“So while everyone is riding off to the capitol, I’m forced to travel back to Immersea, all alone, on horseback. Though I must say that Dimswart fellow was quite decent, putting me up for an extra two days until I recovered from my shock. I left early in the morning, traveling up the road to Waymoot. I was thanking Chauntea for the nice weather when Daisyeye reared up on her hind quarters and galloped up the road, leaving me in the mud.”
Suddenly realizing that if he didn’t catch Daisyeye in a hurry he’d never reach Waymoot by nightfall and would be forced to stay in some roadside inn, or worse, a farmer’s bed, Giogi set off after his mount. He hummed what he called “that catchy little number” written by that Ruskettle woman for Freffie and Gaylyn. Rounding the curve in the road, he noticed a clicking noise.
“Is that you, Daisyeye? You naughty girl. Whatever possessed you to run off like—” Giogioni halted in his tracks, his words constricting in his throat. Very cautiously, he took a step backward, then another.
“Just where do you think you’re going?” an imperious voice demanded.
The young Wyvernspur froze, unable to answer the red dragon who had addressed him. Quite aside from the shock of discovering poor Daisyeye serving as the red dragon’s entree—quite a shock since there was blood oozing all over the cobblestone, and Daisyeye’s eyes remained open in death as though accusing him of something—he couldn’t get over the size of the monster. A single one of its paws could block traffic along the road, and Daisyeye looked like a chicken leg next to the beast’s maw.
“Well?” the dragon asked.
“I-I-I—”
“Oh dear, a stutterer,” the dragon sighed. “Try to relax. The words will come out more easily.”
“—don’t want to disturb your meal. I’ll just be moving on. Don’t mind me,” Giogioni gasped.
The dragon swished its big russet tail around so that the scaly appendage made a curl about Giogioni, blocking all avenues of escape. “You’ve been so kind to provide me with lunch,” the monster said, swallowing another gobbet of Daisyeye’s haunch, “the least I can do is offer you a lift.”
“Oh, that’s very kind, but I wouldn’t want to trouble you any.” Giogioni took another step backward.
“Freeze!” the dragon ordered.
Giogioni froze.
“What’s your name?”
“Giogioni Wyvernspur. Ah, everyone calls me Giogi.”
“How quaint.” The dragon sliced off the straps to Daisyeye’s saddle with a single claw and shoved it over to Giogioni’s feet. “Have a seat.”
Giogioni collapsed onto the saddle, feeling a little green. I never realized that such a pretty horse could look so awful with her middle slit open, he thought, reaching down into his saddlebag and pulling out the flask of Rivengut he always kept there. Thank Oghma, he prayed silently, it was more than half full.
“D-d-do you mind if I pour myself a drink?” he asked the dragon.
“Be my guest.”
Giogioni took a long, hard pull on the flask of liquor. “If I might ask, what shall I call you?”
“Mist.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all,” the beast snapped and went back to rasping her tongue along Daisyeye’s ribs.
Giogioni took another swig of Rivengut. If he was going to be dessert, he decided, he didn’t want to feel it. He wondered idly if he would be served en flambe, so to speak.
“I heard you singing,” Mist said when there was nothing left of Daisyeye but shattered bones. “Catchy little tune.”
“Yes, something composed by that new bard, Olive Rus—oh, gods!” The man gulped. “You’re that Mist.”
Suspicious, Mist cocked an eybrow and asked, “Just what did Mistress Ruskettle have to say about me?”
“Nothing, nothing. Er—just that she was your prison—uh—guest.”
“She still traveling with that tramp, Alias of Westgate?”
“The red-headed sword-sell, er, I mean, sell-sword? Maybe. If she could find—um, I have no idea.”
Mist grinned from ear to ear—not an attractive sight with parts of Daisyeye still caught between her teeth. She rested a claw on Giogioni’s shoulder. “We musn’t have any secrets, my dear boy.”
“I don’t know, really I don’t. She went a little crazy at the wedding, this Alias person, that is, and then she ran off.”
“Which way did Ruskettle go?” Mist asked.
Giogioni gulped. Only a cad would betray that cute little bard. He was determined not to be a cad.
A little steam escaped from Mist’s nostrils, but enough Wyvernspur blood—and Rivengut—pumped through Giogioni’s veins to give him the courage to keep silent.
“Very well,” the dragon sighed. “If that’s the way it has to be.” She slipped a claw through the back of the man’s shirt and lifted him from the ground.
“Oh, gods!” he gasped, sure he was about to follow Daisyeye into heaven. Instead of swallowing him, though, the dragon lifted him up, beat her massive wings, and took off from the ground.
Mist spiralled up over the Cormyrian countryside. When she reached a cruising altitude of one thousand feet she barked, “Look down, Giogi.”
“No, please! I’m not very good with heights.”
“You’ll be an expert on them in a moment, for all of eight seconds—at which time you’ll hit the ground rather hard—unless you tell me which way Ruskettle went.”
“Suzail!” Giogioni gasped. “She headed toward Suzail! On a small pony named High Roll.”
“Such a nice boy. I knew we could come to an understanding. Now, I need a message taken to King Azoun.”
“Oh. I’d be happy to, but there’s just a teensy problem. You see, at the moment, I’m not very welcome in court. I wouldn’t be the best person to represent your interests.”
“That’s too bad, Giogi,” Mist said. “If you can’t help me out, I don’t have any more use for you, and if I don’t have any more use for you, I may as well just drop you here.”
“No! No. I’ll do it. Anything. Just don’t drop me, please!”
Mist smiled, and dove toward the earth.
Azoun IV focused his telescope at a point west of the city walls, on the Fields of the Dead. “What cheek,” he muttered. The dragon, Mist, had taken up a post on Suzail’s burial ground, outside the gates of the city, but near enough to be seen by any of the populace who cared to swarm on top of the walls. And swarm they did, too intrigued by the preening wild beast to fear for their lives. No work would get done in the city until the monster left.
“If only we still had the Seventh Division in the city,” His Majesty sighed.
Vangerdahast spoke from the doorway, where he awaited reports from his own network of spies. “I assure you, Your Highness, that Tilverton’s need of them was greater than our own. Besides, Lord Giogioni said that she would fly off only if attacked, and then her offer will be rescinded.”
“It would have to be a sudden, single deathblow. I don’t suppose any foolhardy adventurers have come forward, offering their services?” Azoun turned from the window to address his court wizard.
Vangerdahast shook his head. “The wyrm has chosen her ground too well. There is no cover for a sneak attack, and she will leave before sunset, so we cannot use the darkness to any advantage. Mist is too wise to fly over the city and set off the magical wards protecting it.”
“Well, I don’t like this. Dealing with a creature like that goes against my grain.”
“Her offer is quite generous, Your Highness, if she keeps her word and departs the area forever. In addition to making the merchant caravan routes safe again, there are livestock and Your Highness’s own hunting grounds to consider, both of which Mist has seriously depleted of late.”