Joel Rosenberg - 01 - The Sleeping Dragon

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Book One of the Guardians of the Flame

The Sleeping Dragon

by Joel Rosenberg

The great problems of life... are always related to the primordial images of the collective unconscious....

The unconscious is not just evil by nature, it is also the source of the highest good: not only dark but also

light, not only bestial, semihuman, and demonic, but superhuman, spiritual, and, in the classical sense of

the word, "divine. "

—Carl Gustave Jung

...for every human being there is a diversity of existences... the single existence is itself an illusion....

—Saul Bellow

It seems to me that there might well be the equivalent, with regard to the collective unconscious, of the

concept in physics of "critical mass. " Are we approaching it? Quite possibly— consider the resurgence

of spiritualism, in all its guises, and don't neglect the function of the fantasy role-playing games. The

characters, the situations... all seem to touch something that is basic and fundamental.

But where would the locus of crisis be? And how can it be exploited? The Elder Edda, The Song of the

Harper, The Book of the Dead, even The Great Hymn to the Aten offer only hints, suggestions,

intimations.

Perhaps the best approach would be neither induction nor deduction, but, rather, empirical

experimentation. Perhaps...

—Arthur Simpson Deighton

Karl Cullinane/Barak—dilettante and acting major/warrior

Andrea Andropolous/Lotana—English major/novice wizard

James Michael Finnegan/Ahira Bandylegs—computer sciences major/dwarf warrior

Doria Perlstein/Doria of the Healing Hand—domestic arts major/master cleric

Walter Slovotsky/Hakim Singh—agricultural sciences major/journeyman thief

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Jason Parker/Einar Lightfingers—history major/master thief

Louis Riccetti/Aristobulus—civil engineering major/master wizard

Arthur Simpson Deighton, Ph. D.—Associate Professor of Philosophy, gamemaster

Wen'l of Lundescarne—peasant and freefarmer

Frann of Pandathaway—innkeeper

Lordling Alahn Lund—heir to the throne of Lundeyll

Marik, Arno—men-at-arms

Avair Ganness—captain and owner of the Ganness' Pride

Airvhan ip Melhrood—customs official

Challa—man-at-arms

Callutius—Junior Librarian of the Great Library of Pandathaway

Oreen—Specializing Librarian of the Great Library of Pandathaway

Ellegon—a young dragon

Tommallo—owner of the Inn of Quiet Repose

Khoralt ip Therranj—Wineseller's Delegate to the Pandathaway Guilds' Council, Games official

Ohlmin—master slaver

Blenryth—master wizard

The Dragon at the Gate

The Matriarch of the Society of the Healing Hand

Part One:

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The Student Union

CHAPTER ONE: The Players

Karl Cullinane reached out his fork and speared the last stick of asparagus from the stainless-steel

serving plate in the middle of the table, not bothering to set the asparagus on his own plate before taking

a bite, It was cold and mushy, almost tasteless; he swallowed quickly

"Karl, you're a pig. A skinny one, granted, but a pig." Andrea Andropolous' smile took most of the sting

out of her words, pitched low enough so that nobody else in the crowded cafeteria would have been able

to hear her over the clatter of dishes and the chatter of a hundred or so students.

Karl put it down to a natural gentleness. Hell, she'd been able to make him like it—almost—when she'd

turned him down. Usually, the let's-just-be-friends routine drove him into a silent, stomach-churning

rage.

"I gotta rush, Andy-Andy. There's a game tonight." He took another bit, added a mouthful of lukewarm

black coffee, and swallowed quickly. "If I'm late, sure as hell they'll start without me, put Barak out to

pasture for the night."

"You mean that they'll put him out to stud." She chuckled, revealing a mouthful of even, white teeth.

Karl liked her laugh, her smile. He had always thought that the notion of somebody brightening a room

with a smile was just a fantasy. Until he had met Andy-Andy, that is. Not that he had anything against

fantasy, quite the—

"It's bullshit, Karl," she said, smiling sweetly "Just an absurd male power fantasy." She reached out and

stroked his skinny forearm with a long, dark finger. Was it tanned, or not? Andy-Andy always seemed to

find something better to do during afternoon tanning hours than loll in the sun like some well-oiled,

roasting slug. Probably the olive tone of her skin was natural coloration. Maybe not. Of course, there was

a way to tell. Trouble was, Karl had never had the chance to check her for bikini marks.

Damn. "No, it's just a game. A way to spend a little time, have a little fun."

"A little fun?" She arched an eyebrow. "You call pretending to chop up a pixie, rape a virgin or three,

slice an ogre—you call that fun?" Quirking a smile, she sat back in her chair, crossing her arms almost

defensively over her blue velour pullover. Which was amply filled out, but not tight. Karl liked that;

Andy-Andy was more than a little pretty, but not an exhibitionist.

