The Guardians and the Heirs of the Brown Dragon

Tarragon inhaled the scent of the salt-water of his hookah and sighed. Stretched out on the beach by his cave, enjoying the heat of the day, the massive dragon listened quietly to the sound of the waves lapping gently against the shoreline. Two years had passed since the death of his parents. Changes had come over the Eastern coast; his friends Romus and Padina had left to find their vocations, along with the other keldoras of the clan. Fights had broken out among the elders, and now only a small handful of old ones remained. Tarragon was the only keldora now. He had grown drastically within two years. At twenty-five feet, Tarragon was a fine-looking dragon with a sheet of protective glistening green scales, all glimmering like emeralds in the morning sun. Basking in the sun was now his favorite pastime, as was smoking his water-hookah and enjoying the noises of the beach. But he never went anywhere, or saw anything. He was content to remain at home, to guard the last of his heritage against anyone who threatened to take it away. As he slowly drifted off to sleep, Tarragon was suddenly interrupted by the loud squawking of the neighborhood gulls. They screamed and cackled above Tarragon’s head for a few moments, arguing about whatnot, and finally, Tarragon lost his patience. “Look, you featherbrained birdbags—“ The gulls immediately landed on the grassy turf above his head and looked down simultaneously at the very irritated dragon. “If you’re going to argue, would you mind doing it elsewhere?” asked Tarra-gon. “I’m trying to smoke my hookah, and you’re being annoying.” “Well, if that isn’t insulting, my dear!” screamed one of the gulls. “We come to bring the big lazy lout a message, and he calls us annoying!” “Abominable!” “Downright nasty!” “Perfectly rude, my darling!” Tarragon glanced up, halfway interested. “Hey,” he said crossly. “Knock it off! Give me the mes-sage, will you? Quit arguing and let me have it!” “‘Quit arguing and let me have it!’” mimicked a young gull. “Highty-tighty! Hoity-toity! Hurdy-gurdy!” “Boy, somebody thinks he’s all that,” sniggered a gull. “What if we don’t want to give you the message, huh? What then, greenie?” Tarragon glared. “You’re a lousy featherbag who’ll taste better than you smell—hopefully.” The gulls chattered maddeningly at this, until finally, one of them hopped forward moodily. Hop-ping up to a piece of driftwood, he hollered into Tarragon’s ear: “You’ll have a visitor this evening; can’t say who, but be ready!” “You don’t have to shout,” muttered Tarragon. “Who’s calling?” “I am.” “No, I mean the visitor. Who is it?” “Not telling. I was ordered not to.” “Well?” “Expect him today at 6:00, was all he said, and make sure that you prepare yourself.” “For what?” “Beats me. Him, I guess.” Tarragon shifted angrily. “I don’t know who ‘he’ is,” he muttered. “How should I know how to prepare for someone I don’t even know?” “And how should I know that?” demanded the gull. “Lazy Blubber-Head!” Dragons don’t like to be called blubber-heads. They are very physically fit and muscular, so any reference to blubber, fat, or grease, especially in an insult, is not taken lightly, nor is it returned in good humor. Tarragon blasted the gull, who luckily swooped out of the way and only got his tailfeathers singed. He rose, shrieking in utter anger and humiliation. The other gulls laughed at his burned pride, and teased him about plucking out some more feathers so he “could be even all the way around.” They left Tarragon, screaming with laughter. Tarragon sighed, put his mouth around the hookah again, and blew some more bubbles before shutting himself back up in his cave. He had no intentions of preparing for anyone. But at six o’ clock, there came a loud knock on his cave wall, as if some gargantuan behemoth was whacking it with its tail. Tarragon sprang to life instantly. “GO AWAY, WHOEVER YOU ARE! I’LL FRY THE SKIN OFF YOUR BONES IF YOU TRY ANYTHING!!” “Oh, shut up!” came a cross, old voice. In came an elderly man dressed in a long tunic of white, a robe of sea green, and a hat of blue. Wrapped about his waist was a belt of leather, and at his side there hung a sword in a leather scabbard. He carried a staff, and had a tall hat, with no brim. His long beard reached to his knees, and he looked very much like an old gnome of the highland forests. “You’re making enough noise to wake the dead! What on earth are you staring at me for? Haven’t you ever seen a wizard before? Don’t tell me I waited all this time, and all I get from Danna is a lazy-bottomed, onion-breathed fire-snorter!” Tarragon’s mouth promptly fell open. “Close your mouth, you ninny” snapped the wizard. “You’re the rudest Green Dragon I’ve ever crossed paths with. Now I don’t know if I should even bother doing business with you!” “What business?” Tarragon asked suspiciously. “We’ll get to that in a moment, idiot. Aren’t you going to offer me any tea, or a smoke? You could at least tell me to have a seat! Here, this golden throne looks comfy.” The wizard plopped himself down and brought out his pipe. Tarragon brought out his hookah and allowed himself to breathing in the relaxing bubbles of sea water. The wizard sat and smoked his own leaf, probably out of his own land, but the smell was delightfully soothing to the nose, and Tarragon felt almost sedated by it. The wizard hummed a bit, and Tarragon waited patiently. Outside, it looked as if a storm was gathering; the dark clouds were spanning across the horizon and gathering for a dreadful thundershower. It was getting dark and chilly. Tarragon rose from his hookah to light a small fire in the corner, for the wizard’s sake. The fire rose high in the great cavern, warming the two from their heads to their toes. The wizard sat, blowing smoke rings, and looking so mysterious with the light flickering on his beard, that Tarragon couldn’t help saying something. “Ahem! Sir? The business?” “What’s that?” the wizard sprang to life. “Oh, I am sorry. Forgive me, Tarragon, I often slip into moods of thoughts. In the first place, I ought to explain more about myself. I am Galdermyn. I come and go, here and there, and induce myself into mysteries and adventures. You may have heard of me from one of your relations, I daresay. Your mother, Danna Firespring, was once a great friend of mine.” It took Tarragon some time to register this piece of information. Then he reared back, as if stung. “You’re the wizard that forced my mother to marry Gaunta, my father!” “What on earth are you talking about? What’s all this nonsense about ‘forcing’? I never forced Danna to do anything. I merely told her that Gaunta was the best choice, if she wanted to breed good dragons.” Tarragon’s chest heaved with sudden indignation. Memories flooded his brain: his parents yelling at each other, the fight between Gaunta and Razot, the death of his parents, and his four sisters weak in life and dead before they even reached the stage of keldora. Tarragon shook with anger. “You made my mother marry a runt of his family, and I’m the only survivor of that union!” he hollered. “My parents are dead, and so are my sisters. I’m all that’s left. What do you think, old man? I’m a pretty good dragon, aren’t I?” He meant to be sarcastic, but the wizard folded his hands inside his sleeves, looking very patient indeed. “Why, yes, I’d say you’re one of the best I’ve come across, Tarragon.” “Oh, now I’ve heard it all!” Tarragon snorted. “One of the best! You just said a moment ago that I was the rudest. What planet do you hail from, old man? You don’t know anything about me!” “And you know nothing about me, so I suggest you stop yelling, and we call a truce. I didn’t come here to get scolded.” Tarragon sat down heavily. Galdermyn took a deep breath. “I know you, Tarragon, because I knew your mother, Danna. I raised her from an egg I bought off a peddler, and I taught her to be a proper Green Dragon. When she came of age to mate, I suggested—note that I say ‘sugges