A Fistful of Dragons

Part 4: A Bad Deal

He headed straight for the Dragon Healer, recognising the symbol over the door and the small dark shop packed with books and jars of potions. He ducked in through the door and stared at the door to the back room until the man emerged. Ryder inspected the Dragon Master and saw a man not much older than he was but the opposite in appearance. Ryder was tall, lean and lanky while the man, though similar in height, was very husky and well-built with preposterously short legs and powerful arms, a timid, gentle manner and short blonde hair under a simple bowler hat. His round face and blue eyes were filled with curiosity and intelligence.

"I thought I'd see you sooner or later," the man said, his voice nervous too. Ryder nodded silently, his forest green eyes inspecting the man carefully. "What's the problem?"

"Beyond the obvious-that my dragon has a busted wing? Howsabout everything?" Ryder growled. The man approached a step, his brow furrowing.

"Franklin 'Fishlegs' Ingerman-Dragon Master," the husky man said calmly. "Yes, I noted the injury when you came in. What surprised me was how long you took to get help..."

"Not everyone can afford a fancy Dragon Master's help," Ryder told him coldly, tipping his battered stetson back slightly. "I needed to get some money before I could afford your services!" The other man was collecting his potions in a small black doctor's bag.

"Hmm...yes. Your sort usually just use the Berserkers' healers," he commented dryly.

"And what sort is that?" Ryder asked icily.

"Border scum," Fishlegs condemned him absently while sorting through his materials. Ryder tightened his fist. "What's the problem?"

"We got taken down by trappers months back," Ryder said grimly. "Fought them off but we had to walk." He stared at the Dragon Master and the man flicked his blue gaze up.

"But you still could have asked the Berserker healer to look at your dragon," Fishlegs suggested thoughtfully but Ryder scratched his chin.

"No thanks," he murmured stubbornly. "Don't get the impression they actually care for dragons...and wouldn't recommend anything for Red except turning him into skin and meat."

"I need to see your money, man," the Dragon Healer said without shame and Ryder fished out the wad of notes, raising an eyebrow wryly as the other man's blue eyes grew rounder with excitement. Ryder tucked them away and turned to the door without handing over a dime.

"Unless you actually charge to set foot outside your store," he added sarcastically and the other man eeped and scuttled after the confident stride of Ryder as he easily traversed the dusty plaza and slid into the back yard of the hostel, heading for the stable. He heard Fishlegs scuttling along behind him as he entered the dim coolness and crouched by the sprawled dragon, his heaving breaths the only sound in the stall. Ryder gently stroked the hideous head and the eyes cracked open a slit, weary yellow seeing his friend and managing a vague croon.

Fishlegs dropped to his knees and inspected the damaged wing, wincing at the bare and damaged ligaments and cartilage. He glanced up, seeing a generous slathering of ointment applied to the wound and his eyes flicked up to the stranger, crouched tensely by the dragon. "You?" he asked and the stranger nodded.

"How is he?" he asked softly. Fishlegs thoroughly completed his inspection and glanced up.

"How long have you had him for?" he asked the stranger. Ryder narrowed his eyes.

"Five years. Why?" The tone was very wary.

"And how old was he before that?" Fishlegs was facing him now and he frowned.