Dragon Removal Service Read online

  Dragon Removal Service

  By E.C. Stever

  Copyright© 2019 E.C. Stever. All rights reserved.

  Ebook Edition first published March 2019 by Looka Books.

  Copyright © 2019 E.C. Stever. All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781949026054

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations, is entirely coincidental.

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  Dedication

  To my wife, Deanna. For the pressure, and the space.

  And for laughing at the right times.

  Acknowledgements

  I would never have been able to write this without help from the universe, and more specifically: My two daughters, for crying when I told them what would happen to the fairies; My two Kathys, for commenting on the early chapters and laughing about potatoes; The students of Sundance Elementary, for inspiring me to keep writing this; The Bearlodge Writers Group, for cracking my shell; Rivo T. (best bass guitarist in Estonia) and Eneli (taker of wine, eater of apples), for hosting us in Estonia and showing us the sights and tastes and smells. We owe you so much!

  And finally I would like to acknowledge the Stever family in whole (no matter what time zone or latitude), for joining me on this houseboat we call life.

  CHAPTER 0

  This is not a good story for people who like dragons, because the dragons are already dead.

  The Sorcerer is dead too (mostly) and the heroes are off celebrating. So in addition to the dead dragon issue, this is also not a good story for people who like heroes and sword battles and evil sorcerers getting their just desserts.

  And, in fact, there are just not many desserts in this story either, because one of the characters is allergic (which is why he eats dessert five times a day).

  Instead, this is a story for girls and boys who like things tidy and neat. This is a story for those who, secretly, don't like magic.

  Because magic is rather silly, if you stop to think about it. Because, after the magical war is over, and the Sorcerer is defeated, and the dragon is dead . . . somebody has to clean it all up. Right? All the other magical creatures are still around, farting with their armpits to get your attention, or pinching you and flinging fairy poo at your head. Somebody has to take care of those little squirts, don't they?

  So this is the story of the dead dragon, and the left-over magic, and the lonely eleven-year-old girl (who wasn't really an orphan, and certainly wasn't eleven). This is the story of that girl, Gulchima, the one who thought she could get rid of the magical pests, once and for all.

  And this is the story of what happens, next.

  "Five years I was gone, and I didn't age a day. You want to know what happened, right? How I came to run the Outfit? Why I'm still eleven and everyone else is five years older? Well, it's the same reason everything else is wrecked around here: Magic. Stupid, useless, left-over magic. It ruined my life."

  -The Collected Lies of Gulchima Brixby

  (94/100: The One True Thing She's Told Us)

  Chapter 1: Gulchima and the Eggs

  The second egg-wagon jittered halfway across the bridge before the lunkers got to it. That was an improvement. The first wagon hadn't even made it that far.

  Gulchima watched from the far side of the wooden bridge, as the second egg-wagon sped toward her. Her client, the Egg-Meister, stood next to her. He was a fussy little man, with his precise mustache, and a puff of black hair spun up on top of his head. He spoke half his words through his nose. "That wagon's almost made it over the bridge. I think we won't need your help after all, little girl. Those magical creatures are too weak."

  On the opposite side of the bridge, a long caravan of egg-wagons waited to cross. The Egg-Meister waved to the next wagon driver, urging her on. But the driver refused to cross the bridge. Her oxen mooed anxiously.

  "Maybe," Gulchima said. She glanced at the heap of slime and wood floating in the river, all that remained from the first egg-wagon. Or maybe, the next crash would be spectacular.

  Gulchima made some calculations, taking into account the additional speed of the second wagon, the twelve-foot drop between the flat clapper bridge and the river. She stepped three paces to her right. "I wouldn't stand there," she told the Egg-Meister.

  He patted his poof of hair and ignored her.

