Helen and Troy's Epic Road Quest (13 page)

They followed the directions on the brochure because the GPS on their phones was stymied by any attempt to find the preserve. A search for an official website did pull up an informative page listing rules and regulations and giving contact information. But it didn't list any address. They considered calling the number on the site but decided to see if the directions on the pamphlet were correct first.

“Says here you aren't allowed to bring any weapons,” said Helen.

“Isn't going in unarmed dangerous?” he asked.

“Visitors must sign a waiver before entering the preserve.”

“That's comforting.”

This was looking more and more like a dangerous undertaking. But they'd already committed, and she wasn't going back to the motel to grab another brochure. By now all the good ones were probably taken.

Danger was part of questing. Perhaps some quests were dull and safe affairs. Go to the store. Pick up some eggs. Return henceforth with said eggs and thou shalt be rewarded with the sacred omelet of justice.

Nobody wrote legends about that type of quest.

She wasn't interested in becoming a legend, but if she was going to be stuck on this journey, she might as well make the most of it. She doubted there'd be an epic poem in her future about that time they visited a preserve, had a picnic, and saw a dragon fly by. But at least it would be a day to remember.

They nearly missed the unmarked exit off the interstate, but the prickle in their hands flared up to alert them. It was an irritating form of guidance, but it did the trick.

From there they went down an old paved road. Then turned off onto a gravel one that transitioned into a dirt one before reaching their destination.

The preserve itself was marked with a wooden archway over the road. The sign declared, in hand-painted yellow letters,
HERE BE DRAGONS
.

“This must be the place,” said Troy.

After they passed through the arch, that became obvious. On the other side a forest sprang into existence. The forbidding timberland was a sinister mix of dark greens and deep shadows. They parked the Chimera in a dirt lot and double-checked. On one side of the arch was nothing but desert. On the other, the forest.

They entered the visitors' center, a large blocky building made of stone with no windows and only one door, also carved of stone. The interior décor was dominated by a fearsome dragon skull on display. Its jaws were propped open, allowing one to imagine what it might be like to see the fleshy version bearing down on one.

Helen began to have second thoughts.

A tall, gangly ranger sitting behind a desk perked up at their entrance. She stood, shoved a last bite of a sandwich into her mouth, and held out her hand.

“Welcome, welcome,” she said after finishing chewing. “Great to have you here. I'm Ranger Grainger. Yes, yes, I know. It does sound funny, but it's my name. There's nothing much I can do about it. And you are?”

They introduced themselves.

“Very nice to meet you,” said Grainger. “Can I see your IDs, please?”

They gave her their badges. She cross-referenced them with a computer.

“Everything checks out. You're authorized for full access.”

Helen said, “That's a hell of an enchantment hiding this place. Can't be easy to maintain.”

“Easier with the dragons,” said Grainger. “Their ambient magic powers it. And it doesn't just hide it. It actually displaces the entire preservation in a sub-dimensional flux. Unless you come through one of the authorized entry points, you'd pass through it without knowing. It's not so much to hide it as to head off any conflict. The dragons take up a lot of space, and they have a tendency to steal valuables, devour cattle, abduct virgins. And it's not like you can just fence them in. Not with an ordinary fence anyway.”

“We went to the website,” Troy said. “There weren't any directions.”

“We try not to advertise,” explained Grainger. “This is a public park, and all citizens are allowed to visit it. But it is, first and foremost, a sanctuary for endangered species. Too many people tramping through these woods are bound to be trouble.”

“If they go in, aren't they responsible for themselves?” asked Helen.

Grainger said, “You misunderstand. We're not concerned for the people. We're concerned for the dragons.”

Helen reached out to touch one of the foot-long teeth of the giant skull.

“Don't touch that,” said Grainger.

“Sorry.”

Grainger paced around the skull. “This was a full-grown wyvern. Magnificent specimen. Pride of the park. Measured forty feet. The largest recorded wingspan of the breed. Do you want to know how she died?”

