The Dragon of Roads

From his vantage point snugly inside an observation tower upon the high road of the city, Bernard remained vigilant during his assigned shift. From here, he could see a column of soldiers marching out of the main gate, the whole company no doubt being dispatched on a combination of exercises, patrols, and culling operations. Their uniforms were different now, but Bernard recognized many of the men and women who would be gone for a tenday. Or maybe the new eight-day week that the Emperor is suggesting.

His empire, although new, invited many of the citizens of failed states that now make up its territory. Many of the ne'er-do-wells had been pruned from the populace, but few talk openly about it, as the feelings are mixed. While they were bad people, they were friends and kin to some, and love tends to blind people to the faults and misdeeds of others. Bernard himself thanks the gods every Shrine Day that he had been accepted into the empire.

Bernard looks down, not at the column of soldiers that march into the distance, but at the nubs that have become stark reminders of days gone by when he could walk tall beside them. It had been two years since they wrapped things up at World's Hope. Only on the hardest of days does he reflect on how his fortune only needed to last one more month for him to come out of the Skeleton War relatively unscathed.

Luck had not been completely miserly, for he had survived, which is more than could be said of many of the people he had served beside. The [Healers] had patched him up, and time had mended wounds as best as they could, which, sadly, did not include the regeneration of limbs. Some remarkable [Healers] are capable of such feats, but the supply of cripples far exceeded those capable of mending broken bodies. And, for most [Healers] at that level of mastery, they cannot regenerate limbs after said limbs had been missing for too long. Yes, even if one cuts off the nubs to make the wounds fresh. Bernard had asked.

Not that he ever wanted to relive that pain, but if it were for new legs, he would grin and bear it. Instead of that, he was discharged from service and given a small measure of compensation that would in no way see him to old age. More like it would last him long enough to get out of their hair. He had been desperate to find some sort of work, not just for the income to keep him alive, but for a sense of purpose and to contribute to society. He had been little more than a lad with the first onset of a few whiskers growing in when he had signed up with his first free company, and every day since had been one of work or spending his gains before his number came up with Kimelidae.

Well, maybe she isn't responsible for collecting the dead for the afterlife. Bernard never had much schooling on the matters of theology. Now, he has time to learn about it, for there are many libraries available to him, ones that let people read books for free. It was a marvel that such was available to the public, but that is how their Emperor likes to do things. He makes sure everyone has the means not just to survive, but to thrive. Even cripples like him.

He tries not to think about it. How he cannot easily travel about the city, much less outside of it. How he would only be able to reach the bottom two or three shelves even if he did go to the library. While the gods see it fit to teach children to read early in life while mortals sleep, Bernard had to admit that his familiarity with it beyond those days of his childhood had been in the form of recruitment posters and contracts that he didn't understand too well.

He liked to imagine that maybe he would find a good woman there. Perhaps she would have no arms. He could flip the pages and she could carry him to the books. Hmm, but how would she do that without arms? They might need some sort of harness to hold him to her. He could imagine far worse ways to get close to a woman.

As he almost slipped into full-on daydreaming, a whelp flew through the viewing window, not that there was a pane of glass for it to crash into, but there were some fancy enchantments to keep the wind and dust out. This has never happened before, and so Bernard found it prudent to devote his full attention to the cute little thing.

And boy, was it ever cute! Its limbs are stubby, its head is a little big, and it seems to move a little awkwardly, like it had only just hatched. Its scales are even that bright yellow to match those of their Emperor, whom Bernard had seen at a closer distance than most would ever see a dragon. He, like everyone else, had seen many whelps flying about the city, each one up to some task or another. From what he knew, they didn't really take breaks or anything, so it would not be here for rest or leisure.

Bernard took a moment to look around. The observation tower was empty besides him and the little ramp available for him to use when he needed to get up onto his very high chair, which was made just for him (and the other cripples that use it during their shifts). There was nothing amiss, and he heard no sounds of anyone coming up the stairs. He couldn't hear the lift being used either, for even if the rope and pulley doesn't make much of a sound, the huffing and puffing of the person pulling themselves up would certainly have a distinct sound to it.

His attention returned to the whelp as it roared in victory with a pose to match. Bernard was being charitable in his assessment, as the "roar" in question was not very intimidating given its high pitch. It raised its head, spread its wings, puffed out its chest, and challenged the very heavens to defy its success. Without much further ado, it bounded away and out the window.

