Grimbold and the Rusty Riding Dragon

More about Grimbold and the Rusty Riding Dragon

It was one of those nights when the moon was too bright to be honest. Grimbold, the smallest gnome in all of Durnmoor Forest, sat astride his mount—a clattering, puffing, and occasionally offended metal creature named Coppertongue. Once a proud war-reptile from the workshop of the great inventor Bromm, Coppertongue now squeaked like a rusty door with every step. “If you keep breathing like that, the fireflies will think we’re a traveling forge,” Grimbold grumbled, tugging at the steering lever. Coppertongue let out an offended snort. “I’m not breathing—I’m venting! Difference!” “I see. And the smoke from your nose?” “Stylistic device.” Grimbold sighed. Ever since he'd acquired the rusty reptilian partner at an auction in Windhag ("slightly used, which speaks for itself"), not a day had passed when Coppertongue hadn't had some opinion or other. Today, however, they were facing something that even the chattering mechano-dragon couldn't mask with his chatter. They rode through the moonlight, along a cobblestone path leading to Wippental—a peaceful little village known for two things: its apple pies and its incredible inability to operate any kind of technical device properly. And it was there, of all places, that the mayor had written, that a "strange metallic egg" had appeared in the marketplace. It beeped, glowed, and grew an inch a day. Grimbold grinned. "Sounds like a job for the best gnome engineer south of Fen Ridge." "And who would that be?" asked Coppertongue. "Why, me, of course!" "Ha. I thought you meant Bromm, the one with the working machines." Grimbold gave the dragon a light kick. “Onward, you rusty philosopher!” They reached Wippental just before midnight. The village was silent, only the windmills clacked languidly. In the square stood a metallic something—about the size of a pumpkin, but with copper scales and a faint hum, as if it were dreaming. Around it stood three chickens, a startled night watchman, and a barrel of water, apparently intended for firefighting. “There it is,” whispered Grimbold reverently. “This could be an early form of auto-egg technology.” “Or a toaster with a need for attention,” suggested Coppertongue. Grimbold dismounted, scratched his chin, and pulled a tool from his pocket. “Let’s see if it talks.” He tapped the egg. A dull thud, then a soft “Ping!” “Ha! I knew it!” cried Grimbold. “Knew what exactly?” “That it does something!” The egg vibrated. A light flickered across the surface, and with a loud click, a hatch sprang open. Out peered a tiny metal bird with glowing red eyes. It looked at Grimbold, chirped once—and sneezed sparks. "Oh no," murmured Coppertongue. "Another one." "Nonsense! This is the birth of a new species!" exclaimed Grimbold. "Copper Chick!" The little bird fluttered onto Coppertongue's head, pecked once at his horn, and chirped triumphantly.