Varlarsaga Volume 2 - Recovery

Chapter - 38 Pitrag and the Dragling

Pitrag the imp huddled, black in the blackness, within the depths of the deep hollow where he had sought refuge. Beneath him, held securely between his knobbly knees, lay Sgnarli the infant dragon. The creature was quite still, as if sensing the fear expressing from the imp; only the dragling's slit eyes, the horizontal bars of the pupils grown wide, swivelled slowly and suspiciously about.

Above them, the moon's light crept over the rim of the weedy hole and played a little way down, but not to the dank bottom; not that Pitrag disliked the rank smell seeping up from the bog that oozed between his toes. No. It was to him an aroma that he well knew, it smacked of the secret paths through morass, down to the hidden tunnels within the earth, which were imp-home.

Cautiously, Pitrag began to explore the mire with his skinny fingers, dredging up, here and there, things which he sniffed at, rejected, or ate. Some, he fed into the dragon's mouth; with care of course, lest the creature convulsively take more than its portion. The things that they ate need not be mentioned, other than to say that some were bog plant and moss, whilst others were alive.

After a time of this, Pitrag settled down, squatting on top of the dragon, his claws locked firmly about its jaws, and went to sleep. Sgnarli dozed too, though it was difficult to tell when, since his eyes, now reflected in a faint moonshine, never closed.

In the morning, Pitrag scrambled from the hollow, clutching Sgnarli in his arms, and blinked up at the sun in confusion. He stared around at his surroundings and wrinkled his stump of a nose. He had run far during the night before finding their hidey-hole, and now all seemed strange to him.

For a time, hefting Sgnarli, he dashed about amongst the trees, sniffing and peering at the earth, but he could find no trace of any being, except the pungent odour of badger, and a fainter scent of rabbit. Where had the tall and wrathful elves gone? And where was the little, snitchy pixie that he had often desired to pinch and bite? Where was the one with the black, mewing animal at his shoulder?

For no reason that he knew, Pitrag snivelled. To a point, he had been mostly content in their company, as well as his memory could recall, and he did not wish to seek his own kind in this new land. In his insignificant knowledge, all imp-dom was subjugated by the goblins; at best they were lowly treated, at worst enslaved.

Where he had dwelt within the cavernous mountains beyond the big water, the goblins had always been the masters, and he had no reason to think it otherwise anywhere else.

He sat down on a fallen tree and tried to think. It was a hard thing to do. Imps were hardly ever known to think very much, and when they did it was mostly on a simple, material scale and seldom in the abstract. He put Sgnarli down, holding him in place with his clawed foot, his hands grasping the dragling's snout. It was difficult thus, having always to use feet or hands to restrain the creature. Dimly, Pitrag remembered the piece of stuff with which he had bound Sgnarli's jaws. It had slipped off somewhere through the night and was lost. He thought of going to look for it, but gave that up. If he could not find the elves, and they were big, how could he find a bit of binding stuff, small. It did not occur to the imp that elves have legs and might move, whereas elvish marline does not, and in fact was still where it had snagged.

After a time longer of thinking, which was mainly the kind that happens when staring at a blank wall, he had a thought: he thought he might get some more stuff and tie up Sgnarli's nose again. He looked around for something to use, saw his own tail, ruled that out as too short, and got up. He was almost about to wander off, when he recalled the dragling who was also about to squirm out from beneath his foot. Pitrag bent and picked him up, tucking the wings down so that Sgnarli could not flap, and grasping him tightly to prevent escape. Then the imp set off, with little more in his mind than before.

Eventually, he stumbled upon some wiry vine and with this bound Sgnarli's jaws; then, after some further thought, fashioned a kind of halter and drew it around the creature's neck as the elves had done to him. In this way the young dragon was free to walk, or rather crawl, before him, and for a while all went well, until Sgnarli took it into his dragon-mind to fly.

