"The Vulnerability of Jih'Callas"

“Will you agree to the plan?” the deep voice growled.

“Yes, I suppose so,” the lighter voice responded. “But there’s so much that can go wrong.”

“You want that treasure, don’t you?” the deep voice intoned. “Just uphold your part of the plan, and you’ll be well rewarded.”

The young dragon Jih’Callas, cloud dragon of a hundred and more summers, Sovereign of the Ebony Woods and Master of the Sunset Spire, soared gracefully through the moonlit skies. The land below once belonged to his sire, the awe-inspiring and often terrifying Belloton Skybreaker. But since ascending to the Sunset Spire himself, Jih’Callas had chosen to try and rule his vast holdings with something more like benevolence. He was aware that there were many who coveted his treasure, such as the pair of likable dwarves that had traded with him just a few moons ago. He also knew that his sire’s past roasting of a couple dozen of the more uninvited thieves had prevented any recent predations.

But he was also aware that the citizens and farmers below feared every time his shadow darkened their lands, and that saddened him. So he’d made up his mind that, no matter what his Father had tried to instill in him about the treachery of Men, the greed of Dwarves, or the brutality of Orcs, he would do his best to make the people below respect him as an honorable and just Lord over their lands.

He’d already convinced them that if they merely staked out a single cow or a few goats each week, that would be enough to slake his hunger, and they needn’t fear him raiding their farms. And with so many farms, this wasn’t much of a burden on their herds. He’d agreed to do his dining at night, like tonight, so that he wouldn‘t terrify the children who might spot him rending an animal to bits in the daylight hours.

So with the moon riding high behind him, glinting off his cerulean-plated hide, he swooped across the land, searching for the farm who had by random lot been chosen for this week’s donation.

He was just crossing the Valley of the Simmering Stream when he picked up the sound of whimpering from down below. This was no offering cow, pleading for its release. It was something smaller, something much weaker and younger.

Jih’Callas swooped lower to survey the area. The Simmering Stream filled a narrow, tree-lined gorge peppered with boulders and rock outcroppings, through which the waters churned and bubbled. Off to one side lay a small clearing, where the surrounding trees grew sturdy and strong, hard against an imposing canyon that rose ninety feet almost straight up.

Spanning the narrow gorge and leading into the tiny clearing was an ancient wooden-slatted footbridge, and in the middle of that clearing sat—a child! A toddler, a little girl by the looks of her stained and tattered clothing, sitting on her haunches, wailing and sobbing as if she’d been lost for hours.

The young dragon realized immediately that this was a perfect chance to prove himself. He would swoop down there, gather up the child, and return it safe and sound to its parents. No longer would the townsfolk fear his presence or see their sacrificial offering as a demand, but instead, as a token of their appreciation for his great benevolence.

But the clearing in the woods was too small for a dragon to land, even one of only Jih’Callas’ hundred or so years. Instead, he decided to land on the opposite side of the canyon, where the trail from the footbridge rose up and over the crest of the surrounding hills into a wide, flat meadow. He dropped down heavily, shaking his mighty wings, then began to stride towards the trail. The woods nearest the canyon had emptied of its normal complement of birds and small creatures; his arrival in dragon form scattered everything with common sense from the area.

It wouldn’t do to appear in his dragon form, he knew: the fear of such a visage had been known to strike some folks stone-cold dead at just the sight of a dragon. Not to mention, there was no way his huge form could fit on the narrow footbridge. With a shake of his mighty head and neck, within three or four strides, he magically transformed from his massive dragon form down to that of a strapping human male with deep blue hair and piercing blue-white eyes. His iridescent blue scales had manifested into the clothes of a young aristocrat, a satin jerkin bejeweled with sapphires and turquoise over tight leggings of darkest indigo, tucked into knee-high black leather boots. On a wide silvery belt dangled a wicked-looking dagger on his right hip, and a magnificently tooled rapier on his left, with a pair of silvery-white gloves tucked into the belt for good measure.

