Welcome to Three Word Thursday #39. If you enjoy reading my story, leave a comment then click on the names of the other players and go see how they used these bygone words. You’ll be entertained (and possibly educated) all at once.
yelve: A fork used to carry dung; such a fork used as a garden tool
patration: perfection or completion of something
aeipathy: A continued passion; an unyielding disease
Evaard left the drunk behind. He’d pretty much believed the old fellows story until he got to the part about the purple dragon. Since there was no such thing as a purple dragon, Evaard had to wonder exactly how much fantasy had made it into his drunken tale.
Evaard knew the boy and the war hourse to be reality. Everything else the drunk said was in doubt — but why would he mention dragons at all unless he had cause? Evaard chewed that thought all the way home.
When he topped the rise and looked down on his little shack, Evaard was pleased to see the war horse staked beneath the tree. At least he wasn’t going to have to tell the King he’d lost one of his prized chargers on top of everything else. A curl of smoke issued from the chimney and the little glen looked peaceful. Vernal came around the back of the shack with a yelve in his hands. Fencil followed with the garden cart. They stopped near the front door. Vernal climbed into the garden cart and went to work forking large brown clumps out of the cart and onto the doorstep.
Evaard was perplexed. The last time he’d seen the garden cart, it had been full of manure for the garden. There is no way the boys would be pitching that on the stoop of the cabin. The boys were so intent on their work — stomping in and pounding down whatever they’d shoveled from the cart — that they didn’t notice Evaard’s approach until he was mere yards away. By then he’d caught the odor of their labor and knew they were indeed smearing offal at his door.
Both boys froze with looks of horror on their faces. “I think an explanation is in order,” Evaard said.
Fencil and Vernal looked at each other and shrugged, then turned their wide eyed gazes back to Evaard. Vernal opened his mouth, but never had a chance to speak. The cabin door opened to reveal Chevall. His tunic sported dried black blood stains and an equally stained bandage swathed his head. “The boys are following my orders,” Chevall said. “Offal was the only thing I could think of that might cover the scent of the dragons.”
“Dragons?” Evaard repeated. “Here?” He looked around, even glanced toward the sky. There wasn’t a dragon in sight.
“You’d better come inside,” Chevall said.
Evaard lept over the manure and into his house. Going from the bright sunshine into the dark interior of the cabin left him momentarily blind, but Evaard could still make out the major shapes, including the tremendous form taking up the center of the room. Evaard blinked, knuckled his eyes and blinked again. As his vision cleared he couldn’t help but think he owed the drunk an apology. There was an adolescent purple dragon where his dinner table should have been.
“This is Troga,” Chevall said. “Seven eggs were stolen from the dragon caves just a little over a week ago. We know that at least three of the eggs have hatched. Patisserie helped Troga rescue them from, the tragematopolist. They kept the hatchlings secreted in Patisserie’s back garden for over a week.”
“Why!” Evaard demanded. “Surely that would bring the wrath of the dragon’s down upon the town!”
“The hatchlings didn’t have their eyes open and weren’t ready to fly,” Chevall said. “Patisserie, of course, told Jack what was happening …”
“Told who?” Evaard interrupted.
“Jack.” Chevall said. “King Vellum. Patisserie told Jack and Jack sent me to DeMajick …”
“The dragon King?”
“Yes,” Chevall nodded. “So DeMajick knew we were trying to save the dragons and gave us 10 days — a dragon can fly at 10 days old — to return the hatchlings unharmed. The only thing is, the hatchlings start trying to fly at about seven days old. There was quite a ruckus going on in Patisserie’s backyard.”
“So the tradgematopolist discovered the dragons?”
Chevall sighed and nodded again. “They raided Patisserie’s garden. Mrs. Patisserie came to tell me and a half dozen armed thugs jumped me in the alley. They knocked me out cold and the next thing I know I’m stretched out next to Patisserie — he’s dead bytheway — in his back garden. I’m sure the thugs thought I was dead, too. Troga was there as well. She’d been stabbed several times and was too weak to fly. We rested all day and then crept out of the garden just before dawn. Going was pretty slow since Troga is so weak. We stayed to the woods and circled town.”
“You were seen,” Evaard said.
“Yes, by a drunken sot. No one will believe anything he says.”
“The tradgematopolist will,” Evaard said. “Even with dung at the door, you will not be safe here long.”
“We need to get to the King,” Chevall said. “Four of the dragon eggs are unaccounted for and they will hatch soon if they’ve not done so already.”
The door opened and Vernal stepped into the room. “There are men coming,” he said. “At least a dozen of them. And they’re all on war horses.”
“What banner do they fly?” Cheval demanded.
“No banner,” Vernal answered.
“They are bandits then,” Evaard said. He pulled his sword free of his scabbard. “We will fight.”
Chevall loosed his sword as well. “Aye!” He cried.
Fencil and I have garden forks,” Vernal answered.
Evaard opened the door and stepped outside.