The Old Wyrm's Tale
A story in Dragon
The kingdom sent knights, then armies, then gold. Now it sends you — alone, up the mountain, to talk.
The path up the mountain is littered with the kingdom's previous arguments: rusted shields, a trebuchet's skeleton, coins fused into the rock by heat. You carry no weapon. That was the council's whole strategy — send someone the wyrm has no reason to burn. The cave mouth breathes warm air, and from the darkness two eyes open like furnace doors.
the wyrm
Vahrun.
Hello.
The word rolls over you in the old tongue, each syllable slow and enormous — and the little copper charm the scholars hung around your neck murmurs its meaning into your ear a heartbeat later. A universal translator, they called it, so the wyrm could never claim you misheard the terms. You bow and begin.
You
Great one. I come from the kingdom below, unarmed. I bring words of tribute and peace—
The wyrm's laugh cuts you off — a sound like a landslide deciding to be patient.
the wyrm
An gorath thu, nakh-gorath krag-thal. An soraan-kel thuru anara-varuun. An thalor thuru drak-neth!
I see you, small warrior. I hear your heart. I know your blood.
You
Then you know I carry no sword. The council sent me to talk. Only to talk.
the wyrm
An thalor thuru thal-oma. An thalor thuru tharun. An thalor thal-varuun thal-oma thuru tharun gorfersuun!
I know your name. I know your king. I know the ancient name your king fears.
It knows your name. Nobody told it your name. The prepared speech dies in your throat, and you ask the question no knight ever thought to try.
You
What is it that YOU want?
The great head lowers until one eye is level with your whole body.
the wyrm
Thu vorakh anur gorath-varuun. Thuru tharun morwantseth anur drak. Thalalleth dramenor vorakh thalwhatar gorburnsor var!
You want my treasure. Your king wants my fire. All men want what burns them.
You
No — the kingdom wants peace. The raids ended, the border villages safe. Name your price and I will carry it down the mountain.
The wyrm watches you talk the way you might watch a candle argue with the wind. When you finally run out of words, it tells you its price.
Smoke curls from its nostrils as it speaks the terms — one line, in the old tongue, that you will have to carry down the mountain:
🔒 Untranslated
An thuru tharun vorakh!