Feeling every bit as jaunty as his outfoot appeared, he hurried up and over the hump of the hill, then down into the descending trail that led to the footbridge. He could already hear the gurgling of the stream, and the wailing of the lost and understandably frightened toddler.

It wasn’t until he rounded the final bend in the trail that he caught sight of the child. She was now on her feet, and was staggering around, eyes closed tight against her tears. Still wailing, she stumbled within a few feet of the edge of the canyon. A single misstep and she’d tumble head-first into the gorge!

Wasting no time, Jih’Callas hurried down the trail towards the footbridge. As he ran, he called out, “Stop, little one! Go no further! Stay where you are! I’m coming to help you!” But the child either couldn’t hear him over the rumbling of the stream and her own incessant sobbing, or simply didn’t care. She continued to wail as she stumbled around, within inches of her doom.

He rushed to the footbridge, his bootsteps echoing on the first few planks. He was in such a hurry that he failed to notice the faint dusting of powder in the very middle of the bridge, as if someone had spilled a bag of flour. As soon as he stepped on it, a blinding flash erupted all around him. He was stunned for a moment, just long enough for two hidden brigands to rush from their hiding places, one from each end of the footbridge. They were large and roughly featured, with seemingly more scars than skin. One grasped a thick neck-collar of dark metal, the other a pair of handcuffs fashioned of the same sooty iron.

Jih’Callas was more than stunned; he felt weakened as well, as if he’d been hit with some arcane spell. Before he could recover his senses or his strength, the one in front of him snapped the collar around his neck and secured it with a pin, while the one behind him locked the cuffs around his wrists, behind his back. They grabbed him and dragged him back to the trail from where he’d come, while three more bandits emerged from their hiding places beyond the clearing. One of them, a slight and pale old woman dressed in dirty reddish robes and a bent conical hat, wielded a stubby black wand as she approached the footbridge warily.

“Y’see, boys?” the pale witch cackled, in a voice that was part screech, part squeal. “I told ya the plan would work!” She kept the wand pointed at the barely struggling Jih’Callas while she yelled over her shoulder at the two brutes behind her. “You two! Gather up the child, and make it quick!”

The brutes, outfitted in scavenged armor and head-covering helms and wielding broad-headed axes, approached the young toddler. She had gone surprisingly quiet, and her eyes were wide open. Through a brief moment of clarity, Jih’Callas thought he spotted her staring at him with what seemed like some kind of concern.

One of the brutes bent down and picked her up, cradling her gently in his beefy arms. The other one fell into step beside him. They followed the witch as she crossed the bridge to the far side, where they huddled around the still-dazed human-form dragon.

“Well, Mister High and Mighty!” the hag crowed. “Not so all-powerful now, are ya?” She reached up to shake the collar fastened around his neck. “Just so’s you’re aware, that collar and them cuffs are made from a reforged Immovable Rod. The moving limitation is gone, but they definitely won’t change shape if’n you was to try to resume your almighty dragon form. That collar would cut right through yer scaley neck, and them cuffs would cut right through yer wrists!”

She waved the black wand in his face. “An’ I gots other ways t’ keep ya under control, too, like this Wand o’ Weakness.” She spun the collar around his neck, making it jangle like a horseshoe hitting a ringer. “So don’t try nuthin’ funny, ya here?”

“Why—why are you doing this?” Jih’Callas called out weakly.

The old crone cackled again. “Because yer daddy has a fortune that we’d like a little piece of,” she replied. “He’ll likely give anything to make sure his sonny is safe an’ sound. So we’re gonna bargain with him: yer scrawny life for a small portion o’ his fabulous treasure.”

“More than a small portion, I‘m hoping,” one of the ruffians that held him snarled.

“Belloton will never deal with the likes of you,” Jih’Callas said with slurred words.

“Fer yer sake, he’d better,” the witch snarled. “Elsewise, you’ll find out what it’s like to fall from a great height without no wings to keep ya’ flyin’!”

