#1: The Curse of the Spoiled Stew
By the time Steg reached the roadside inn, he was hungry enough to eat his rolling pin. Fortunately, the inn – Furthingham’s Foam & Feast – served stew.
Unfortunately, no one seemed to be eating it.
The common room was busy for supper. Travelers crowded the tables. Tankards clinked. Someone laughed near the fireplace. But Steg saw hardly a plate or bowl anywhere.
Odd.
He leaned his cauldron-lid shield against the bar and settled his considerable bulk onto a stool. The cat behind the bar eyed the colander on Steg’s head.
Steg eyed the cat’s enormous white belly.
“Stew,” Steg said.
The cat straightened his spotless waistcoat. “Furthingham. Proprietor.”
“Stegglerex.”
Furthingham blinked.
“Steg’ll do,” the dragon clarified.
“Very well.”
“And Ham for you.”
The cat’s whiskers stiffened sharply. “Ham?” he repeated with a sneer.
“Short for Furthingham.”
“I am aware of what it is short for.”
“Stew, please, Ham, if you would.”
Furthingham stared at him for a moment, then disappeared into the kitchen.
The stew arrived steaming. Steg inhaled. His smile disappeared. He took one cautious spoonful. Then another.
“Something wrong?” Furthingham asked stiffly.
“Sure is,” Steg replied.
Furthingham puffed up to nearly twice his already considerable size. “I’ll have you know, my vegetables arrived this morning. My kitchen is spotless. My cookware is scrubbed after every use. My pantry is dry, orderly, and entirely free of vermin.”
Steg shrugged, sending a ripple through his wings. “Didn’t say it was dirty.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Steg frowned into the bowl.
“Don’t know yet.”
He tasted a carrot, then a potato, and then an onion. Different vegetables, yet each had the same faint taste – a sour wrongness.
Steg glanced around the room again.
“Folks drinking more lately?”
Furthingham’s ears lowered. “And they’re eating less,” the innkeeper admitted.
Steg stood. “Show me the pantry.”
Furthingham’s pantry was exactly as advertised. Immaculate. Jars stood in neat rows. Sacks were tied and labeled. Braids of onions hung beside bundles of dried herbs. Steg inspected flour, sniffed potatoes, squeezed turnips, and tasted three kinds of dried leaves. Everything was fresh. Delicious, even.
He scratched beneath the colander-helm on his scaled head.
Then stopped.
Steg turned back toward the herbs. One bundle looked like all the others, but…
He sniffed it.
“Hmm.”
“What?” Furthingham demanded.
Steg snapped the bundle in half. Furthingham gasped and the dried herbs vanished.
A rotten mushroom appeared in Steg’s palm, skewered upon something brown, shriveled, and unpleasantly sinewy.
Furthingham made a strangled noise. “What is that doing in my pantry?!”
The broken skewer twitched. It slowly turned on Steg’s open palm until it pointed toward the window.
Toward the swamp.
“Half a charm,” Steg said.
Furthingham’s furry brow furrowed. “Half?”
“The other half keeps the curse working,” Steg explained.
Furthingham looked toward the swamp. Then he glanced down at his perfectly white paws. His taut whiskers wilted.
* * *
An hour later, Steg stood knee-deep in brown water, staring at the largest snapping turtle he had ever seen. It was as big as a cottage. The turtle was happily munching swamp grass, oblivious to Steg’s approach.
Which was fine with Steg. Because the other half of the charm was wedged between its shell and shoulder.
With a flutter of his wings, Steg stood on tiptoe, reached up, grabbed the charm, and pulled.
Nothing happened. The charm didn’t budge. He pulled harder. Still nothing.
Unbothered, the turtle continued to chew.
“Right,” Steg grunted and planted both foreclaws against the turtle’s side. He gave a powerful shove.
This had no effect either.
Next he crashed into the turtle’s shoulder with his cauldron lid like a battering ram.
BONG.
Nothing.
Steg drew his trusty rolling pin, hefting it like a knight’s mace. Five minutes later, he had employed every respectable brawling technique he knew and several disreputable ones.
The turtle continued eating.
Steg leaned against its shell, panting.
The snapper finally turned its enormous head and looked at him. Steg wondered if it had only just noticed he was there. The turtle casually returned to its grass. Steg followed its gaze.
Grass.
He looked at the turtle. Then at the grass. Then he smiled.
“Should’ve started with supper,” he mumbled. It wasn’t the first time he had said that. It wouldn’t be the last.
Steg gathered the tenderest swamp grass he could find. From his traveling kit came a small iron pan, a knob of butter, salt, and a pinch of something Furthingham had packed in a carefully labeled paper twist.
Last, a tiny blue flame burst from Steg’s lips. Not a destructive blast. No mighty roar. Just a precise little fire hot enough to cook. That was all Steg could manage.
But he could manage it better than any dragon.
The butter foamed. The grass wilted. Steg charred the tips until they curled and sweetened, then scattered the seasoning across them.
The turtle stopped chewing.
Sniff.
Steg carried the pan several steps away.
The turtle turned its great head to follow.
Steg took another step.
The enormous creature lumbered after him.
The instant its shoulder shifted, the charm wiggled loose and dropped free.
Steg snatched it and snapped it in two.
* * *
It was dark when Steg returned to the inn.
Furthingham had a fresh bowl waiting for him.
Steg took one spoonful. Then another.
Furthingham watched anxiously.
Steg smiled.
“Good stew, Ham.”
Furthingham’s tail twitched.
“Furthingham.”
Steg lifted another spoonful.
“That’s what I said.”
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