The Keeper of the Hoard

TW: violence, war, threats, grief

A dragon’s hoard—the stuff of legends and lore. 

I, Calamint, a dragon myself, inherited just such a hoard.

I remember the first time my mother and father showed it to me. Deep in a hidden cave, through a forest protected by other fire-breathers my herd employed. 

And once inside that alcove of treasure? Glittering disks with odd carvings. Sparkling stones unlike any I’d seen on our mountain. Oddly shaped images—carved in wood or stones or woven on tapestries. 

“All this is your inheritance,” Mother cooed. “Your birthright, dear Calamint. You are the keeper of these, the earth’s treasures.”

I looked forward to the day I would inherit it. But something happened before then.

My mother and father died a few years apart, both victims of the ravages of time, buried under the Tree, which was a large oak with the family shape of a dragon. This tree held the spirit of us and our god, who had birthed the first dragon and then had rested among us forever as a life-giving plant. It was the tree under which we would all be buried—the tree by which we had our beginning and our end.

After my parents both had been buried in the loving arms of the Tree, the herd elders gathered around me.

“Calamint,” one of the elders said. “You must prove you are worthy of the hoard. As was prophesied long ago, you shall fulfill the lineage of the true keepers.”

Another elder stepped forward to give me the Task, the last mysterious and unknown rite to prove my worthiness as guardian. He paused. “Go to the encampment at the bottom of the mountain. Do you know it?”

I nodded. “Of course. There are humans there.”

The elders spat. “The scum.” “Unworthy to live.” “Ungrateful.” 

I stood still. I had heard that humans were, of course, bad stewards of their treasures. But it had been a benevolent story. We were helping them by keeping these precious items safe from their admittedly clumsy hands. But I never had heard such violent words about these creatures. 

I searched my memory. An occasionally brusque tone from my father when talking about the humans. A momentary click of disdain from my mother’s tongue, when reminiscing about negotiations about removing the treasures for their own good. 

One of the elders shook me from my reverie. “Are you focused? You must be focused to complete the Task.”

I returned to the present. “Yes, O Elder.”

“Your task?” he said. “Go to the encampment and destroy the inhabitants. Their clumsiness is too close to our fire and our hoard. There is not room for both of us. The true keeper of the hoard must protect it…and even those who wish to have it but are unworthy.”

This knocked the sense of fire out of my nostrils, sending ice through my capillaries, even into my wings.

But I knew that this must be right. The Elders were the interpreters of the Tree. Surely they knew best. That the Tree would want us to protect the hoard…and to stop the humans from ever getting it. Weren’t we just protecting them from themselves?”

My head spinning, my wings began to lift me, and I soared down to the encampment.

If I must do this, I could at least do it quietly so they would not suffer or remember anything about it.

I reached the bottom of the mountain and crept up to the encampment, desperately trying to prepare my fire to breathe, though every part of me felt numb and icy.

That’s when I saw it.

Humans gathered around before a carved statue of an image.

Some smiled and sang around it, kissing it and showing it to their young. Some danced and held each other close.

The image—was it a deity?—it looked like them. 

It made me reflect on when I was a hatchling and had walked before smiling elders to bow before the Tree. When under every moon, we created a fiery circle to pray for prosperity and love for each other.

I glanced up and saw a full moon. I knew that the Task was important, but was it more important than our own moonly feast? Why had the Elders ignored it?

I looked back at the humans. 

Moon. Dancing. Image. 

And then I remembered. I had seen this human image before. In the various tapestries and carved statues, on the metallic discs I remembered that humans called coins. In our hoard.

Had we taken their gods? 

How could we say they were not suitable keepers of gods who so clearly belonged to them?

Was our hoard stolen?

I couldn’t destroy them. Not when my god simply called us to use our fire as prayer and protection. 

But was destroying the human encampment protection? How could they fight against fire-breathing dragons? We had used our fiery powers to steal their gods.

That’s when I heard the humans get quiet and one of their presumed elders step forward. 

“Behold!” she said. “It is the fifth full moon on the one hundredth year since the dragon invasion. Our prophecy says that from a sacred tree atop the mountain, a true guardian of our people and gods shall come and bring back the sacred images of our gods. Let us sing the song of hope we have sung on every fifth full moon since then, that the gods may hear us and know we are worthy to have the old images back.”

The humans broke into song and stood in a circle. Just like our moon circle.

I knew what I had to do. 

I hurried up to the forest at the entrance to the hoard, to the other fire-breathers in our employ. I knew they only guarded this forest because of fear. We were bigger than them.

“Fire-breathers,”  I said, standing before them. “I give you your freedom in exchange for one thing!”

Their ears perked up.

“The hoard is made of stolen human gods. Help me bring the hoard back to the humans. For I am the true keeper of the hoard.”