She waved the two ruffians onward with her stubby black wand. They spun Jih’Callas around and led him back up the trail, over the crest of the hilltop, then off to the right where the woods reached up from the deep canyon. A few hundred paces in, they’d stashed a small hand cart, into which they tossed him, after relieving him of both his rapier and his fancy dagger. The witch clambered up to the only seat.

The ruffians admired their valuable new gear. “Hey, d’ya think we need to share these with the other two?” one of them said, indicating the two stoic axe-wielding brutes.

“Nah,” the other ruffian replied. “They came late t’ the party. We’s been with the Madam since afore last summer. Let ‘em get their own takings!”

The two brutes in question saw their treatment of the human-form dragon and said nothing. When the ruffians hoisted the arms of the cart over their shoulders and began dragging it down to the trail, they wordlessly fell in line behind them.

Through one weary eye, Jih’Callas spotted the toddler, still cradled in the crook of the arm of the brute who’d picked her up. She quietly stared at him with her wide-open eyes.

The trip along the trail away from the canyon was filled with muttered complaints by the ruffians, who groused more than once about why they had to drag the cart by hand, instead of bringing horses along to do the job.

“D’ ya think the dragon would have missed the smell o’ fresh horseflesh, you idgits?” the witch barked at them. “You two ain’t got the brains of a bucket o’ frogs! That’s why I’m in charge o’ this show!”

The trail forked about a mile further on, with the branch to the left heading to the nearest town, and the branch to the right paralleling the canyon and heading deeper into the woods. That was the branch they took. The way became steeper and rougher, and it bounced around both the witch and their bound captive in the back.

Jih’Callas said nothing. As he was jolted around in the back of the cart, he wondered how his captors were actually able to contact Belloton, what his father would say when it was revealed he’d been captured trying to save a small child, and whether or not his father would really deal with his abductors. He wondered if he should trust the old hag and her threat that the metal bonds would cut right through him if he resumed his normal size and shape. He’d heard about such magical restraints being used in the past, and he knew the Immovable Rod was a real item, though none had been seen in these parts for many generations. In fact, he’d have loved to have added one to his own sizeable hoard.

Oh, he thought to himself, to be out of these accursed bonds, and back in my own cavern! To be perched once again on the lip of the Sunset Spire, looking down on the world from my safe vantage. He tried to resume just part of his massive bulk, focusing on only his wrists. But within seconds, he could feel the pressure building up as the cuffs resisted his efforts, and he relented.

The rest of the trip was, for him, unbearable torture. He longed to fly, to soar with the wind. He longed to roar a great gout of fierce azure energy from his throat to engulf his enemies. He lusted after the flesh of his captors, wishing to rend them limb from limb.

These thoughts he buried deep within, knowing that he might have the chance when they contacted Belloton. Until then, he’d just have to bide his time.

The way grew even rougher and steeper. At times, the two brutes had to help push the chart as they made their way over boulders half-buried in the trail, or when they needed to move a fallen tree out of the way. This the two did without comment or complaint, though the one carrying the toddler had to set her down to use both hands.

Not once did the little girl try escaping. Not once did she cry out. Nor did she do anything other than stare at Jih’Callas, catching his eyes whenever he looked at her.

It was hours before they arrived at their destination, the side of a high peak overlooking the Ebony Woods far off to the west. Two massive trees bracketed a rough clearing where the trail petered out, a favorite lookout spot for soldiers and brigands alike. A few birds protested their arrival with loud challenging calls, while a few small nut-hoarders skittered away to hide.

When the group halted, the two ruffians dragged Jih’Callas out of the cart and dropped him in the dirt like a sack of potatoes. They stumbled over to a pair of flat-topped rocks not far away and dropped down themselves, exhausted by their exertions.

The witch had moved to the center of the glade, though the spot was too dark from the intertwined branches overhead to allow grass or wildflowers to grow. Instead, the forest floor was composed of ancient, knotted tree roots barely covered by dirt and sand, with a few ferns and ivies bravely poking up here and there. In the center lay a burned section surrounded by scorched boulders where generations of watch fires had been lit, doused, and relit, a continuous activity since the massive trees on either side were half their size.