She sighed.

“She was chasing after some idiot, fell off a cliff, and ended up impaled on a very pointy tree.”

“But couldn't it fly?” asked Helen.

“Of course it could fly. Just not while unexpectedly upside-down and plummeting. But that's not truly relevant. Dying in ironic or implausible ways is something dragons excel at, bred into them from the dawn of time by the gods above. It's why a thousand-to-one shot just happens to hit the one exposed scale next to their heart. Or they trip on something. Or they just decide to spontaneously explode with their own rage. It's in their DNA. Really, if you put a wandering idiot up against a dragon in a fair fight, well, the dragon will win most of the time. But all it takes is that one time, that one stumble, that one desperate stab with an enchanted dagger, that impossible moment of triumph, and the dragon ends up dead. And dragons are slow breeders. If even only one in a thousand mortal souls kills one now and then, then their numbers will continue to dwindle until they disappear.

“The fewer people wandering around, poking their noses in dragon territory, the better it is for everyone. But especially for the dragons.”

“I'm surprised you'd allow us to go in at all,” said Helen.

“I probably wouldn't,” replied Grainger. “But I don't make the rules. But I do enforce them, and so I'm assuming you've read the disclaimer on the site.”

“No weapons,” said Troy.

“More importantly,” she added, “no slaying. The weapon rule is just there to remind you. Failure to follow this rule will result in a serious fine, temporary suspension of your NQB agent status, pending review. Is that understood?”

They didn't reply.

Grainger straightened, narrowed her eyes. “Is that understood?”

“What if there's some incidental slaying?” asked Troy.

“Why are you so interested in slaying dragons?”

“I'm not.” He aimed his most disarming smile at her. “But you said it yourself. Sometimes dragons die by accident.”

“Give it to me straight,” said Grainger. “You aren't poachers, are you? It's a federal offense to remove any part of a dragon, living or dead, from the park.”

“Why would we poach?”

“Why wouldn't you? Dragons are made of magic. Their blood. Their teeth. Their scales. How do you think we ended up with that forest? Somebody killed a dragon, and trees sprang up where its blood hit the ground. Spread like wildfire. If we hadn't shunted the preserve to another dimension, the whole world might be covered right now. Or at least most of the continent.

“Dragons are an ecological disaster just waiting to happen. Two thousand years ago someone kills the last broodmother earth dragon and we end up with the Sahara. All because an idiot wants to drink dragon blood and understand the language of birds or bury some teeth to grow his invincible army. That's all well and good, but it's careless, shortsighted actions like that which cause and/or end ice ages.”

“We're not poachers, ma'am,” said Helen. “We swear.”

“And we'll be careful,” said Troy. “We don't want to kill anything.”

Grainger said nothing. She appraised them for a moment before finally smiling slightly.

“Oh, you look like good folks. It's not like it's my call anyway. But if slaying does occur, accidental or not, the incident is brought up for review. Usually takes a week to a month for a ruling to be handed down. If you're cleared, you get your NQB agent status back.”

“We're on a timetable,” said Troy.

“Then I would recommend being careful,” replied Grainger.

They went outside, and she inspected the Chimera, passing a weapon-detecting wand over it and all their possessions. The car passed, though Troy's magic sword was confiscated. He explained that he had no intention of drawing it, but Grainger was unmoved. She also suggested they hand over all their money and valuables. Including credit cards.

“You won't need these in there,” she said. “Dragons can smell a high credit limit. And they love expense accounts. There's a speckled red serpent in the northeastern section of the park that has a mound of gift cards you'd have to see to believe.”

Helen was allowed to keep her own wand because it explicitly couldn't harm anything, and their new shield was acceptable too. Grainger also issued them each a magic sword.

“They're enchanted to be supernaturally harmless,” she explained. “But centuries of conditioning have taught most dragons to fear magic swords, so they'll most likely just smell the enchantment and run the other way. Mind you, it doesn't work all the time. Especially for the more aggressive breeds. Though it's not mating season, so you should be fine. Unless you dare to enter their lairs or steal their treasures. Which you will most certainly do because that's what questers do.”