  The egg-wagon rattled past the bridge's final stone piling. In the morning sunlight, Gulchima saw a flash of fur, hands reaching up from under the bridge, sharp nails digging into the wagon's axle. She saw the lunkers—their hands anyway—plucking springs and hinges and pieces of necessary metal from the passing wagon. They were magic. Stupid, useless, left-over magic. Magic had already ruined her life. Now it was ruining breakfast.

  The second egg-wagon accelerated as it left the bridge and clattered onto the packed gravel road. But the lunkers had gotten to it. The right wheel flew off, rolling back down to the river. The wagon, over-laden with eggs, skidded then tipped. The oxen screamed, eyes bulging, twisting in their yokes.

  The driver jumped free—he'd seen the first crash, so he was ready. Half the egg cartons launched out of the back, smashing into a stand of Tamme oak behind Gulchima. Eggs splattered across their trunks like a gooey wave. Two dozen eggs flew into the air, paused at their highpoint, and then pelted the Egg-Meister, dousing his tunic in a hail of yellow and brown.

  Gulchima walked back over to him, picked a shard of brown eggshell off the ground and examined it.

  "So here's your problem," Gulchima said to the Egg-Meister. "Your eggs break too easily."

  The Egg-Meister spat, flapped his arms, and then stalked back across the bridge, where dozens of wagons waited to cross. "Loose planks," he explained to the waiting drivers. "Not magic. This route is magic-free, as promised. They will fix the planks and then we can cross."

  The wagon drivers passed the message down the line.

  The Egg-Meister seemed angry. It was hard for Gulchima to tell. Adults were always getting angry after Gulchima explained things to them. She wondered, was it because she was eleven-years-old, or because she was always right?

  Probably a combination.

  A movement from the bridge caught her eye. Gulchima watched as the lunkers fiddled with the laces on the Egg-Meister's boots, tangling them into a knot.

  His boots were tied together!

  The Egg-Meister screamed as he started to fall, which was unfortunate.

  Because when he toppled face first into the steaming pile of ox poop, his mouth was wide open.

  Wide open.

  Everybody knew that an ox pooped when it got scared. And this one had been terrified. The poop coated the Egg-Meister's face like a mask.

  Gulchima shook her head. "What a mess."

  It wasn't just the ox poop. Left-over magic caused such a mess these days. But whose problem was it? Who cleaned up after the war was over? Not the heroes. They were focused on the impressive, parade-worthy goals, like stealing the magic amulet, or killing forty guards to rescue some friend of minor importance. Heroes didn't worry about things like logistics, or clean water, or keeping the trangles out of your garden after some tottering old magician turned the wall into a clay monster. So who cleaned up? Not the heroes, certainly. And not the villains either, if there were such a thing.

  Uncle Rattbone clomped over to her. He was a big man, strong, with bold bawdy tattoos on his arms that Gulchima wasn't allowed to loo
k at. He tied bones in his beard like wind chimes.

  "Hey Gulch, you sure we can fix this bridge?" Uncle Rattbone looked around. "With all the loose planks and all."

  "Of course," Gulchima said automatically. "I'm head of the Outfit, and the Outfit can fix anything. Even magic."

  They both watched as the Egg-Meister scrambled over to the river to wash the ox poop from his mouth. A furry hand darted out of the water, and popped several of the clasps off his tunic. When the Egg-Meister leaned forward to reach for them, a second furry hand yanked on his manicured mustache, ripping half of it out.

  He screamed again, but stopped after the lunkers shoved a live crawfish into his mouth. It pinched his tongue with both claws.

  "Mostly, anything," Gulchima corrected.

  Uncle Rattbone laughed, then covered it with a coughing fit that fooled no one. The Egg-Meister was their client after all. It was unprofessional to laugh at the people who paid you. At least in front of them.

  "I'm not doubting you. You're the boss, applesauce," Uncle Rattbone said. He put his meaty hand on her shoulder. "It's just, I've never dealt with these lunkers before. I fought more of the tooth-and-claw variety of magic in the war."