The witch barked a command at the two recovering ruffians. “Drag that worthless creature over here! And bring me my bag from the cart”

With more complaints, the two did as she instructed. One of them literally dragged Jih’Callas by the shoulders of his jerkin over to the ash-covered boulders, where he dropped him again, while the other brought her a large sigil-covered bag from the back of the wagon, from which she immediately began to retrieve various items.

Jih’Callas was awake and recovered enough to struggle into a seated position. Gazing out across the expanse of the Ebony Woods, he spotted a few vantage points and landmarks he was familiar with, though he’d never set down in this particular glade. He was familiar enough with this location to know that just beyond the edge of the clearing was a precipitous drop, two or three hundred feet at least, above a scree of knife-edged boulders.

Falling onto such debris while in his dragon form wouldn’t have raised much more than a tickle, even from a great height, such was the protection of his magical dragon hide. But in his current form, it would mean certain death.

“You’ll find out what it’s like to fall from a great height without no wings to keep ya’ flyin’!” he recalled the old witch threatening.

They mean to throw me off of that precipice! he realized. And without the ability to transform back into his normal dragon body, he would most surely die. Well, Jih’Callas decided, I swear I won’t die alone.

He glanced over at the two ruffians, now complaining about the lack of a hot meal, and at the two brutes who stood silently on either side of the toddler.

The toddler continued to stare at him. But for the first time since the encounter at the footbridge, she did something else besides stare: she slid a hand into her clothing and retrieved a small, rolled parchment. She made sure Jih’Callas saw it, then she slid it back into its hidden spot.

The old witch was too busy with her own preparations to notice the subtle communication. She had set up and lit five red candles on the boulders around the fire-pit, and filled with water a shallow brass brazier that had been placed in the very middle. She’d begun chanting some ritual in a long-dead language, while crumbling dried herbs and tiny bones in her wrinkled hands and dropping the detritus into the water. Lastly, she cut a long, thin line across her left palm with a tiny silver dagger, and allowed a few drops of her bright red blood to join the magic concoction in the brazier.

She turned and faced Jih’Callas. Still chanting, she moved closer to him with the small dagger held out in front of her.

She reached her hands out for his head. Jih’Callas stiffened, but did not pull away. She leaned in close and grabbed him by the hair. Her breath smelled of frogs and rotten teeth. Quick as a flash, she darted in with her dagger—

Then leaned back with a tuft of Jih’Callas’ blue hair.

She walked back to the fire-pit, still chanting in the spell’s dead language, and tossed in the hair. The water in the brazier began to simmer, then bubble, though there was no fire beneath it. Her incantation grew louder as she made a few gestures with her hands and the still bloody dagger.

Through all of this, the toddler continued to stare at Jih’Callas. His attention was torn between the silent little girl in her tattered and stained clothes, and the old crone dressed all in red, stooped over the ash-filled pit, spewing spittle and incomprehensible words.

Her voice reached a fevered pitch just as something odd occurred between the toddler and the dragon in human form. For a moment, for barely a fleeting second, he heard her voice in his head.

There was a string of words, a sentence or two, but he couldn’t make them all out. Only one word was comprehensible:

“Help.”

It wasn’t a request. It was some sort of offering. A promise. An agreement.

As soon as that moment passed, she looked up at the two brutes who stood guard beside her. Jih’Callas couldn’t be certain, but he guessed some other silent message was passing between them. Without a word, they walked over to Jih’Callas and gently brought him to his feet, then stood beside him like sentinels, one on either side.

It must have been the spell the witch was casting, but for a moment, Jih’Callas thought he smelled a familiar smell, one he’d inhaled not too long ago, back at his cavern, near his treasure.

The witch’s voice now raised to a howl as she poured every ounce of energy into her spell. The water in the brazier began to roll and boil, hissing up steam and tiny bits of bone. Suddenly, a wall of flame and water burst up from the center of the water, forming a rough, vertical oval above the fire pit.

