“Bad Nogard!” cried Cliven. “Bad!”
The Veterinary Cleric writhed on the ground, clutching his charred intestines.
Perching in the shattered window frame, the little dragon licked its lips with a serpentine tongue, flames hissing through its dilated nostrils.
Cliven wagged his finger. “Do you want me to get the muzzle?”
“I won’t let you kill my dragon!” cried Cliven.
“He’ll become a zombie!” insisted the Veterinary Cleric. “Hundreds could die!”
“I don’t care!”
Nogard shuddered in Cliven’s arms. His eyes rolled backwards, and all his muscles went slack.
“No!” Cliven screamed. “Is he dead!?”
“Well,” said the Cleric, “kind of.”
“What’s Necromantic Fasciitism?” asked Cliven. “And how did Nogard get it?”
“It’s a terrible curse!” said the Veterinary Cleric. “It can’t be stopped! Over the next few days, this little guy will turn into…”
“Into what!?”
“Into… a zombie dragon,” said the Cleric, shuddering. “We have to kill him now!”
The veterinary Cleric plopped Nogard down on a padded examination table. He poked and prodded at the dragon for a few minutes.
“Hmm,” he said. “Oh my,” he said. “This is not good,” he said.
“What is it?” asked Cliven.
“This isn’t mange; it’s an advanced case of Necromantic Fasciitism!”
“See, Ma? Nogard’s got the mange!”
“You’re right, Cliven. Why didn’t I notice before? Dear, poor Nogard. You must itch something fierce!”
“What should we do, Ma?”
“We could treat it ourselves, but it looks pretty advanced. We should probably call the Veterinary Cleric. I’m pretty sure he treats dragons.”