The crimson witch

mentioned he was 245 or so.”
        “I would not judge,” Kaliglia said, misunderstanding the reason for the man's amusement, “until I had heard some of those stories for myself. You form opinions without any evidence. You are rash and undisciplined. And you seem to accuse me of foolishness.”
        “No. The Sorceress Kell told me you were a reliable and noble beast when she gave you to me. I trust her. You aren't a superstitious fool-just a little misguided.”
        “Maybe. But you don't know the stories.” There was an I'm-going-to-make-you-beg-to-hear-them-too tone in his rumbling. He bobbled his head up and down on the end of his slender neck as if agreeing with himself. He clucked his tongue again, wiped his lips with a hard, yellow tongue, clucked again.
        Jake sighed, still staring at the mountains. “Well, tell me one, then.”
        Kaliglia settled down onto the massive pillars of his legs, knees bent, rolled slightly onto his side, shaking the earth and sending a dull booming reverberation through the nearby countryside. He sucked in an enormous breath, exhaled slowly. “You are too bull-headed to really listen, I'm sure. Your biggest problem is an inability to admit your own narrow-mindedness. Or to admit you are wrong. But I'll tell you anyway. Once, several years ago, a sailor came to the home of the Sorceress Kell. He was a weathered, beaten, half-starved hulk who had no mind left to him. Rather, his mind had been locked within itself, doubled and twisted and tied in so many knots that all his memories crisscrossed and short-circuited him into delirium. He did little but babble and drool. He could not even feed himself with any degree of success. He had to be attended to day and night, for if he were left to his own devices, it was quite probable that he would unwittingly bring about his own death, tumble over a cliff or some such. The Sorceress Kell had to open his mind, reach into it with her many and sundry powers and untie it so he could be whole again.
        “Over the days that this required, she began to piece together a story so horrible as to make her seriously question its authenticity and yet so detailed as to demand that it be believed. There are some things a man can be made to believe are true by various conniving drugs and a clever drugsman. But the problem with drug-induced fantasies is that they have little verisimilitude, very little shaping detail. This story was too detailed, too finely drawn to be anything but genuine. In those days, Kell confided in me, coming out from her hut and sitting with me in the evening when the stars shone full and the sky was clear and endless. She told me his story in day-to-day installments. Thus, she unloaded some of her horror onto me, sharing the impossible burden of ugliness that the sailor had imparted to her with the spilling of his tale.
        “It seems that this sailor, Golgoth, had signed aboard a sailing ship bound for the kingdom of Lelar from the kingdom of Salamanthe, that sheltered and exotic island nation that depends upon trade to maintain itself. It was not a matter of working in exchange for pay that induced Golgoth to enter as a ship's hand on this particular cruise. No, the situation had darker roots than that. He had been in a fight in a dockside pub and had killed a man. The only way he could avoid the death penalty was to sign on for ten years in the service of a merchant marine vessel. It was a good opportunity, considering his other choices. It meant a place to sleep, a hope for the future, and the means of a steady and lucrative income. He leaped at the chance to be free, vowed never to take another drink and thus stir his killing rage, pitched into his sailor's duties with much vigor, and secretly made plans for escape in Lelar.
        “The journey began as a good one, blessed with stormless skies and sound wind.” Kaliglia paused, held out his tongue to collect the rain water that was now falling lightly. After a moment, he continued: “But when they reached Lelar, things immediately began to darken.”
        “It's beginning to sound like a wives' tale.” Jake held out his own tongue for a wetting.
        Kaliglia grumbled good-naturedly. “I would bite off your head if I were not so amiable.”
        “You'd get indigestion, old son.”
        The dragon weaved his head agitatedly, sighed, sucked air, sighed again, but continued. “The first night in dock, the first mate got drunk and