Gold Dragon Codex

Books by R.D. Henham

T
O THE
G
REAT AND
T
ERRIBLE
G
OLD
D
RAGON OF THE
L
OST
R
EACHES OF
S
OUTHERN
E
STWILDE
: S
INDRI AND
I
THANK YOU FOR NOT SWALLOWING AND FOR LETTING HIM EXPLAIN
.

R.D.H.

F
OR MY FATHER
.

R.S.

he wind swept past the narrow cliff ledge, whistling as it sliced by the razor-steep slope that overlooked the valley. There was no road leading up to meet the wind, no path or other method to get there other than soaring like a bird through the open air. Yet the zephyr was not alone.

A long, glittering golden neck flanked by long, perfect claws stretched out from a cave at the back of the thin ledge. Golden strands of silken-fine hair moved softly in the lone trickle of wind that edged toward the cavernous darkness and flowed down the sinuous, metal-scaled body into the darkness. The dragon did not sigh or tremble in the chilly touch of wind. A bird called out hesitantly from a hiding spot in the bushes nearby.

The dragon did not open its eyes.

Behind it, the cave was dark and silent, small spiderwebs dusting the corners with throwaway silk. Crushed leaves lay in heaps against the opening where a long-ago storm had tossed them. The dragon’s massive length was little more than a faintly glimmering shadow
that stretched into the depths of the cavern. Golden torso, legs, and tail twined about in a long, twisting coil. Not the cold wind, the bird song, or the distant sound of battle echoing on the sheer cliff side roused the beast.

A tall, proud keep stood at the other end of the valley, its gray walls touched with green ivy and the last white blossoms of late autumn. Pennons flew from the tops of two towers, but they were tattered at the edges, and the hinges of the fort’s heavy oak doors were touched with rust. A third tower, flat on the top as if ready for something large to perch there, looked moss-covered and unused. Tidy houses lay farther down the road, within two swoops of a flying dragon’s wing from the turn where a wagon was being looted. The residents of the village kept their shutters closed, their doors firmly shut against the sound and sight of trouble. Only a few were out on the streets at all despite the lovely afternoon sun, and those hurried to and fro as if frightened to be caught outdoors.

Down in the valley was a road, and on that road a group of men dressed in rough, unmatched leather armor sacked a caravan before they set the wagons alight. Their shouts were fainter than the birdsong, almost swallowed in the muffling swoop of wind that carried the sound of vicious celebration. Those few merchants
still alive fled into the woods, losing themselves rapidly among the trees and gullies of the hillside. The bandits didn’t care. They were more interested in the few riches that the caravan had to offer—the free food and stores that they found in the back of the heavily laden wagon. They sacked it all, calling out to one another with greedy laughter.

The gold dragon didn’t notice.

The road on which the bandits were celebrating led through another wide grove of trees, down a sloping hill, and past a row of fields that should have been glistening with wheat and corn, but instead lay fallow, the soil torn and burned, the crops crushed and ruined on the ground. Only a few still held harvestable crops, waiting for the last harvest to be brought in. There were long marks in the soil—deep, furrowed incisions of claws and the clubbed sweeps of a tail that had knocked down row upon row of now-ruined vegetables. Something very large had shredded the cornfield deliberately, clearly leaving behind the marks of callous enjoyment scarred into the land.

Just beyond the bandits, a solitary figure marched down the road through the hills. He carried a heavy backpack. His chain mail glinted dully in the soft sunlight and a sword at his belt hung low. The bandits must
have seen him coming, for they lowered their voices and drew their daggers, eager wolves sensing fresh prey. They charged through the woods the moment he drew near, hooting and shouting in fierce glee. The soldier dropped his backpack, sword leaping into his hand, but he was one man alone and the bandits were many. They circled around him, taunting, laughing, and thrusting through any opening in his guard. Not a twitch went down the dragon’s shimmering spine. The gold claws did not flex, the glistening muzzle didn’t lift or tilt interestedly, and not even the faintest sigh rippled down the brilliant metallic body. The Gold was absolutely, perfectly, immeasurably still—despite the calls for help from the merchants or the sight of the bandits slowly cutting through the lone soldier’s guard.

In fact, it was as if the dragon didn’t care at all.