Dermanassian made no protest when Asbeth sent him to this land, for the god
was not making a request. Thus, in a rush of wind, the last of the desert elves
was whisked from his campsite on the east bank of the Blackstone River to the
dense wood of unknown country outside a white dragon's lair.
At least the god had given him time to gather his few possessions,
Dermanassian thought as he resigned himself to obtaining one of the dragon's
scales. He hoped this latest imposition upon him would not end – as had so
many others – with the shedding of his own blood. Surely there would be a way
to get a scale without hazarding an encounter with the creature and with
planning and luck, he reasoned, he would be returned to his campsite in short
order.
He knew nothing about dragons, as there were none of fact or legend in his
land, and so he studied this one for some weeks from a perch he crafted in a
tree overlooking its lair.
He did not know whether the dragon was intelligent, for no occasion presented
itself whereby the dragon could exhibit either intelligence or its lack. Likewise,
Dermanassian did not know whether the dragon was juvenile or mature, male
or female. Instead, it simply was and Dermanassian withheld judgment.
If he known at that time of the dragon's temperament, he might have
approached it differently. If he had known of his true purpose here, he might
not have approached the dragon at all. He was ignorant of these things,
however, and thus he watched the massive dragon return before dawn,
sometimes gorged, sometimes dragging livestock squealing into the jagged
mouth of its cave. Listened to it tear hide and crunch bone with its icicle shaped
teeth. Heard its soft whuff-whuffing as it slept, its snorts when it woke. Smelled
its rancid breath, the stench of a creature that would rather scavenge than
hunt. Tracked it silently to the small stream where it lapped its fill. Spied upon
it as it hunched deep in the wood to excrete fetid waste and scratch the soft
ground afterward like a dog.
The dragon was most active after twilight. As the moon rose and the stars
became visible, it roused. Preceded by a small colony of bats hardly larger than
moths, the dragon came to the mouth of its lair and shook its polished hide, its
fine overlapping scales twinkling and reminding him of chimes in an autumn
wind. It methodically stretched its leathery wings before flapping them rapidly
in mock flight. Once satisfied, the dragon launched into the night, wings
rustling like dried leaves and tail lashing like a whip. Catching the moonlight,
the white dragon glowed as brightly as a star.
Over the days, Dermanassian found himself enjoying the rare peacefulness of
watching the dragon. Yet he knew eventually the god would call upon him to
demand the scale and, though Asbeth was peaceable enough, Dermanassian did
not want to be without it when that happened. He must get the scale.
As the next moon rose, Dermanassian heard the dragon snort and stretch away
sleep before its armored head appeared in the entry of the cave. It yawned
abruptly before snapping its jaws shut and shaking its head. The dragon sniffed
at the air, its nostrils flaring red. Finally, it ventured out.
By the time it completed its preparations, the sun had disappeared beyond the
horizon, the last traces of pinks and purples following it into the far west, and
the moon's reflected light filled the wood. The dragon left the ground with a
series of powerful wing beats. High above, it circled once before turning south.
When the dragon was gone, he crept down from his perch with the smooth
silence that had earned him the moniker the Gray Mist. Dermanassian crossed
the span of wood to the lair and entered it...
was not making a request. Thus, in a rush of wind, the last of the desert elves
was whisked from his campsite on the east bank of the Blackstone River to the
dense wood of unknown country outside a white dragon's lair.
At least the god had given him time to gather his few possessions,
Dermanassian thought as he resigned himself to obtaining one of the dragon's
scales. He hoped this latest imposition upon him would not end – as had so
many others – with the shedding of his own blood. Surely there would be a way
to get a scale without hazarding an encounter with the creature and with
planning and luck, he reasoned, he would be returned to his campsite in short
order.
He knew nothing about dragons, as there were none of fact or legend in his
land, and so he studied this one for some weeks from a perch he crafted in a
tree overlooking its lair.
He did not know whether the dragon was intelligent, for no occasion presented
itself whereby the dragon could exhibit either intelligence or its lack. Likewise,
Dermanassian did not know whether the dragon was juvenile or mature, male
or female. Instead, it simply was and Dermanassian withheld judgment.
