Anon's dream cont'd

Travitz Hernkappa rolled the bottle onto the stones of the towertop, hoisted himself up, and slammed the trapdoor behind him. He knew it was against regulations to drink while on duty, but he knew this for the death-posting it was; what more could they do to him? He looked up, and around the horizon. No dragons yet, and at least the weather wasn't terrible. It was a good day to die.

 

He shuddered at the thought, and pulled one of his daggers from his belt; the safety of the grave was not the only reason he'd brought the wine. Soon enough, he had the cork out and took a swig, and leaned back against the battlement to contemplate his fate while he kept watch.

 

He rationed his drink carefully, to keep himself from thinking too much or running out. It wasn't a bad way to go, he decided; after all, it was practically the way of the world, dragons eating a lot of knights and maidens. Why, he would be doubly qualified.

 

He took another drink.

 

The sun was low in the sky, and the clouds on the horizon red. A fitting end to the last day, but he was posted all night. Admiring the sunset, he pondered a cloud that looked remarkably like a dragon, among the rapidly-moving clouds, and wondered why the air was so still on the towertop.

 

"Wait," he hiccuped, "that IS a dragon!" He picked up the mallet and rang the alarm bell, which sounded far too flat. He struck it again, and a third time, as orders had it, and set down the mallet, sitting down against the cold stone next to the alarm, having more wine to ready himself for the end as those wings flew closer, curiously silent.

 

He shielded his eyes as the dragon landed, its backwinging blowing up some grit. "Hello," he coughed, "sir dragon. Have you come for dinner?" AS the dust settled, he looked at his doom, the red scales of the creature shining in the dusk, taking most of the towertop. Four legs, leathery wings that made him think of a paper screen, crests, and claws that were each easily the equal of a stabbing sword.

 

The dragon did not respond, bright golden eyes staring at him. Full of courage, be it his own or liquid, "Sorry I haven't much the hospitality," he slurred onwards, gesturing with his bottle to the bare stone of the towertop. Its eyes followed his gesture, then looked again at him, blinking slowly.

 

It opened its mouth, and a low, earthy voice replied. "Who is so bold to face his death with jovial greetings?" It turned its head and coughed, adding, "Madam Kalfyria, actually."

 

"Travitz Hernkappa, at your shervice, milo- milady." He sketched a bow as best he could, drunk and seated. As this presented his bottle to his sight, he decided he might as well go whole hog with this politic thing. "May I offer you some?" He waved the bottle, sloshing the remaining half at her. She blinked again, and exhaled, obscuring everything in smoke.

 

When he could see again, he saw a red-headed (auburn, he corrected himself- fancy words for nobility) woman standing with powerful muscles under a tight, embroidered tabard argent with gules dragon rampant, arms akimbo, over a long skirt the color of blood. Really a rather attractive lady, he thought. Why is she here? Unnoticed to him, the trapdoor vibrated slightly, silently. She pulled a chair out of thin air and set it on the trapdoor, seating herself, holding her hand- no, claws, he realized, out for the bottle, whereupon he handed the dragon the wine, which glowed slightly as she poured it into an invisible goblet.

 

"Magic," he wondered aloud, causing her to roll her eyes.

"Yes, magic, mere mortal," returning the bottle and sipping. "How I appear in a form...more suitable to your sight. It isn't every day my victims address me other than to beg for their miserable, fragile lives." Staring into space, she smiled, seemingly viciously. He didn't want to know what she thought.

"A toast," he laughed, "to lives," raising his bottle. She bounced slightly with the trapdoor, and thumped it with her tail. The outline of the trapdoor glowed slightly with magic, and it moved no more.

She raised her glass, a sardonic smirk gracing her face. "To lives," she agreed, and drank. "But I am curious what gives a delicious mortal such poise?"

 

"Well," Travitz explained, "If I'm going to die anyway, why not have fun about it, madam?"

 

"A novel view, to be sure." She smiled at him, baring her teeth. Those monstrous, carnivorous teeth. "Please, have a seat," a burst of red sparks heralding another chair appearing next to him. "That stone can't be comfortable."

 

He took the seat, thanking her. "Such is the lot of the guard, knowing the cold embrace of stone and the solitude of heights. More if you're on the Captain's bad side."

"So they won't miss you when you're gone?"

"Near as I can figure. You killed the the last two, and everyone seemed happy when I drew the short straw. Hence, the wine. What're they gonna do?"

"Bold human. I like that."

They conversed for some time amicably, the drink taking the edge off

 

An hour later, the erstwhile captain of the guard burst through the trapdoor to an empty parapet, the dragon winging off in the distance with a limp human  figure in its grasp. An empty grave was marked in Travitz's honour, the men of the post unaware of his true fate back at the dragon's lair.