"First of all"—he tapped his index finger on the table, forcing himself to pay attention to the

conversation—"you're missing the point. Pretending isn't the same thing as really doing it. I mean—take

last week's session, for instance. Barak strangled an elf, chopped a half-orc in two—hey, now the critter's

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really two halves of an orc. Or should that be 'quarter-orces'? Never mind, the point is that he took three

points of damage. One's a light wound, two's more serious, going up to five, which is certainly lethal.

Three's the equivalent of getting sliced up pretty bad." He reached for his shirt's top button. "Care to

check for scars?"

"Some other time." She tossed her head, sending shoulder-length black hair whipping around her face.

"Maybe." A strand came to rest on her slightly too long, slightly bent nose. She blew it off. "Then again,

maybe not,"

"Teaser."

"That's only half the word, Karl. You don't have to use that bullshit with me."

"In my neighborhood, mother was only half a word." That might sound good, but it wasn't true: Karl was

a product of middle-class suburbia. "And besides, I was... kind of pointedly told to watch my language

around—women." If you consider having your mouth liberally washed out with Lifebuoy to be a pointed

telling. Which it was, after a fashion. "But to get back to the point, it's all just a fantasy, a game. No

harm; no damage. Anyway, Barak isn't that sort of character—he'll violate a law, but he's no rapist." That

was true, but omitted a new character Doc Deighton had helped him roll up, one Lucius of Pandathaway.

Lucius was not a nice person. Not at all. "The trouble with you is that you feel perfectly free to judge

something you haven't tried. How many times since the start of the semester have I invited you—ten?

Twenty?"

She shook her head. "I don't have to jump out a window to decide that I'm not going to like it."

"Irrelevant. If you try role-playing and you don't like it, you quit. Period. No scars—not even on your

psyche. Which is part of the fun." He shrugged. "Besides, it's probably beneficial. You get to work out

some aggressions without hurting anybody. Not yourself, not anybody else."

"Stop trying to sound like a psych major. You're supposed to be studying to be an actor, these days."

"I used to be a psych major—"

"—and a poli sci major. Plus American lit, engineering, philosophy, sociology—am I missing

something?"

"Prelaw. And two weeks of premed, back when I was a freshman. What's your point?"

"You're a dilettante, Karl. This role-playing stuff is just another one of your temporary obsessions.

Remember last year, when it was bridge? You spent a whole semester nattering about Stayman

conventions and South American Texas transfers, whatever the hell they are—''

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"South African Texas, not South American." He dipped two fingers into his shirt pocket and pulled out a

cigarette, then lit it with his shiny new Zippo. Karl let the flame flare for a moment before snapping the

cover shut. He figured that he might as well enjoy it while he could; he'd lose it soon. Karl could never

seem to keep track of things; the Zippo was the third lighter he'd bought that semester. "I still play

bridge," he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "It's just that this is more fun—particularly with this group.

Sometimes..." He let his voice trail off.

"Yes?"

"Sometimes, when you get the mechanics of the game out of the way—rolling the dice, keeping track of

what you're carrying—it's almost like you're there." He lifted his head and smiled. "And that's something.

How often do you think I'm going to get the chance to, say, rescue a princess or slay a dragon?" He

glanced down at his wrist. 6:48. Karl pushed himself to his feet. "Well, I've got to run, if I'm not going to

be late. See you later?"

Andy-Andy's brow furrowed. "How late are you going to be? Getting back, I mean."

"Mmmm, probably be back before midnight. If you want to meet me in the lounge, I'll help you go over

Deerslayer, if that's what you mean. It's a rotten book, though—I've got a Twain piece on it that pretty

much—"

"No." She shook her head. "I'm caught up with that, but I do have a quiz in astronomy tomorrow. If

you're sure we can be back by twelve, I'll come along, give it a try. If the invitation's still open." She

stood, taking her bulky yellow ski jacket from the back of her chair and slipping it on.

"You know it is."

She sighed. "Yes, I do." Andy-Andy shook her head slowly. "Which is part of the problem. Never mind;

let's get going, shall we?"

James Michael Finnegan was the first player to get to Room 109 in the Student Union. It was a matter

partly of habit, but mainly of pride. The others, well, they'd wait for him, sure. Only for him, dammit.

They wouldn't wait for him because he was now the most accomplished player in the group. Davy

Davidson had been the best in the group until he'd dropped out last year, and nobody would wait for

Davy and his character, Erik of the Three Bezants, on the not too infrequent occasions that he'd arrive

late.

James Michael shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his hands limp in his lap.

No, they wouldn't wait for him because he was a nice person to be around, with a dry sense of humor and

an always friendly smile. That monomaniac flake Karl Cullinane cracked better jokes; that hick jock

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