It had been a good day. The Band Wagon’s maiden voyage had been pitch-perfect – the steam engine had thrummed along without a hitch, despite the sand and grit of the desert, and the on-board pipe engine had performed hauntingly (despite the less than dulcet singing contributions of the tow-headed boy). Garmund looked lovingly at the chrome pipes gleaming in the moonlight as he sat atop a crumbling stone nearby, admiring his handiwork in the rapidly cooling desert air.
He sighed, pulling the collar of his duster closer around his neck and nestling his face down into the curly braided warmth of his beard as the chill settled on him. His eyes flicked from the wagon to the slumbering forms around the campfire. He had cheerfully volunteered to take the first watch this evening, although, in all truth, that was simply so that he could sleep through the remainder of the night undisturbed. One needs one’s beauty rest, after all, even out here in the desert. He frowned down at the dry, fraying ends of his beard and dug into one of his coat’s many pockets for a tin of scented balm. ESPECIALLY out here.
After he had massaged some life and luster back into his braided copper hair, he settled back again against the stone and set about scanning the horizon, but the night was clear, the moon was bright, and there was neither sight nor sound of any hostile presence. His mind drifted eagerly back to the melody he had begun piecing together earlier that day during their ride, and, sparing the empty desert around him another quick glance, he reached for the drums – never more than an arms-length away – that he had placed by his feet and pulled them into his lap, fingers tracing lovingly over the scrimshawed dragonbone bands, the engraved shell, and the taught skin, expertly stretched and tanned generations ago from a wing membrane of his people’s ancient foes.
A tap, gentle and playful, awakened the drums, and Garmund grinned as he found the new tune again. It came softly at first, then gradually louder as his enthusiasm warmed with the skins and his focus narrowed to just the notes in his fingers. It seemed that the whole world was in resonance with his playing, the rock upon which he sat vibrating along with his rhythm.
Too late, he realized that it was not merely a harmony of his own creation as a rumbling drowned out his drums. He scrabbled to his feet and called to his companions. “D'hrarak dwhe,” in the language of his people, and then, “To arms, my friends! There is danger below!”
He had time for nothing further, as the sand furrowed and caved around and beneath him, and an enormous serpentine form burst from the desert, its stony hide tossing Garmund and the rocks on which he had perched into the air like dishes on a flapped tablecloth. He clutched desperately at the edges of his cloak, and the spell woven into its velvet flared to life and furled out around him like wings, keeping him aloft. As he drew his castor rifle from its sling across his lower back and sighted down at the immense worm barreling towards their campsite, he sighed again.
So much for his beauty sleep…