Bernard didn't know what to make of the encounter. It certainly wasn't an attack or an issue that the guards needed to deal with, so he didn't sound his horn meant to alert everyone of those very sorts of things. He spent the rest of his shift pondering that and the hypothetical woman who allegedly may or may not be armless that he could potentially maybe meet at the library or somewhere else if he were perhaps a tad fortunate. He was really getting a knack for such ponderings while also keeping lookout, which made him a good employee of the city and definitely worth keeping around.

As his lunchtime came around, he heard the sound of his relief, with said individual huffing and puffing to turn the pedals to make the lift go up. After a very brief conversation with the man about what had happened, Bernard used the lift to go down to the bottom of the tower. Normally, he had "fuck" and "all" to report, but not even the news of the whelp visiting could get more than a few grunts from… Jerry, Jenkins, Gerome?

It is something like that. Probably.

Now at the bottom, he scoots and hops along, with his arms as locomotion and his little nubs there to cushion the impact of his body upon the ground. Or is it a floor, since it is man-made? Er, maybe dragon-made. He isn't really sure how such species-specific terminology applies. Most words work with humans as the creature being referenced, such as "humane", even though it can apply to every race.

"Where to today, Bernard?" asked the kobold rickshaw puller.

"Home, James!"

Comfortably seated in his very low ride, the kobold in question began the daily ritual of pulling Bernard home. Not that this particular kobold was named James, as, from what Bernard understands, most kobolds don't have actual names. However, there does seem to be a persona of "James", and the kobolds just switch out who that is whenever the next one comes on shift. Given how uncannily similar they are to one another in disposition, Bernard has long since suspected that there is a bit more depth to how the kobolds assume the identity of a persona.

"Right away, sir!"

The kobold takes off at a measured pace, his efforts controlled to get them over to the ramp that leads down from the high road without them bumping into anyone. With them being one of the smaller carts, they yield the right of way, less so because it isn't rightfully theirs, and more because they will certainly lose if anyone ever makes a mistake and a collision occurs.

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

With his workday over, Bernard relaxes in his seat as he enjoys people-watching. One would think that he would have had his fill of it after his day's labor, but it is far different when the people in question are within speaking difference. He would like to think that, if he had his legs, he could walk right up to some of them and start a conversation, but that isn't how things work in the real world. He used to be able to just start talking to any one of his mates, and they would all join in and share a good laugh around a campfire. Now they are all gone, off to some other battle or mission, and Bernard is left with these strangers that live blissfully peaceful lives that he cannot really understand.

Two years as a civilian. Two years where he had not made any new friends. He would like to think that his legs were the fault. They abandoned him in favor of a very large and sharp claw. He hopes they are happy together in their new life somewhere in a hydra's stomach.

"Uh, James, where are we going?"

This wasn't the way home. Come to think of it, he hadn't ever been in this part of the city before. He hadn't been much of anywhere that wasn't his home, work, or the locations in between.

"I asked you where you want to go as a courtesy. I have orders to take you somewhere else."

Bernard could all but feel his blood freeze in his veins as those words. He had tried so hard to fit in, to contribute, to demonstrate that he still had value. No one had complained about his performance upon the wa- er, high road. He hadn't caused any trouble and he had followed the law. Yet, despite his efforts, he wasn't good enough. He already knew that he was being taken somewhere to be quietly disposed of, just like they had done with all those that didn't pass muster.

He wanted to live, and yet, what was the point? Outside of work and sleep, what does he really do? This is a city for thrivers, and he was merely a survivor. He should have just bled out back during the war. It would have earned his next of kin a sum of money, and they would have been able to get ahead in life.

Somewhere in the course of him jumping to conclusions, the thought crossed his mind to hop off the rickshaw and make a scurry for it. His desperation warred against the logic that he wouldn't be able to get very far very fast, and he would soon be captured and brought in. Maybe he should approach his end with dignity.

Before he could make the flop of faith, a whelp flew by and landed in his lap. It was a rather ungraceful maneuver, what with the rickshaw moving along at a fair clip and there not being much much of a lap to land in, the poor thing crashed more than achieving any sort of respectable landing. And with it crying out in need of comforting, Bernard felt a sense of calm envelop him as this poor, pathetic, injured creature desperately needed his immediate attention to soothe and protect it from further harm and discomfort.

He had been so enraptured in providing care for the sweetling that he didn't even notice when the rickshaw stopped. They were not parked at the side of a street, but inside a building. There were chairs and plush bags on the floor for people to plop into. Some of those people who occupied these novelties of abstract furniture were staring at him.