“We're sorry. We're not trying to cause any trouble,” said Helen.

Grainger said, “It's fine. It's not your fault. You're just doing what you're supposed to be doing. Greater good and all that. Just do try to be careful.”

“We will be,” said Troy. “Is it safe for dogs in there?”

It was perhaps only Helen reading too much in Achilles's face, but he did appear to glare at Troy.

“Safe?” said Grainger. “No, but if you were interested in being safe, you wouldn't be going in there in the first place. Now the day's a little shorter in this place, the night a little longer. It'll be dark soon. And you don't want to be wandering around in the dead of night. There are sanctuary stones throughout the park. You can't miss them. They keep the dragons at bay for the most part.” She circled a spot on a map with her pen. “You can reach this one in about an hour. I recommend you set up camp there. Wonderful view. Don't leave until morning.”

With that done, she had them sign several waivers each, gave them the map of the park, and told them that they entered the preservation at their own risk, and that if they chose to wander off the trails, they did so at even greater personal risk.

“But you'll do it anyway,” she said, “because that's what you questers do.”

And they drove into the forest, leaving Ranger Grainger shaking her head and muttering to herself.

The Wild Hunt stayed the night in Gateway. The club was beginning to have some fun, and nobody was in much of a hurry to catch up with their divinely appointed prey. Once they did their job, they'd be going either to prison or back to their humdrum lives. Nigel wasn't sure which he preferred.

They dallied in Gateway, making a mess, breaking things, and acting like the vicious horde they usually pretended to be. The citizens of the town were tolerant of the intrusion, being used to destructive visitors, and after the club had their fun, Nigel wrote a check for the damages as a way of thanking the locals for their cooperation. It undercut the merciless-band-of-cutthroats vibe they were cultivating, but it was the polite thing to do. It was also appropriately reckless because his wife was likely to stab him in the face once she saw their new balance.

The Wild Hunt prowled the highway at a steady pace. Slow enough that they'd catch up with their prey later rather than sooner, but fast enough that their gods wouldn't have reason to complain.

Eventually the spirits started speaking to Peggy Truthstalker again. They directed her to a lonely archway in the desert, hiding behind some rocks.

“This is the place?” he asked.

“They're on the other side. This is a service entrance to a dragon preserve. Magically sealed.” She knelt and scrawled symbols in the dirt. “Give me a moment, and I'll open it.”

“Dragons?” said Franklin. His voice trembled.

The club laughed.

Becky Bonebreaker slapped Franklin hard on the back, nearly knocking him over. “You aren't afraid, are you?”

He straightened and puffed out his chest. “No. It's just dragons, right? Who's afraid of dragons?”

“Smart people,” said Nigel, as he sharpened the edge of his dragonblood ax with a stone. The blade was supernaturally sharp, but he found the scraping sound it made soothing. Little flakes of frost spiraled to the ground where the stone sparked against the weapon.

Peggy did her shaman thing. She drew symbols. She chanted. She caught a tiny lizard, bit off its head. She had the club dance a strange jig. It was hot and uncomfortable and they all sweated in unpleasant places until the spirits were convinced they'd suffered enough and opened the doorway.

The arch cracked open with a flash of light, revealing a road leading into a dark and sinister forest. In the darkness, beasts of legend howled and shrieked.

“Don't worry, Franklin,” said Nigel. “You're little. They probably won't even notice you.”

“Or he'll get stuck between their teeth and at least take some small comfort in irritating the hell out of one of the beasts for a few days,” said Carl Heartchewer.

They all chuckled. Even Franklin, though his was a bit halfhearted.

The Wild Hunt revved up their engines until the rumbling overwhelmed the creatures of the enchanted forest. They poured down the dirt road, kicking up dirt and bringing fear to even dragons themselves.