It came to the dragon as naturally as ponding to a duck; all at once he unfurled his wings, darted sideways, straightened his tail, flapped hard and leapt upward. Pitrag was thrown flat and almost lost the vine as it slipped through his claws, but just managed to catch the end of it where it curled around his leg. Sgnarli was already in the air, his never-before-used-wings thrashing hard to stay aloft. In a trice the imp hauled him down and subdued Sgnarli by folding his wings and wrapping them with vine. Then he sat down upon him to catch his breath. The dragon snorted between clenched jaws, ‘Phhnumph!’

Pitrag rubbed the creature's scaly head, muttering, ‘Narki Hartan Sgnarli, vashti! Pithrug tuz pisha chanta tuhzud!’

For some time whilst the sun orbed the sky, the imp sat trying to think. At last he gave up and standing lifted the dragling, with an effort, across his gaunt shoulders, so that he could go in search of some tasty what-not to eat.

Several days went by, in which time the imp and his captive roamed aimlessly through the hills and down onto an open, grassy plain. During that time he came upon signs of someone's passing, followed the faint tracks, recognised them by the smell as his own, and lost them where he had taken to the trees. Then, though he was unaware, he began to travel north and west, away from his companions and the goblin hordes that roamed the wilds. Beyond the plain he could see the mountains, and for no other reason than a faint stirring within him which might have been a kind of homesickness, he made off towards them. He had given up searching for the others who, unbeknown to Pitrag, were long gone; yet he felt an unease, as if something had been given him and then taken away. He was lonely, though he would not have properly understood this, since imps clustered together like ants for the most part, but having little care for each other, were seldom bothered if they strayed.

No, Pitrag was lonely for the company he had adopted. In them were qualities far beyond his comprehension, though still affecting him; not the least of these was kindness. It was an alien thing to the imp, but not hurtful: it did not bite or pinch or punch, it did not kick you, it did not kill you. Before, he had known only dark places and the urgencies of those haunts: food, fear, furtive sleep, and the need to spawn further generations. This new thing, this kindness, confounded him, and he was touched in an extraordinary way. How long in days had passed, the imp would not have known, and his not knowing showed that he cared less. He had little concept of time, only that the sky was dark, as he mostly liked, or it was brilliantly light, which he had once hated. Now, fleetingly, he noticed that the day did not hurt his eyes very much at all; he seldom had need to squint. He was about to wonder why, but the thought left him before he could. In the days that followed, Pitrag and the dragling came to the range of mountains and were swallowed up within their fastness.

Pitrag was standing in an open space on the broad shoulder of a green hill. His claws held three twines of twist vines. The imp was gazing upward, following the turning strings as they spiralled around and around in the blue, white-puffed sky. There came a rush of wings, swooping and ascending. The dragon was flying. Now the dragon was eating more and growing bigger. Pitrag claw-fed him, and though Sgnarli growled a great deal, he never attempted to bite when the vines were loosened. The imp stroked his head often, to which the dragon would hiss and snap a little, then settle, letting his long, red tongue spear in and out between the needles of his teeth. The dragon grew and grew; no longer a dragling now, he could bear Pitrag's weight at a jolting crawl, and not complain or spit a spark. Eventually the imp allowed Sgnarli the freedom of his jaws and the dragon, growing rapidly and now pony size, seemed grateful. Afterward they went together; Sgnarli unshackled, as the pair sought their way and wants. Here were two wild and sinister creatures, bred of early beings that might, at one time have not been evil. Yet now, this pair were somehow changed. They had been touched, however briefly, by the powers of good.

Then came an inevitable day: Pitrag was riding on the dragon, whilst Sgnarli snuffled about with his long tongue, picking up this and that. A little claw and tail-twist, a little tongue-poke and scrabble, a little talon and scrape forward, a wing-flap and crash through the weeds and bracken, wing-flap, stretch, stretch, flap...flap, flapwings fanning and up a bit...up...up a bit more... And then at last...up...and away!

The imp nearly fell off! He had been dozied by the sun, and sharply when he awoke and looked down, it was already late enough. He choked an imp gasp, held on tightly and listened to the wind whistling in his pointy ears. Sgnarli snorted and beat his sail-wings the harder. He was a young dragon bent on doing one of the few things dragons do well; he was flying free!

And the imp upon his back was but a small passenger in the void.

Chapter 39 [next]