All is black. But the blackness feels big, as if the ceiling must be far overhead and the walls many spans apart. There is a rustling and the warmth of many bodies gathered in one place. Hushed whispers pass back and forth.
Then with a whoosh, torches flame to life and illuminate a massive cavern. Stalactites jag from the ceiling like great teeth. At one end, a stone slab is raised to serve as a stage, and the crowd of people are gathered before it.
“Greetings!” I shout from the stage, my voice echoing without the use of a microphone. “What a fine turnout we’ve had for the 2018 Silmaril Awards. Welcome to the final ceremony–today Smaug himself will award a Silmaril to the most magnificent dragon!”
Cheers resound.
I gulp in a deep breath. “And now I do believe I’ll pass things off to–“
A great rumbling fills the cavern. Guests look around worriedly.
“MY ARMOR IS LIKE TENFOLD SHIELDS,” a voice booms from someplace unseen. “MY TEETH ARE SWORDS, MY CLAWS SPEARS, THE SHOCK OF MY TAIL A THUNDERBOLT, MY WINGS A HURRICANE, AND MY BREATH DEATH!”
Flames gush from a side passage. All at once, a humongous red-golden dragon bursts into the cavern and leaps onto stage. I sidestep to avoid the thrash of his tail.
“Smaug!” I say. “We were just talking about–“
“SILENCE!” he roars. “You have summoned me to present another Silmaril, and a Silmaril I shall present. Where are the worthy contestants?” He swings his head back and forth, luminous eyes scanning the audience. Everyone shrinks back in fear.
A much smaller, black dragon is the only one to chitter happily, a gleaming gem hanging around his neck.
“Ah, the toothless winner of last year,” Smaug says. “I should hope this year’s victor boasts a few more teeth than you, night fury.”
Toothless grins, teeth rising from his gums to flash in the firelight.
I clap my hands together, lest these two dragons begin a fire fest, and call out, “Contestants, please come forward!”
Five figures venture out from another side tunnel and join us on the stony stage. I pull a scroll from my other pocket and unroll it so Smaug can read it. He lowers his head and peers at the scroll with one eye.
“In fifth place with twenty votes . . .” He glances at the contestants. “Kazul from The Enchanted Forest Chronicles.“
Kazul bows her head to the audience and flies off the stage.
“Fraternizes with humans, that one,” Smaug mutters. “I smell princess all over her. Ahem. In fourth place with twenty-two votes . . . Gem from The Ilyon Chronicles.“
A blue and black dragoness flutters her wings in thanks, then joins Kazul on the ground.
“Do all these dragons make friends with men?” Smaug grumbles. “I should think such friendships diminish their magnificence, small though it may be.”
“Not all dragons believe that magnificence is measured by gold and power,” I say.
He snorts a plume of smoke and returns to the scroll. “In third place with thirty-five votes . . . Death-in-Life from Tales of Goldstone Wood.“
An imposing dragon with black scales and glittering eyes shoots a tongue of flame. “Third place? How dare the hearts of men reject me!”
Smaug chuckles deep in his throat. “Now there’s a more magnificent beast. Not quite so magnificent as myself, of course.”
Death-in-Life storms from the cavern with a mighty shriek. By the relieved sighs from the audience, all are glad to see him leave.
“In second place with forty-four votes . . . Malcolm Blackfire from The Afterverse.“
This time, boisterous cheers erupt as a great red dragon with piercing golden eyes steps forward. “Yes, yes, Headmaster of Warrengate Academy of Advanced Magic and all that rot. I must say, I am surprised to hear you cheering for me in this scaly form. Usually you prefer to see me in my natural state.” Fire crackles and whirls around him, and he dwindles to a much smaller form. The blaze vanishes, leaving behind a tall, lanky man with grey-streaked red hair. He brushes an ember from the sleeve of his suit jacket. “Is this better?”
The audience whistles and claps all the louder.
Smaug thumps his tail, shaking the stone slab. “A dragon who is a man? Could your selection become any worse? Away with you, shape shifter.”
“Careful, Volcano-Breath,” Malcolm snaps. “In my dragon form, I’m really quite deadly.” But he stalks off the stage just the same.
“Well,” I say brightly. “It should be obvious now who the winner is. You may feel free to return to your Mountain now, Smaug . . .”
Before I can roll up the scroll, Smaug gets a glimpse of the final name. He spits a fireball, and I only just manage to let go of the scroll before it is consumed.
“WHAT IS THIS OUTRAGE?” He whirls around to face the last contestant, a small boy standing all alone with his hands behind his back.
The boy blanches under Smaug’s stare. “Er . . . hullo, Sir Dragon. I’m Eustace Clarence Scrubb, but I’d prefer if you called me Eustace. Or Scrubb would do just–“
“A BOY?” Smaug roars. “I thought this award was to go to the most magnificent dragon, yet here the people have muddied the waters and voted for . . . for weak, incompetent, folly-some humans.” Sparks fly from his large maw with every word, and the audience shuffles backward to put more space between themselves and Smaug’s rage.
“He did receive a whopping seventy-three votes, Smaug,” I say.
“Now see here,” Eustace cries, “if you incinerate me, Mr. Dragon, I’ll call the British Consul!”
I send him a warning look.
Eustace straightens his shirt and turns a little red. “I mean, that wouldn’t be proper. You see, I was a dragon once.”
“You?” sneers Smaug.
“Yes. And I’m all the better for it. It was a miserable experience, but thank Aslan I came out the other side of that ordeal a very different boy.”
“Aslan?” More smoke pours from Smaug’s nostrils. “And who, pray tell, is he?”
“Only the greatest king there ever was, the Son of the Emperor Across the Sea.” Eustace pauses, and his eyes seem to tear up with memories. “He’s a lion.”
Smaug roars louder than ever and grit falls from the ceiling. “Enough! When you foolish folk decide to cease turning the Silmaril Awards into a circus, then perhaps you may call me to present again. I am through!” He beats his powerful wings and flies from the cavern, nearly snuffing out the torches in his wake.
I chuckle nervously. “Ah, he’ll cool down before next year. In the meantime, Eustace, may I just say that I think you are a most worthy recipient of this year’s Silmaril.” I reach into yet another pocket and beckon him nearer.
Eustace approaches and kneels before me.
“Congratulations, Eustace.” I pull out a gleaming red pendant, a jewel hanging from a satin ribbon, and loop it over his head. “Let this be a reminder of where you have traveled and what you have become!”
Eustace breaks into a grin and stands to his feet as the audience breaks into the most thunderous applause yet.
“And that, my friends, concludes the 2018 Silmaril Awards!” I shout. “Thank you all! I bid you all a very fond farewell!”
