LITMIR.BIZ

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that foul stench… Thank goodness it’s not flying.»

      «Exactly!» the wizard held up his finger meaningfully. «It’s not flying. You noticed it too, my lord. So my eyes were right. Hmm. What else do you see?»

      The king squinted at his companion with suspicion, but didn’t rant. He raised his spyglass and stared at the dark spot in the center of the approaching army.

      «The dragon… not young, crawling slowly, but it seems to me that this does not affect his breathing: he’s puffing fire… Greenish, with a streak of yellow along his backbone… He’s about fifteen yards long. Oh, wait a minute… he’s got wings, but they’re tiny and rudimentary.»

      The mage hummed so loudly that the king flinched and turned around abruptly.

      «What?! Did you think of something?»

      «Yes, I have a thought,» nodded Dorrenoi. «Tell me, Your Majesty, what is our food supply? Or rather, what fruit do we have?»

      «From the fruit?!» the ruler’s eyebrows rose almost to the border of his hair. «You picked your time…» he paused, looking at the stern, serious face of his advisor, «well… if that’s what it takes… what do we have? Fruit… you know, not much. Except maybe five bags of apples. Dried plums, a dozen bundles. Grapes have all been crushed for brew. Hmm… There’s plenty of jam, though. Oh, here’s a couple more cases of oranges: they brought them just before the first attack and I forgot.»

      The wizard smiled.

      «Oranges, you say? Just in time. Oh, just in time! Get everything to the trebuchet!»

      The king opened his mouth in amazement, twisted his head, glanced at the already discernible monster without the magnifying glasses, and turned to the wizard again.

      «Are you out of your mind?! What oranges?»

      «Bring it, I say! Don’t waste any time. We’ve got to get there before they get too close.»

      After giving his orders in a few short phrases, Gafarro set the spyglass aside and sat down heavily on a sandbag, leaning against the battlements of the tower. Covering his face with his hands, he sighed sorrowfully.

      «Take it easy, Your Majesty. Maybe the battle will be over in a few minutes, yeah,» Dorrenoi rubbed his hands together. «Listen to me… It’s important, vitally important, that as many oranges as possible hit the dragon, you hear. The more the better. How to do that is not up to me. You’re the best in the business. You can mix it with rocks, you can mix it as is… it doesn’t matter. It’s up to you. Just make sure you hit him before he gets within a hundred and thirty or a hundred and forty yards. He’s got a thirty-yard flame. And here already our soldiers are standing. That’s so they don’t get hooked, you know?»

      The king’s eyes lit up with interest and, more importantly, hope.

      «But what will this shelling do for us?»

      «Uh, I’ll explain later. „If you’re not sure, don’t promise,“ as my teacher used to say, bless his bones. If it works, then it works.»

      Gafarro stood up and clapped the mage on the shoulder.

      «All right, I’ll trust your knowledge, my friend. Besides, what else can we do? So, you say, hit the dragon?»

      «Yeah, in the muzzle, in the eyes – the best.»

      From behind a narrow door in the wall, a panting soldier ran out, carrying a crate of sweetsmelling orange fruits like the sun. He was followed by another.

      «Here, Your Majesty, your wisdom, is all there is.»

      «Over there,» the king waved toward the two tall trebuchets that occupied most of the third tier below the observation tower. «Mix it with the gravel. I’ll be right back,» he glanced around. «May your wiles work, wizard,» and he hurried toward the stairway that led straight down.

      Dorrenoi, grunting and barely moving his legs – knees, be damned – headed out the same way, but bypassing the inner galleries and passageways. When he finally reached the vast and terrifyingly large, crane-like, overgrown killing machines, they were all ready. It was just a matter of waiting until the target was at a calculated distance.

      These few minutes passed in silence, only to the anxious sighs reverberating in the back of their heads.

      The monster was very close: even the carved scales on its thick flanks could be seen. The smell was nasty: rotten, musty, and lifeless, and it made the horses in the vanguard roar and sprang to their feet. Nauseating. Well, on the plus side, they hadn’t all eaten in twenty-four hours.

      Around the monster, the Duke of Krumland’s mercenaries and bandits stomped in close lines. Pitchforks, spears, and axes were what this filthy rabble carried as weapons. Yes, their combat was not intended to be noble, so…

      But the instigator himself is nowhere to be seen. He probably keeps his witch to himself, too.

      Ugh, what a mess! What a mess!

      The dragon panted, releasing a jet of swampy yellow fire from its ajar mouth: two hundred yards away from the ranks of the palace and the kingdom’s defenders, ready to attack. A little more… and a little more…

      The trebuchets surged forward, sending a small citrus cloud that seemed incapable of even tickling the skin of the creature crawling at them.

      A few small stones hit the enemy fighters, bruising them and causing them to laugh maliciously. But they could not make fun of the weakness of the blow.

      The oranges clattered against the dragon’s hard shell, scattering in bits. The acrid, fragrant juice tickled the beast’s eyes and nostrils. He shook his head, hissed, puffing gray smoke, and then suddenly reared up and spun, sneezing and coughing like a man on fire.

      Each «Aa-pchhhh’ was accompanied by a burst of flame, wiping out all those who, by an evil stroke of fate, happened to be in the vicinity. The heart-rending screams of the burning people, the shrieks, the hubbub, and the jostling of those who tried to dodge and escape from the fiery death filled the clearing.

      The duke’s army was spreading like worn fabric, ripping in the most inopportune places. Panic washed over the rebels.

      The dragon, still sneezing and wiggling and tearing at its throat with its forelegs, darted back toward the lake a few miles away.

      A few almost demonstrative raids by the king’s cavalry completed the job: a wide swath of land was strewn with corpses, and the rest fled in terror.

      Sniffing at the strangely pleasant smell of roast meat in the air, despite its actual origin, Gafarro stepped away from the trebuchet and approached the mage.

      «How?! What kind of magic did you stuff them with if such a small thing could turn a real dragon into a fugitive? Oranges… who would have guessed…»

      Dorrenoi averted his eyes. He looked up at the king with embarrassment and explained:

      «You see, Your Majesty, long ago, even before I entered Your Majesty’s service, I had to do all sorts of things to survive, you know, to get food. I was a healer, in general. I lived there, in Ilfania, almost at the border of the Marshlands. Whoever came to me for medical help, yeah. He was young then. A teenager, in fact. Did me no harm, either. I helped him as much as I could, so I know…»

      «What do you know? Who did you help? Speak clearly…»

      «So, who… the dragon, yes. He can’t stand citrus fruits. He’s been allergic since childhood.»

      Thing called spring

      Once there was a thing called spring…

      Spring is here!

      Why doesn’t my heart go dancing?

      Spring is here!

      Why isn’t

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