  She glanced at his hand. Gulchima always felt small standing next to Uncle Rattbone. Not physically smaller—but of course she was smaller—but smaller in importance. He was so vibrant, colorful, easy to talk to. Gulchima was pale, and straight-backed, and had just enough freckles that you wouldn't notice. Her hair was dark, her mouth perfect but a few sizes too small. She was eleven-years-old, born sixteen-years-ago, and magic had ruined her life.

  Gulchima smiled up at him. "I haven't fought a lunker either, but let me tell you what I have fought: A badger. They can't be worse than that. They can't."

  Gulchima saw one of the lunkers pull the wagon wheel under the water. They were poor swimmers, and hung to the underside of the bridge like furry barnacles. Their fingers were as long as her hand.

  "Well we better get to fixing then," Uncle Rattbone said. The steady warmth of his hand slid off her shoulder. "What's the plan?"

  The plan? If they got this job done today, the money would pay their local debts, plus feed the entire Outfit—both houseboats. It was easy. Just a few creatures underneath the bridge. So what if they were magic? She'd fought a badger once. She'd stared down a bearded bear. Sharp teeth were sharp teeth, it didn't matter how they got that way.

  She just had to trap them and get paid, and she could feed everyone. Pay off the local debts too, so their houseboats wouldn't be chained up anymore. Maybe then, the adults in the Outfit would start listening to Gulchima, instead of acting like her sister was still in charge. It was her company now. Officially.

  "We need to find out what the lunkers look like, how many of them there are," Gulchima said. "I'll go see what happens."

  Gulchima looped one of her bootlaces, so that it made a lasso. Then she started to walk across the bridge.

  Uncle Rattbone said nothing. They'd talked about this. If she really was the leader of the Outfit—both houseboats—then he had to treat her that way. At least in public.

  Gulchima walked up and down the bridge.

  Nothing happened.

  She kept her eyes on the boards, and stomped twice. Still nothing.

  She tap-danced. Again, nothing.

  Had the lunkers gone? Would it be that easy?

  Uncle Rattbone called to her. "Maybe they got what they—"

  Her left boot twitched, then tugged, knocking Gulchima off her feet. The loop in her bootlace had caught one furry hand. The hand skittered across her boot, frantic. Gulchima took out her loop of ironstem rope, then wrapped it around the lunker's wrist, snaring it.

  But it was strong. The creature's hand popped free of her bootlace, then tugged on the slack ironstem rope and disappeared off the side of the bridge.

  It dragged her towards the water.

  Gulchima skidded to the edge of the bridge, her legs splayed out in front of her. Splinters dug into her calf and thigh where her rabbit-skin leggings had drawn up. She wedged her boots against the running-board at the edge of the bridge, but the lunker pulled harder.

  Gulchima levered against the running-board, and was pulled back up to her feet. She teetered, almost falling off the bridge. She could smell the sedges and muck plants at the river's edge. Worse, she could smell the lunkers. Like rotting cotton dipped in oil. Like fish covered in packing grease.

  What would those things do to her? Drown her? Strangle her? Pull out her hair?

  Horrible as they were, she didn't mind the creatures she could see, so much. But the creatures in the dark? The ones you didn't see, until it was too late . . . .

  She shuddered.

  Gulchima yanked backwards, slammed her backside against the bridge as she fell to a sitting position. The rope pulled her forward again, and she almost lost her grip. No! She needed this job. She needed to catch these lunkers.

  Gulchima pulled back savagely, her lower back popping with the effort. But it wasn't enough. Gulchima scraped forward. A large sliver of wood stabbed into her thigh, drawing blood.

  She wouldn't let go, not now. But if she didn't, the lunkers would pull her into the dark cold water. Gulchima might go back into the dark again, and she couldn't do that. Not after five years of it. Not after what she had seen—

  Gulchima felt Uncle Rattbone's strong hands on her shoulders, felt him pull her back to the center of the bridge. She did not loosen her grip on the ironstem rope. The lunker had gone limp, but it might be faking.

