Day Seven-Forty-Three: Dragons can be lame too

Goranth the Dragon was two hundred and fifty-three years old. 

A rut-winged greenthompson approximately thirty feet long in his draconic form, Goranth weighed in as one of the runts of the dragon community. Under normal circumstances he enjoyed cruising the thermals near Rodentia, picking raspberries from raspberry bushes while disguised as a bipedal dog, and attempting to court orcish males. He did not transform himself while courting, and, thus, enjoyed remarkably little romantic success. Most dragons dismissed Goranth as a friendly, if odd, member of their brood, and he accepted that label willingly enough.

When the rats first appeared, surging up the Stalk of Rodentia in obscene numbers, Goranth had been on guard duty. Barrel’s orders. Consequently, he was the first dragon anywhere to fall victim to their mental charms. In a normal state of mind, Goranth might have worn this distinction as a dubious badge of honour.

A month after the abduction of the dragons, Goranth stood sentry on the edge of the desert, his stubby head relentlessly scanning the horizon for any signs of trouble. The regulators had decided, probably wisely, that he was not the fittest of the dragons. Goranth did not belong on the front lines of their war unless there was no alternative. They left him, accompanied by a dozen controlling rats, to watch over an abandoned Imperium outpost. 

The rats lounged and slept within the outpost’s decaying walls while the dragon watched. An inequitable situation, but Goranth didn’t mind. The moment the rats took command, he recognized - and yielded to - their authority. Life was easy when pressed beneath the thumb of a leader, especially a leader with such repressive charisma. ‘The rats are right,’ the voice told Goranth. ‘Listen to the rats. Obey the rats. Heed the rats.’ And so he did.

Or so he had, until the second voice entered his head.

Goranth liked to play guessing games while he guarded the outpost. The rats allowed him that much, giving his mind just enough free rein that his personality poked through their control. The game Goranth played was simple: Guess the next thing to come out of the desert. If Goranth guessed correctly, he gained a point. If he guessed incorrectly, he gained five years of unquestioned servitude to the rats. Goranth suspected the rats may have installed this rule in his brain, but he didn’t mind that, either. ‘The rats are right,’ after all.

Goranth had two points. He owed the rats three hundred and fifty-five years of servitude. 

A windmill, Goranth guessed, eyes narrowed to slits against the gleam of the receding sun. A balloon. Ten pygmies. A tumbleweed. Sand. Oh, I’m not sure which I should guess.

YOU SERVE US, the rats replied from somewhere in the outpost. The tight fingers of their dominance sank gently, but inextricably, into Goranth’s psyche. WE ARE RIGHT.

Oh, yes, no question, thought Goranth. But what is it? What will it be? I think it might be sand. What do you think, masters?

YOU SERVE US.

I think I will guess sand. That seems fair, doesn’t it? Ohhh, but it could be a fair orcish lad…

WE ARE RIGHT, AND YOU SERVE US.

Yes, yes, of course. But… well… I’m not sure… could it be…?

WE ARE RIGHT. DO NOT a wormy CONTRADICT OUR WILL.

Goranth blinked, at first not sure what had disturbed him. He snorted, and a thick plume of sand burst from his huge nostrils and floated away. Wh… what did you say, masters?

WE ARE RIGHT. DO NOT CONTRA I think a wormy’s a-comin’ YOU SERVE US.

Goranth snuffed more loudly. Stirring from his nest of dirt and dust in front of the outpost, he stretched his wings and peered back at the crumbling walls behind him. The grip of the rats commanded him to stare at the desert, and he obeyed… but he looked at the walls long enough to see one of the rats looking through the ramparts at him, its normally inscrutable expression oddly pinched.

DO NOT DARE DEFY US, WE ARE THE stoopid heads they is AND YOU WILL OB I still bet it’s a wormy, whaddya say? WHY DO YOU DEFY OUR STRENGTH, LESSER BEING?

The mixture of signals, one domineering and the other vaguely sarcastic, pricked at Goranth. He growled, irritated, and slapped his tail against the ground. Despite his diminutive size for a dragon the outpost quivered, and one of the western walls collapsed. The rats emerged in full force upon the ramparts, their tails locking together.

WE SENSE SOMETHING IS BOTHERING YOU, they whispered forcefully. LISTEN ONLY TO US. WE ARE RIGHT. YOU SERVE US. YOU SERVE ONLY US.

Goranth’s left eye twitched. He nodded. Yes. I serve you. I believe a wormy will come over the horizon next.

NO.

Yes.

NO.

Yes.

NO.

Yes.

Yes!

… yes?

Yay! I wins!

The rats were right. The wormy did not appear over the horizon. Instead it smashed up through the middle of the outpost, its titanic head splitting a small tower neatly in two. Stonework collapsed everywhere, and though the rats reached out for protection, ordering Goranth to shield their fragile bodies, all of them died as their wall buckled and fell inward. Goranth watched, too conflicted to move, the pressure of the regulator presence on his mind relaxing.

Wriggling its upper half to free itself of age-old masonry gone bad, the sand worm regarded Goranth. Its wan smile expanded, revealing a small, green square perched on its tongue. 

Oops. The square wiggled. I thinks I, diary, may have squashied ratties. Sorrow.

Goranth cocked his head. He moved in close to sniff the green square, noticing in the process that it was, in fact, a book. Are… are you saying these things?

The book smiled, dancing on the tips of four tiny feet. Flecks of worm spittle flicked onto Goranth’s nose.

Oh. Clearing his throat, Goranth bowed his head. Are… does that make you my new master…?

Danged skippy, yo, the book said. I’s make you mine army of two. Youse, wormy, my troops. We’s rescue Drags from ratties. Cap-eat-chay? 

Drags?

Youse like him, the book whispered, feet flailing. He is pee self aaaaaaall the time. Might be bad reason for likes, but I, diary? Not picky.