The two ruffians jumped to their feet and backed away. The pair of brutes beside Jih’Callas didn’t move a muscle. Neither did Jih’Callas, nor even the toddler.

The flame curled around the edges like a living, writhing picture frame, surrounding the wall of water, boiling the surface where the two met. In the center of the water-window, a large blue-silver form could be partially discerned. It seemed to turn slowly around, and as it came into clearer focus, the head of Belloton Skybreaker appeared. His was a massive cerulean head topped with spikes of silver, gold and crimson, with a gaping maw of a mouth filled with rows of teeth as long and as sharp as broadswords.

The two ruffians fell to the ground in abject terror, though it wasn’t known whether the dragon could affect them through the arcane spell.

For his part, Belloton seemed neither surprised nor annoyed at the witch’s intrusion.

“Well,” he said in his deep majestic voice, “Madam Veubarie. It’s been a long time.”

“Not long enough, Drake of the Skies,” she spat back. “I think you might recognize one of my guests.” She made a motion with her left hand, and the two brutes tugged at Jih’Callas to get him to move more in line with the face of the scrying spell.

Again, Belloton displayed neither surprise nor concern. “Jih’Callas,” he said evenly.

“Sire,” Jih’Callas responded.

“Well?” Belloton asked, turning his attention back to the witch.

“Whaaddya mean, well?” the witch shot back. “You can see he’s bound and shackled, or don’t yer ancient eyes see so good no more?”

Belloton exhaled a long, slow breath that seemed tinged with smoke or steam. “I see that my son has forgotten the first Law of Ruling: never trust a Human with your life.”

The witch seemed a little exasperated. “We’ve taken him t’ exchange for part of your treasure, Drake.”

One of the ruffians, face down in the dirt, was heard to whimper, “A sizeable portion?”

Belloton chuckled deep in his throat, a rumble that seemed as threatening as a building storm, as dangerous as a volcano set to explode.

He let the rumbling die down before he responded, deep and full of malice. “Or what?” was all he said.

The witch’s exasperation grew. “Or—or you know what we’ll do with him!” She pointed one craggy finger at the precipice behind the scrying portal. “We’ll toss him off o’ Spycatcher’s Leap, and he’ll die on the rocks below!”

Belloton’s mouth closed, and grew a long, twisted smile. “Go right ahead. Don’t let me stop you.”

The witch was now beyond exasperated. “You—you don’t care about your own son’s life?”

The ancient cloud dragon pulled back his head in contemplation, wondering how to answer the question. He lowered his chin a bit. “My son means more to me than anything in this world. More than any treasure I possess.” He tossed his head as if dislodging an intruding insect or bird. “But if the only way to impress upon him the importance of my teaching is for him to feel the very real prospect of death,” he said, ending with a ripple of muscles across his great neck, “then so be it.”

The witch was now almost apoplectic. With a sharp wave of her left hand, she motioned for the brutes to take Jih’Callas to the edge of the precipice. They did so with no resistance from the dragon in human form, though he did glance back once more at the little girl.

She had moved away from the fire-pit and stood off to the left, not far from one of the massive trees. Her left hand was inside her clothing where she’d previously withdrawn the small scroll. She caught his eyes, and she repeated that same mostly incomprehensible phrase, all of which escaped Jih’Callas’ understanding except the word, “Help.”

“I mean it!” the old crone screamed. “We’ll throw him off the cliff! We’ve chained him with a collar and cuffs forged from the last Immovable Rod ever seen in these parts! He won’t be able t’ transform back into his dragon form!”

Belloton sighed, with a hint of his former smile. “What a waste of such a rare magic item.”

Balling her fists in furious frustration, the witch finally screamed, “That’s it! I have no patience for a greedy bastard who won’t save his own kin!” She turned her head towards the two brutes standing silently beside Jih’Callas.

“Over the edge with him!” she howled.

