* * *
Runt stood in the centre of the main street, darting nervous glances at the heavy sky. A tangy mix of charred wood and dragon breath hung in the air, and the lightest of breezes had little effect on the smoky pall which hung over the town.
The halfling had a stick in his hand, and tied to the end of the stick was a scrap of off-white fabric. Runt would liked to have torn the rag from the underskirts of a willing maiden, but had settled for a dishcloth.
There was a rustle of leathery wings, and Runt waved the flag like crazy. A shadow passed overhead, then vanished. Runt swallowed. The shadow wheeled around at the far end of the main street, just out of the light. Then it approached at speed and flashed overhead, all scales and teeth and sharp claws and leathery wings. Runt took one look, dropped the stick and ran. At least, that’s what his brain told him to do. Somehow the stick was glued to his hand and his feet were rooted to the ground, the air around them misted with iridescent blue-green. He shot a venomous look at the tavern doorway, where Father M was peering at his spell book.
“Got any protection from fire spells, too?” yelled Runt.
“Be brave, little one. The Desolator returns.”
Runt ducked as the dragon whistled past, then watched in awe as the huge creature turned in its own length and dropped to the muddy street on all fours. The ground shook with the impact, and Runt shook with it.
Then the dragon emerged from the shadows at the far end of the main street, moving towards him one step at a time. As it got closer Runt stared at the huge diamond-shaped head, the narrow muzzle and the laid-back ears. One side of the dragon’s face was chiselled, flat planes with fine scales around an inky-black eyeball the size of Runt’s head. The other was a mass of ancient scar tissue, a clenched knuckle of skin surrounding an opaque, milky eye.
The dragon’s head twisted and turned as it scanned both sides of the street with its good eye. Runt clutched the collar behind his back, his hand slick on the leather as he waited his chance.
Suddenly the Desolator tilted its head back and belched fire into the air with a bellowing roar, then thrust its face forward until its smoking nostrils were a short armslength from Runt. Which was very close, because Runt had very short arms.
“What issss it?” hissed the Dragon.
“Wh-wh-what?” stuttered Runt.
The dragon tried again, its hard lips and narrow tongue striving to form the words. “What issss it you are sssshaking at me?”
Runt lowered the flag. “Th-th-this?” he stammered, his slack lips and furry tongue also giving him problems in the speech department. “It’s a-a...” he thought for a split second. “It’s a flag.”
The dragon’s eyes narrowed, the milky one almost completely hidden by folds of ravaged skin. “I can sssee it’sss a flag, but why are you sssshaking it?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“I have better thingsss to do than talk to halfwitsss,” said the dragon sternly.
Runt frowned. “I’m a halfling, not a halfwit.”
The dragon sat back on its haunches. “You’re ssstanding in the open, waving sssticks at a marauding dragon. That makesss you a halfwit."
Runt silently agreed. “Why are you attacking the town?”
“It’sss part of being a dragon. They don’t call me the Desssolator jussst because I sssteal sssheep.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Runt saw the cleric motioning him towards the dragon. He gestured right back. “Er, you know there’s something you could do to make yourself really, really scary?”
The Desolator’s good eye stared at him. “I’m not sscary already?” he growled. “Haven’t I sizzzzled enough people yet?”
“Y-yes, but you could improve your visual, er, scariness.”
“I could, could I? And you are an expert on thiss scaring businesss?” The dragon belched. “That one thought I was sscary enough.”
“But it’s just terror-munch, terror-munch. No long-term effects.”
“You think I sshould employ mental tacticss?”
“Precisely. And I’ve got just the thing to help, right here behind my back.”
The Desolator craned its neck, but Runt backed away. “No peeking.”
“You try my patience,” hissed the dragon. But he kept trying to look. “Why do you do this?”
“I’m a halfling - teasing dragons is in my nature.”
“No, why do you offer me thisss? You could make thingss worse for the town.”
Runt cast his eyes down. “I was hoping you’d spare me if I gave you something valuable.”
“A deal?” the dragon began to shake. “I could ssnap you up and I’d have your preciouss gift for free.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” Runt held up the collar, and the silver studs glistened in reflected light. “You couldn’t do it up.”
“Ahhh, clever,” said the dragon. It peered closely at the Collar of Taming, and Runt heard it sniffing. “Who wore thiss? No, don’t tell me… it’ss coming to me… Wyvern branch, possibly a Great Newt, or…”
“Just think how fearsome you’d look!” exclaimed Runt, tilting the massive collar so the dragon could see the fine stitchwork. “Hand crafted, this was.”
“Hmmm, I don’t ssee the harm,” mused the Desolator. “You’re barely a ssnack in any case.”
“If you bend your neck down, I can fit it without climbing on your wonderful scales.”
The dragon shot him a glance. “You can take the ssoft ssoap too far, halfwit.” But he bent his neck and laid his massive head on the ground. “Fassten it, then, and I will sspare you.”
Runt gulped, then walked past the milky eye and the scarred face until he was alongside the thin, scrawny neck. He closed his eyes, counted to three, then threw the loose end of the collar over the dragon.
The collar had barely touched the scales before the Desolator reared up, snarling, with Runt clinging to the ends of the collar. Then the dragon flapped its massive wings, and Runt found himself dangling from its neck, his eyes fastened on the rapidly-receding ground.
“Tricksster!” screamed the Dragon. “It’ss a magic collar!” One of the short, stubby forelegs swished past Runt’s stomach, and the dragons’s head turned this way and that as he tried to see the halfling with his good eye.
Runt ignored the leg and looked up, cursing the stickler who’d created the damn thing. Near enough apparently wasn’t good enough. His hands were slick with sweat, heat and wind tore at him, the dragon’s rough claws kept slashing at him, and he was dangling hundreds of feet above the ground. But somehow he got the pointed end of the collar through the buckle, and with a feeling of savage joy he pulled the thing tight and shot home the catch.
The claw stopped slashing. The dragon stopped twisting and turning. The fiery breaths ceased.
“Desolator?” called Runt.
“Yess, halfling?”
“Let’s go take a look at your treasure, shall we?”