Stories From Grandfather

Nakillim the mage stood in the middle of a forest. Flames crackled all around him. He looked left and then right.  He turned around and studied the area behind him.  He coughed as he inhaled acrid smoke.

The dragons had done this because of some insult, real or imagined. He saw two men lying dead nearby.  The other soldiers had scattered with the first dragon blast.  One swift attack had broken them.

“Men are such weaklings,” he said. He pulled a silver whistle from a small pouch at his side. Would Rograth respond to him now that so many tensions existed between the races? Man did not trust the dragons, the dragons did not trust the zyglots, and the zyglots trusted no one.     

He coughed once more, cleared his throat, took one deep breath, and blew as hard as he could.    

No person or creature would hear it except for Rograth, and even if he heard it, there was no guarantee he would respond.  He blew as hard as he could again.  Something cracked nearby. He turned to see a large tree snapping at its base and bursting into flames.  It fell straight for him, and he, frozen with terror, watched it.

            Just before it crushed him, he felt something grab his shoulders, and suddenly, he flew through the air.

            “Rograth, you heard me!”

            “I would have been dead not to.  Put that whistle back in the pouch before I feed it to you.”

            “I thought I was dead.”

            “Any other dragon would have gladly let you die.”

            “I have to do something about this, and you have to help me.”

            “Why does that not surprise me?”

            Rograth glided toward a massive cliff, flapped his wings gently and rose slightly, enough that he could drop his massive claws and touch down gently on a ledge protruding from the face of the cliff.  Anyone on the ground below could not see the ledge or the cliff.

            “Lair sweet lair.”

            Nakillim started toward the entrance.