Negotiations of an Igneous Nature

By Michael Dolan 

“Sir, the salamanders are striking again.”

General Mann’s hand trembled as he set down an item with no relevance to this story. He stood, still shaking, and muttered, “May God have mercy on our souls.”

After dismissing the messenger, General Mann bolted toward the stables. He threw the doors open wide in an epic fashion and declared, “I’m here to facilitate negotiations!”

Inside, a salamander and a dragon sighed and awkwardly avoided eye contact with the new arrival. They sat at a boardroom table surrounded by executive chairs, which thematically clashed with the subtle scent of manure in the air. The chairs were also largely superfluous. The salamander perched crisscross applesauce on the table, while the dragon lay unconcernedly draped over several seats, crushing them.

The dragon exemplified a superlative specimen of his species, one that swooning teenage dragonettes hung tapestries of in their caves. His scales gleamed a bloodthirsty crimson, flowing over muscles honed to lethality. Folded, leathery wings flexed with each breath, threatening to unfurl to their ten-meter wingspan at a moment’s notice. He alternated between tapping a curved talon on the table and his spaded tail on the ground.

The salamander was your regular, always-just-a-little-slimy amphibian.

He broke the silence first. “Hey… General Mann. So… good to see you. Drake and I were just chatting about some of the salamander union’s recent grievances.”

“And I was just telling Sal we’re doing everything to keep working conditions pleasant for everyone,” bellowed the dragon.

Mann took one of the few intact chairs. “Now, I’m sure we can reach a reasonable agreement to maintain this relationship to the satisfaction of all parties.”

“Absolutely.” Drake emphatically thumped his tail. “Everyone knows that for centuries, said relationship between dragons and salamanders has been symbiotic. Dragons have used their skills of ‘might, flight, and savage bite’ to protect salamanders from their natural predators. In exchange, the salamanders grant a token skill on rare occasions.”

“Grant a token sk—oh gimme a break.” Sal spread his amphibious arms wide. “We frickin’ help you breathe fire!”

Mann nodded. “I believe we can all agree that being the personification, er, animal-ification of the fire element brings an equally beneficial strength to this relationship.”

Drake inclined his head slightly. “Admittedly, it is pretty cool.”

Sal recrossed his arms. “Well, we union members feel like the appreciation we’re getting isn’t ‘pretty cool.’ Granting that ability requires crawling into a dragon’s neck and staying in their halitosis-ridden throat sac for the duration of each mission. We believe certain steps should be taken to create a non-hostile work environment.”

“Such as?” asked Mann.

“No spicy or gassy foods before scheduled flights.”

“You can pry my bean burritos from my cold, dead claws,” rumbled Drake.

“Well, they sure will be cold without us, Frosty!”

“Gentleme—nimals. Please, be civil.” Mann turned to Drake. “Surely you can modify your diet slightly so you’re not belching straight into your salamander’s face.”

“Hmph. Well, that’s not all their demands.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Sal pulled out a ream of papers from his tiny, salamander-sized messenger bag. “In all the epic poems and songs, it’s always ‘dragon this’ and ‘dragon that.’ We want equal representation. Let’s hear about the salamanders that help dragons breathe fire and burn enemies to a crispy husk.”

“I mean, I can see why,” said Mann. “I’m sure the word ‘dragon’ is much easier to work with. ‘Salamander’ has four whole syllables and doesn’t lend itself to as many rhymes.”

Sal started counting on his hand. “Gander. Candor. Dander. Falamander. Qualamander—”

“I don’t think those are real words…” Mann trailed off.

Sal locked onto him with a cold, black stare—a thin, pink tongue slowly slipped from his mouth and stretched up to lick each obsidian orb in turn—never breaking eye contact with the general.

“But I’ll meet with the guild of bards and see what they can do,” Mann hastily amended.

“Great. Just one more thing.” Sal fixed his gaze on Drake. “We want our fair share of treasure.”

The dragon’s wings twitched. “We don’t negotiate with terrorists, you fiend. You know that gold, precious gems, and priceless treasures are the only bedding dragons can sleep on.”

“Drake makes a good point.” Mann pointed his finger at the dragon. “Can’t have groggy dragons on the job. That’d open us up to all kind of OSHA violations. How important is this to you all, Sal?”

The salamander rose to his full three-inch height. “We live in a fantastical world where magic is real, enormous reptiles can fly, and I am literally the corporeal embodiment of fire. Surely wealth redistribution isn’t that hard to imagine.”

Sal, Drake, and Mann all stared at one another for a silent moment.

The general raised an eyebrow toward the dragon, who shook his head slowly.

“If not, we strike.” Sal sat down again. “And without fire, what’s a dragon anyway? Just a greedy, oversized lizard.”

“Let’s not be hasty,” said the general. “You must understand an even split wouldn’t be feasible.”

“40-60,” acquiesced Sal.

“1-99,” countered Mann.

“That’s insulting!”

“That’s ten times what you’re getting now,” observed Mann.

“We’ll take it! No backsies. That’s a legal term.”

“Mann,” growled Drake. “This is unacceptable.”

“You’re really going to notice that point nine percent not being added to your legendary trove?”

“I’m a very light sleeper.”

“We’ll gladly take more,” Sal sang sweetly. “Just keep pushing.”

Drake waited a beat, then nodded. “That’ll do, Mann. That’ll do.”

“Wonderful.” The general stood. “I’ll be sure to bring this decision to the higher-ups, start making contract adjustments and all that.”

Drake motioned him to stay. “Actually, while you’re here, I believe we both have concerns about the flagrant and unapologetic militarization of this symbiotic relationship—”

“Sorry, lots of paperwork to get started on.” The general hastened back out the stable and returned to his quarters. Sitting down, he picked up the teeny rake from the beginning of this story and resumed grooming his mini Zen garden.

“But first…”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michael Dolan’s short stories have appeared in Havok, Splickety, and The Norwegian American. When he’s not writing marketing materials, he can be found hiking, reading, gaming, or writing some more. He and his wife live with a small library loaded with YA and fantasy books in Seattle, WA.

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