more confident stance. Ivy’s belief in his courage had enhanced that courage.

“And your scales are so hard and strong,” she said. Stanley’s scales developed the luster of perfect temper and seemed to be thicker than before.

“And your steam is so hot,” she continued. Stanley jetted a shot of steam that fairly crackled as it cut through the cool air.

“And your teeth are so strong and sharp!” Stanley grinned, showing surprisingly sturdy and sharp teeth.

“And you’re so fast,” she concluded.

Stanley launched himself at the drake with such suddenness and velocity that the larger dragon was caught still stoking up his furnace. Before the drake could react, Stanley’s deadly teeth had clamped off the tip of his tail.

The drake was not one to accept such an indignity lightly. He roared, sending out a blast of fire that toasted Stanley’s own tail. Stanley quickly retreated, getting out of the heat. Fire was not something to be cool about.

Now the fight was on. The two dragons paced about the knoll, maneuvering for advantage. Theoretically, a chomp on the neck could finish it quickly, but all dragons were well armored there; and, of course, it was almost impossible to get in a neck-chomp when the enemy’s head was ready to shoot out a barrier of fire or steam. First the heat had to be abated.

The heat was not limitless. A firedrake normally had fuel for only a dozen or so good shots, while a steamer soon ran out of water and got dehydrated. Fighting fire with steam was hard work! So neither dragon squandered his resources. The trick was to set up the enemy for a telling shot, while causing the enemy’s shots to be expanded uselessly.

Hugo and Ivy backed into the thicket, watching nervously. Neither thought of running away while Stanley distracted the drake; Stanley was their friend.

The drake fired out a white-hot jet. Stanley, swift to react, leaped high, letting the flame pass beneath him. Then, as he landed, and the other was inhaling for another shot, Stanley wooshed out his own spear of steam. It scored on a furled wing, and must have been hotter than the drake expected, for he jumped back and half unrolled that wing, cooling it.

Stanley made another lunge at the tail, but this time the drake was ready. His head swung about, ready to sear Stanley’s head with flame. “Look out!” Ivy cried.

Stanley’s head snapped about—but the jet of flame was already on its way. All Stanley could do was shoot out his own steam, a desperate counterattack. Ivy cringed, knowing, despite her expressed confidence in Stanley, that fire was hotter than steam.

The jet of fire met the jet of steam—and just beyond Stanley’s nose, the steam doused the fire. A cloud of smoke went up, the unburned fuel of the fire precipitating into a thick haze, and slowly the line of their meeting moved away from Stanley’s nose toward the drake’s nose. Steam was conquering fire!

The drake broke off the heat-duel and dived for Stanley’s back. The jaws gaped and teeth closed above Stanley’s middle set of legs. Ivy winced again. Such a chomp could cripple the little dragon and possibly cut him in half!

But the toughened scales held. The drake could not bite through Stanley’s hardened armor. Then Stanley rolled over, and his claws came up and boxed the drake smartly on the snout, making him let go. Stanley had more legs than the other did, so at the moment the advantage was his, despite his smaller size.

They separated again. The fight was surprisingly even. The drake seemed perplexed; ordinarily it should quickly have disposed of an opponent a quarter its mass. But Stanley was a rare breed of dragon, one of the toughest and orneriest, and his power was enhanced by Ivy’s talent. He was actually more formidable than he appeared.

The drake tried a new tactic. He unfurled his wings, spread them, and ascended into the air where Stanley couldn’t follow. He wasn’t fleeing—flying dragons had little room in their light skulls for brains, and what brains they had were cooked by the heat of their own fire, so these creatures didn’t know when discretion was the better part of ferocity. The drake was simply attacking from a new direction. He looped about, aimed his snout, then shot fire down at Stanley’s head. The object was to fry Stanley’s brains, putting him at a slight disadvantage.

Stanley leaped forward, trying to escape the fire, for he was unable to bend his neck back enough to aim his steam at the enemy above. He wasn’t geared for an air war. But the flame was too fast; it scorched his third-legs section. Ivy winced a third time; she saw smoke rising from the scales and knew that, no matter how hard they were, those scales couldn’t stop the flesh beneath from getting burned. Indeed, Stanley was now limping, his tail dragging.

The drake gave a roar of victory and looped about for another pass. “Oh, Stanley’s hurt!” Ivy screamed, feeling the pain herself. “We must help him!”

“But we’re only children!” Hugo protested reasonably. “We can’t fight a dragon!”

“Yes, we can,” she insisted. “Stanley needs us! You’re smart, Hugo; you figure out something. Now!”

Hugo sighed inwardly at the imperatives of women, but he was stuck for it. He concentrated, and discovered again that he was smarter than he thought. “Fruit!” he said, another bright bulb winking into existence above his head. “Chokecherries!” A fistful of dark red cherries appeared in his hand. He pelted the drake with them.

Several cherries bounced off the dragon’s scales harmlessly. Even cherry bombs would not have hurt under these conditions. But then one landed in the mouth, which was just opening for another burst of fire.

Suddenly the drake was choking. He coughed, sending out a ring of fire, and bucked in the air. Clouds of smoke puffed out of his nostrils and ears, and he spun out of control.

But in a moment he recovered equilibrium and swooped back up before running the risk of crashing in flames. A single chokecherry was not enough to bring down a dragon.

Still, the distraction had enabled Stanley to get himself in order, and he was again ready to fight. He had found a stone and braced his foresection against it so that his body tilted upward. Now he could fire steam at the flying enemy.

But for the moment, the drake hovered out of range. Then, becoming extremely smart for his breed, he flew down at the far side of the knoll and clutched a smaller stone. He hefted this up, flew toward Stanley, dived, and let the stone go. It was a dive-bombing attack, and Stanley had to scramble away from his rock to avoid getting hit.

“Stanley needs more help,” Ivy decided. “He’s only a little dragon, after all. Throw some more fruit, but not the same kind.”

Hugo was ready. He conjured a handful of berries and threw them. One struck the drake in the tail section as he was picking up the next stone. He quacked with outrage and almost flew into a tree, but was indignant rather than injured.

“What fruit was that?” Ivy asked, surprised.

“Gooseberries.”

“Get something stronger,” she advised. She had never run afoul of that kind of berry, but could see that it wasn’t enough to put the drake out of commission.

Hugo conjured an alligator pear and hurled it. The pear clamped its serrated jaws to the edge of the drake’s wing, annoying the dragon.

“Stronger yet,” Ivy said, as the drake reached around to crunch off the paired pear jaws.

“I’ll try currants,” Hugo said. He conjured them and hurled a handful.

“But they’re so small!” Ivy protested. “Just watch.”

She watched. One currant fell in the drake’s ear. Another snagged against one of his wings. They were alternating currants; between the two, electricity arced, shocking the dragon.

That caused the creature to make a strategic retreat. Stanley, suffused with the spirit of baffle, pursued. The drake, dizzy from shock, lacked the stability to get fully airborne and scurried with wings flapping down the far side of the knoll, Stanley hot on his tail.

“Stop, Stanley!” Ivy cried. “Now we can get away!” But the little green dragon did not hear her. He was hopelessly caught up in the rage of battle. This was, after all, what dragons were made for. He continued the pursuit, making cute little whomps in order to attain better velocity.

Ivy and Hugo followed, cresting the knoll. The far slope led down to a small, island-dotted lake, upon whose surface delicate mists played. It was very scenic, but Ivy just wanted to get Stanley away from it before he got in trouble. One never knew what was in jungle lakes.