If he known at that time of the dragon's temperament, he might have
approached it differently. If he had known of his true purpose here, he might
not have approached the dragon at all. He was ignorant of these things,
however, and thus he watched the massive dragon return before dawn,
sometimes gorged, sometimes dragging livestock squealing into the jagged
mouth of its cave. Listened to it tear hide and crunch bone with its icicle shaped
teeth. Heard its soft whuff-whuffing as it slept, its snorts when it woke. Smelled
its rancid breath, the stench of a creature that would rather scavenge than
hunt. Tracked it silently to the small stream where it lapped its fill. Spied upon
it as it hunched deep in the wood to excrete fetid waste and scratch the soft
ground afterward like a dog.
The dragon was most active after twilight. As the moon rose and the stars
became visible, it roused. Preceded by a small colony of bats hardly larger than
moths, the dragon came to the mouth of its lair and shook its polished hide, its
fine overlapping scales twinkling and reminding him of chimes in an autumn
wind. It methodically stretched its leathery wings before flapping them rapidly
in mock flight. Once satisfied, the dragon launched into the night, wings
rustling like dried leaves and tail lashing like a whip. Catching the moonlight,
the white dragon glowed as brightly as a star.
Over the days, Dermanassian found himself enjoying the rare peacefulness of
watching the dragon. Yet he knew eventually the god would call upon him to
demand the scale and, though Asbeth was peaceable enough, Dermanassian did
not want to be without it when that happened. He must get the scale.
As the next moon rose, Dermanassian heard the dragon snort and stretch away
sleep before its armored head appeared in the entry of the cave. It yawned
abruptly before snapping its jaws shut and shaking its head. The dragon sniffed
at the air, its nostrils flaring red. Finally, it ventured out.
By the time it completed its preparations, the sun had disappeared beyond the
horizon, the last traces of pinks and purples following it into the far west, and
the moon's reflected light filled the wood. The dragon left the ground with a
series of powerful wing beats. High above, it circled once before turning south.
When the dragon was gone, he crept down from his perch with the smooth
silence that had earned him the moniker the Gray Mist. Dermanassian crossed
the span of wood to the lair and entered it...
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| The Dragon's Scale, Rise of a Necromancer, Part 1 By SC Bryce |
Publication History |
Readers' Comments |
| "Excellent..." "Just gorgeous..." "Very original and inventive..." "Clever and visually breathtaking..." "Fascinating..." "Clear and vivid..." "Well written and imaginative..." "Very powerful..." "Great story!" "A really strong, individual style..." "Well-plotted and smoothly written..." "Nicely done!" "Marvelous..." "A fine read!" "An entertaining, well-written story..." "Extremely entertaining..." "Wonderful..." "Refreshing..." "Descriptions were good and dialog even better..." "You write extremely well..." "Very enjoyable..." "Truly a plucky, resourceful, likeable character... I became thoroughly immersed in this tale... impressive... I look forward to the next installments. |
Reviews |
"Vying for a position as the best story of the group with [Harold] Lamb's [classic reprint] offering is S. C. Bryce's "The Dragon's Scale." This first of a two-part story is about another recurring character, Dermanassian, a desert elf of considerable brains, weapon skill, and magic. Charged by a god to recover a scale from the white dragon, Dermanassian uses stealth to observe and enter the dragon's lair, eventually being discovered. Dragon and elf strike up both conversation and bargain, with the inevitable combat ensuing. The dialog is quick and clever, the action more so. Even though this story could be considered well ended here, I relish the next issue of Flashing Swords to see part two." Robert J. Santa, Firebrand Fiction Review, on The Dragon's Scale, Rise of a Necromancer Part 1. |
First Printing:
Flashing Swords, Vol. 1, Issue 6,
Howard Andrew Jones, ed. (Spring
2006), at www.SwordandSorcery.org.
Flashing Swords, Vol. 1, Issue 6,
Howard Andrew Jones, ed. (Spring
2006), at www.SwordandSorcery.org.
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