  "Did it scare you?" Uncle Rattbone asked. His breath rattled in his chest. The small bones in his beard trembled. "Because I think I was scared enough for the both of us, to be honest."

  "No, it just surprised me," Gulchima lied. She breathed in deeply, regained her composure. "I thought they would be bigger."

  "That's magic that is. Always a surprise."

  "Oh, magic." Gulchima raised her eyebrows. "And all I have is technology, foresight, and hundreds of years of human ingenuity."

  She started to pull on the rope, hand over hand, drawing the lunker up to the surface of the bridge.

  Gulchima paused and then grinned up at Uncle Rattbone.

  "I wonder if it hates fire."

  Chapter 2: Hubward Likes Candy

  Hubward loved sweets. He told himself this each morning as he laid out a row of chocolate raisins like pills from a herbalist, and dutifully choked down each.

  He professed his love each afternoon as he forced pudding after pudding into his rumbling, protesting guts. Minutes later, as he sat grimacing on a squat-toilet, Hubward wondered when he would next get the opportunity to enjoy the obvious and entirely normal pleasure of eating sweets. They were not at all disgusting. They were a delight.

  It was clear that Hubward was a normal ten-year-old boy, and normal boys like him loved sweet things. They couldn't stop chomping those oozing cherry chocolates, the limp licorice, the sappy, glue-like lollipops. And young boys with sweet-tooths (or was it sweet-teeth?) were certainly not known to do magic. Boys with sweet-teeths were safe. Unless you were a chocolate egg.

  On his last day in town a flabby, fluffy, and definitely non-magical Hubward trudged to the sweet shop. He was pale and sweating by the time he reached it. Hubward forced himself to push open the shop's door and smile, despite the sickly sweet stench of candy.

  "Back again," Hubward said, tremulously. He retched as the stink of chocolate covered pretzels wafted out the open shop door. Hubward turned, as if to vomit, but swallowed it instead. They've just ruined pretzels, he thought. Forever.

  "I'll just . . . stay outside today. Like always."

  Hubward threw two copper thalers into the shop. He closed his eyes, held open his bag, and whimpered an order. It was the same thing he'd ordered every afternoon for the last three months.

  "Whatever you have is fine. Just hurry up. I love sweets, so very much, that I . . ." He started to choke and cough. The vile reek of butterscotc
h, made his eyes water.

  "I must eat them. Immediately."

  One of Gulchima's favorite lies:

  "Everybody in the Outfit wants to know what happened. I mean, I was missing for five years, but I didn't age a day. I must have gone on a magical adventure, right? Was I pumped through a portal? Did I stumble through a prophecy, slip on some soap and accidentally defeat evil? I usually lie and tell them nothing happened, that I just woke up and five years had passed. But the true-truth is: I did go on an adventure. I was kidnapped.

  Yep, the king of the fairies fell in love with me, and stole me away, which was pretty awkward because I was a hundred times his weight. But anyway he made me his queen and we played lutes and I drank dew out of acorns (which is not a good choice if you're really thirsty).

  To be honest it's all a bit fuzzy, but as it turned out, the fairy king was evil, or maybe it was his twin brother, or whatever. I can't remember exactly what happened, but I definitely saved the kingdom. Or something like that. They called me round-ears."

  -The Collected Lies of Gulchima Brixby

  (23/100: An Obvious Lie)

  What Really Happened?

  Chapter 3: Gulchima and the Lunker

  As it turned out, the lunker did hate fire. That was nice.

  Gulchima had tied it up. The lunker didn't look like anything else she'd ever seen, really. Not at all like a badger.

  The creature had hidden its face, and appeared to be a harmless mottled brown-and-white puff of fur. Except it had overlong arms, and thin, agile fingers, each one as long as her hand. It had no mouth that she could see, but a pair of large black eyes told her where its head was.