The brute on Jih’Callas’ left held him up high by the shoulder, the other down by his cuffed hands. They appeared ready to toss him backwards over the ledge, when he struggled mightily against his bonds, and swung his entire body around.

Without a sound, all three slipped and fell out of sight!

In an instant, the little girl had pulled out and unrolled the scroll. From it, she read a short three-word phrase in what seemed like the Dwarven tongue. The witch was surprised, not expecting the human toddler to have known Dwarven, let alone be old enough for her mouth to form the words.

The toddler stared at the witch, and in a calm, clear Dwarven-accented voice, said, “That’s not all you’ve been wrong about.”

In a few seconds, there was a great rush of wind, as Jih’Callas, in full dragon majesty, thrashed his massive wings against the downdraft beside the precipice. In his talons were the two brutes, though they were neither damaged nor harmed in any way. In their hands were the neck collar and the cuffs.

The two ruffians found their legs, and screaming in abject terror, went running for their lives down the trail as fast as they could.

With a mighty roar, Jih’Callas spewed a massive blast of silvery-blue energy into the trees beside the clearing, breaking off most of the branches overhead, and tossing them dozens of feet away. The clearing was now big enough for him to comfortably land, which he did, but only after gently depositing the two brutes, who strode over to stand beside the little girl.

“What—why—how?” was all the witch could mutter, as she sank to her knees. She knew that not only was her great and magnificently-thought-out plan undone, but now her life was over as well.

She managed one last look over at the toddler, who was clearly more than she appeared. She choked out a single word: “Who?”

The little girl replaced the scroll back inside a fold of her clothing, then reached with her right hand to encircle the ring finger on her left. As she twisted, she released an ongoing spell that the power of the ring had given her: a semi-permanent and nearly undefeatable Illusion spell.

She finally appeared as her true self: a dwarven female with high cheekbones, a noble chin, and radiant golden hair on the top of her head, and in the braided beard that rested across her chest. She wore an expensive suit of mithril armor, and on her left hand was a ring of deepest yellow and gold. Beside her, the two brutes also transformed into dwarves, one into the two-bladed warrior Draupnir, the other the blind and heavily muscled ex-thief Hobehn.

Jih’Callas chuckled. “Draupnir and Hobehn! My two favorite thieves! I thought I smelled you!” He turned his attention on the Dwarven lady between them. “But you, madam, I have not had the pleasure to have met.”

She bowed slightly. “My name is Yvress, Cleric of the Fire Forge, and wielder of the Ring of Illusion.” She nodded over at the still-active scrying window. “I and my two friends were hired by your sire Belloton to be part of this charade. I’ve been trying to communicate with you for the past several hours. But either my spells are not strong enough to penetrate into your warded mind, or I’m not as good at the Draconic tongue as I thought I was.”

The dragon nodded. “You were good enough for me to understand the word ‘help,’ though I fear I almost took out your two companions here."

“No worries,” Hobehn said. “That’s why we suggested that Belloton scribe the Feather Fall spell on that scroll. Just in case, you know,” he added, making a motion with his chin towards the precipice.

“You always were a devious little dwarf,” Jih’Callas chuckled.

Lost in their discussion was the witch, who knelt trembling beside the fire-pit.

“Have you any further need of this old crone?” the dragon asked of his sire in the scrying window.

Belloton snorted, “None whatsoever.”

With a roar, Jih’Callas leaned over and grabbed the witch with his massive mouth. He whirled his neck around and tossed the witch far out over the precipice. Her screams could be heard for a few seconds before they were lost in the wind blowing through the branches.

“What about the two that ran away?” Yvress asked.

“They did make me miss dinner,” Jih’Callas said, with a low gurgle in his throat, before he leaped into the sky after them. A mighty “Thank you!” drifted down from the branches.

"So," Draupnir asked Yvress, "was this worth all the effort?"

She twisted the yellow-and-gold ring on her left hand. "Yes, I suppose so."

The spell in the fire-pit faded away, as the three began their walk back to town.

“Too bad Jih’Callas couldn’t have given us a lift,” Hobehn commented.