"This is your destination, sir! Please disembark at your earliest convenience."

Even so distracted by his sudden circumstances, Bernard did not miss that pained tone of patient longsuffering and dry sarcasm that suggested he made haste in getting out. With a whelp in one hand, he flung himself up and over the side and landed squarely in the bag on the floor. To his surprise and delight, the bag was rather comfortable, as if it were filled with little orbs of some kind that were soft and a little squishy.

The rickshaw puller departed before he even landed.

"Ah, Bernard, right on schedule, I see."

Bernard looked up at the voice that came from above and behind him, which certainly startled him since he hadn't been expecting anyone. The worst part of such a surprise was that his precious little whelp that needed his love, attention, and protection had heartlessly abandoned him in favor of flying away in the same direction of the rickshaw puller.

Given the deeper sound to it, and its general gruffness, the person behind him would probably be a female orc. Slowly enough to not appear to be a frightened rabbit, but fast enough to not be rude, Bernard turned to look at the one who had been expecting him.

She, like most orcs, was rather muscular. She had a rather impressive bicep that her sleeveless shirt showcased quite nicely. However, it was her other arm that really drew his attention.

It was made of metal.

No, not like she was wearing full-plate armor on that limb.

IT. WAS. FREAKIN. METAL!

Not one of those crappy ones that poor [Nobles] have, the kind that can barely hold a shield or awkwardly clutch a simple item. She was idly twirling a pen in her metal fingers, the maneuvers of which were incredibly adroit even for fingers of flesh and bone. Bernard admitted to himself that he would need years of practice to get to her level of competency.

"Bernard, are you with me, buddy? My eyes are up here. My tits are down here, if you prefer those instead."

His attention jolted by her masked reprimand, Bernard snapped his gaze to her face while his cheeks blushed. It didn't help that she was of average height for her kind, which is to say that she towered over him. Something about that fact nudged at something inside of him as she stared down at him with an appraising look, but he would have to put a pin in whatever that was about.

"That's me, Bernard, ma'am. I was brought here by the kobold and I wasn't told why and I thought I was going to be executed and your arm is made of metal and I want one."

She stared at him for a moment longer after he realized that he had been rambling.

"That's quite the odd desire. I would have thought that you would want metal legs instead, considering…"

She used her pen to point up and down at him. With consideration given to their difference in height, it was more like down and even more down, but he understood her gesture.

"That's what I have you listed under on this appointment sheet. Bernard, age 21, human, male, double amputee of the legs. You are scheduled for prosthetics today, offered by The Crossroad Wayfinders, with the process being supervised by Princess Arendora. Just sign here, and you will have prosthetic legs provided to you free of charge. I can't speak from personal experience for the legs, but when it comes to this new arm," she continued while flexing her metal arm, "I have considered losing my only remaining 'real' arm in a training accident. This puppy outperforms my natural arm in a fight."

Circumstances were developing at a rapid pace, but years of all that and more happening in combat situations had trained him to focus on the salient points. His mind latched onto the simple concept of "sign here and get free metal legs", and his body did the rest. A veteran of signing documents he didn't read and barely understood, he scrawled his signature as fast as he could.

No sooner did he sign it than did the orcish woman take her clipboard back and clip it to some contraption on her hip. Maybe that is where the name comes from and not the metal clip on the board itself.

"Okay then, soldier. Up we go."

Like many things in life, consent wasn't asked for. However, unlike most of those times, this was not one where he had any complaints to voice. She hoisted him up and held him at arm's length to get a good look at him.

"Wow, there is barely any nub to be had on those legs. I sure hope you are a grower and not a shower, or your manhood may be a little shorter than you want it to be."

Put on the spot, his instincts kicked in. He had a good feeling that she had been a soldier as well, and soldiers respond best when you give a good retort. If only to hide his mounting embarrassment, if not his body's interest in proving the point, he gave as cocky of an answer as his wits could muster at a moment's notice.

"Its a good thing I have a few inches to spare. If you play your cards right, I might just show you some time."

She grinned back at him as she carried him along, her laughter more of appreciation for his bravado than a personal interest in finding the truth to his words. Orcs don't really go for humans, as they tend to find humans to be too soft and weak. But then, considering how she tossed him right around such that she carried him in a way that cradled him at her bosom, the signals were awfully mixed.

Even if she were not interested, the simple truth remained. Metal legs.