Tempest in a Teacup

By Abigail Falanga

With a final cry, I swept the ogre’s foul head off his body and sidestepped as he crashed to the ground beside his two brethren. Before the dust settled, I bounded up the hill to their lair, whence black smoked billowed. They kept their ill-gotten treasures within—and their captives, who cried piteously for help. I broke the lock with my still-bloodied axe and wrenched the crude wood-slab gates open.

The captives, bedraggled and bruised but not burned, poured out into the open air from the rough stronghold, half cave and half stone hut.

“Is that everyone?” I asked, blinking against the smoke.

The mayor leaned against my arm as everyone staggered out, finished his count. “Five—six—seven—yes, that’s all! Everyone accounted for.”

“Any injuries?”

“None in need of immediate attention.” The mayor straightened, coughed, and used an already-sooty handkerchief to wipe his eyes. “Is the town safe?”

“Not in need of immediate repair. I drove back the ogres before they could spread death and destruction.”

“How can we ever thank you, Sir Eugene?” one of the town’s leading women said, her face green as she stumbled past the ogre corpses. Poor woman.

“All in a day’s work, madam,” I replied, all cheerful and encouraging-like.

I paused to collect weapons dropped in the battle. The townsfolk huddled, clinging to one another as some trembled or wept.

We then trudged down toward their village in the hollow of the snowy valley. Granted, the rubble left by the ogres’ incursions robbed much of the charm. But still, cozy thatched cottages, cobblestone streets, and a little church made it a nice place.

“We don’t have any treasure to offer as a reward.” The mayor made a rueful face. “Everything was plundered by those beasts, and what they didn’t spend is burning with the rest of their lair.”

“Ridding the world of three of them is reward enough in itself!” I said heartily.

Their cheers soothed the sting of my empty pockets.

If I’d wanted wealth as well as fame, I never would’ve gotten into monster hunting. Not that I would mind a bit of treasure for my hard work, but jobs that pay out are few and far between.

Anyway, they would tell anyone who passed through what I had done, bolstering my reputation as the foremost hero of the land. It was good for advertising.

“We will have a dinner to celebrate your victory!” the mayor declared as we entered the town square.

Well, at least I’d get food!

“Not that there’s much left in the stores.”

Never mind.

The whole town attended the feast held in the fire-warmed and mostly intact main hall. Meager as the meat and bread were, jollity and relief filled every corner of the place.

The mayor rose and made a speech as the last jug of watered-down ale went around. I settled in for a long listen.

“For many months, we have lived under the shadow of inevitable attack…” Yes, there he went, all abluster.

Still, I was warm, fed, and had a successful battle to look back on. Some speech-making—with more than a little praise of myself—was no trial.

“—all thanks to Sir Eugene! And so,” he concluded, “in recognition of the debt we owe him, we have decided to give this great hero our most secret and precious treasure.”

What was this? Had they something worthwhile as reward after all? I straightened.

Indeed, I didn’t expect anything, but a little remuneration now and then was more than welcome. After all, it’s hard to be a hero without proper equipment or a good mount—my old nag was little better than transport these days.

The mayor brought forth a small wooden chest and an expectant hush spread through the hall. I took it from him with a bow, heartfelt thanks ready on my lips.

Inside lay…

What was this? A small porcelain cup with an even smaller pewter dragon sculpture curled up inside.

“Uh…” I cleared my throat and then said before disappointment took over, “Thank you for this generous… um… demonstration and… uh…”

Cheers and merrymaking resumed with music and dancing, many raising a toast to me, although I couldn’t return the salutations. Not that I was angry, but confusion tied my tongue.

The mayor smiled, his kindly eyes crinkling in amusement. “Take it outside. Tip the dragon into the snow, then watch.”

Puzzled yet intrigued, I went.

The mayor and a few others followed.

The little dragon figurine seemed cold and lifeless as I placed it into a fresh drift.

Until it moved, unwound, stretched like a waking cat. It even yawned! Then it nuzzled its sharp metal snout into the snow, caught a few white flakes on the tip, and shook itself all over.

Snow rippled from its snout along its back and wings, turning from dull gray to starlight white. It rolled in the snowdrift, accumulating layers with every turn. It grew as wide as my outstretched arms, then flapped its wings, rose, shimmering, into the air and shot flame like frost and icicles from its mouth.

“Well, Sir Eugene?” The mayor laughed, reaching up to slap my shoulder.

I could say nothing, though my mouth was wide open.

“The dragon will serve you well! In summer, put it in sand and it will become a thing of stone and flame. Autumn and spring are but dry leaves and blossoms. But a fearsome companion this will be to you! Like all dragons, it likes to sleep and the place it likes best to sleep is in the bottom of cups. But that makes it easy to carry.”

I found my voice and joined him in a great guffaw at how ridiculous I would look, carrying such a pretty little porcelain cup around. Served me right!

“A great gift! And a lesson well-learned—thank you.” I reached up to stroke the snowy neck. “I shall be honored to carry this wondrous little beast on my adventures.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Abigail Falanga may be found in New Mexico creating magic in many ways – with fabric, food, paper, music, and especially with words! She’s loved fantasy ever since playing out epic adventures of swords, fairies, and monsters with her siblings, and loved sci-fi since her dad’s stories around the dinner table. Besides sharing mad little stories on Havok, she is busily trying to launch approximately five hundred novels into the world. Some of them are even finished!

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