I am Dragon (Dragon Fires Rising Book 2)

by Marc Secchia

  “Perhaps that wasn’t the wisest tease?” she said, rubbing her chin ruefully as they stood shoulder to shoulder, surveying the smoking ruin.

  “Perhaps not.” Turning to the terrified tailor, he growled, “There goes that tidy profit Tarangis was just congratulating us upon, I fear. Tell me again how you were proposing to make her trousers fireproof? I feel we ought to get this detail just right.”

  “A special leather treatment used by blacksmiths, Dragon,” the Princess reminded him. “Tailor, we’ll make good on all the damages. What’s next?”

  He stammered, “M-m-measuring. Please, mighty Dragon, would you face the open air when I do so?”

  “Why?”

  “Because it involves me wrapping this tape about her –”

  He pointed to the royal thighs.

  Grrr-gnarrr – he struggled mightily, before jerking his jaw upward – BLAST THESE FLAMES!!

  With a roar like a mighty ocean comber crashing upon a rocky shore, an incandescent white flower blossomed a hundred feet tall over Chakkix Camp.

  Tailoring was a dangerous business.

  Dragon lowered his muzzle with a toothy grin, blowing twin smoke rings from his nostrils. Nice! “Much as I enjoy terrorising the local populace, Princess, forgive me if I keep my nose in the air from now on. It’s not snootiness. This is called preservation.”

  “I understand,” she smiled. “Tailor, what can we do to double the fireproofing?”

  * * * *

  The overloaded flying cart, alias the Dragon, glowered over the pile of gear he was supposed to be carrying in addition to no less than four riders, and added a curl of fire out of his nostrils for good measure. Unfortunately, the effect tickled his nose. Swiftly aiming skyward, he sneezed a plume of fire that licked the roof of the cavern.

  “All essential?” he growled.

  “Are we not feeling strong enough?” the Princess of Peskiness peeped pertly. Back to being an ornery, cranky chunk of male Dragon. Blame the early start.

  “I hope for your sake this new clothing is as fireproof as they claimed,” he threatened.

  “Who’s a scandalously handsome Dragon, then?”

  “Me. Who’s a tiny Human about to be a Princess pancake, then?”

  “My sister,” she said, without missing a beat.

  They could not have been dressed less alike. Azania wore finely-tooled black boots, scandalously tight and certified fully fireproof black trousers, plus a shirt of the same sturdy material beneath her body armour. The Dragon talon blade hung at her right hip on a snazzy yet functional weapons belt. She had added three new daggers – one in each boot and one at the hip – and more weaponry in her slim, stylish vambraces. Silver trim on the armour, Princess? Crest of the desert eagle upon her belt? Aye, and she wore her curly sable hair loose, down to her middle-lower back.

  Apparently, good taste need not be limited to ball gowns. Being the unconventional soul that she was, his Princess turned her outfit into a statement of lethal femininity. Slit of eye, he regarded the girl, who gave him the pointy-chinned, impudent appraisal right back. Based her fashion on a certain Dragoness they could both name, had she?

  Including the attitude.

  His wings buzzed with anticipation at the thought of this Princess displaying herself before King Azerim. Well, not that Humans formally courtship-displayed their attributes, but he had noticed several rituals that approximated this draconic tradition – modes of dress, flirtation, demands for ransom and covert admiration of royal posteriors, to name but a few behaviours.

  Ah, Humans thought themselves so noble, so unlike the beastly Dragonkind!

  Nonsense.

  Her sister wore an all cream-coloured outfit of no style familiar to him – a one-off creation by Yarimda that comprised soft half-boots and full-length body-hugging undergarments, largely covered and flattered by a layered, charmingly tailored feminine over-dress of a darker cream shade that pinched in at the waist but flared into multiple splits to facilitate ease of movement. The layering made the silken material swish like a dress when she walked, but the functionality was also clear – multiple pockets for healing materials, a wide belt with generous pouches, and even places hidden in the collar and sleeves for equipment and aye, weapons. For the first time, she wore her black hair natural, a bouffant style that framed her face in at least six inches of curls. He blinked. Quite astonishing.

  Inzashu smiled timidly at his zealous scrutiny.

  He inclined his muzzle toward her. “You look amazing, Princess the younger. Let’s go.”

  Azania cleared her throat.

  “And you look lethal, Princess the older,” he added promptly, leaving her in no doubt that her immediate aggravation had been noted and sniggered at. “Come, o mighty Dragon Rider, your royal carriage awaits.”

  “Wow, I didn’t get this treatment the first time you kidnapped me.”

  “No, that day I whisked you forth in your royal bed and straightaway nearly landed us both in the moat. Lucky save.” He scratched at his flank and around his hindquarters. “Load up, ladies. I need no less than four minions to look after the mighty draconic personage these days, being such a mighty crisper of fabrics and annihilator of fripperies, and all that.”

  Yarimda’s wrinkles arranged themselves into a fantastical smile. In fluent Draconian, she said, You remind me so much of my friend, Wavewhisperer! Dragon, this is such a gift to me. How can I thank you enough?

  He said, To be blunt, you can tell us honestly how much travel you can cope with, honoured Yarimda. If you’re struggling, I want to know it right away. No holding out for the sake of the youngsters, or pride, or anything else … am I clear?

  The old woman wiped away a tear. Clear as the waters of the Lumis Ocean.

  Reaching out, he clasped her frail shoulders with his right forepaw. I can never be Wavewhisperer, honoured elder, but this much I would gladly do for you.

  She snuffled against his scales.

  Then, the three younger ladies set about the loading while he acted the courteous tyrant, refusing to allow Yarimda to lift a finger. Well, she got to hold her cane. That much was permitted.

  Loading was in full swing when Tarangis turned up with a cheery greeting and an exasperated, “Alright, who told all my staff to start calling me ‘Dragonbaiter,’ eh?”

  Both Princesses burst into merry peals of laughter.

  His eyes flickered toward Azania’s legs before patently jumping to the enormous fire breathing quadruped grinning toothily right behind her. Tarangis gulped. Ah, tested and approved. Azerim did not stand a mutton chop’s chance in the back of a Dragon’s throat.

  “Inzashu’s idea,” Azania claimed.

  “Ah, always the quiet ones, eh?” Tarangis grinned, rubbing his neck. “Very good. Your Highness, we were able to source all the items on your list of healing ingredients and potions. This is for you.”

  She accepted the leather satchel with murmured thanks.

  “Secondly, regarding the matter of the coldstones you asked me to look into. A friend with expert knowledge claims that these are not Skartunese emeralds at all, but rather, a type of green tourmaline gem called verdelite – which leads to the rather more interesting and political issue. There is only one known source of this gemstone in all of Solixambria.”

  “Where’s that?” Azania inquired, checking the saddle buckles on his neck.

  Double neck saddle, double up on the back. Why had he agreed to this again? Daft nobility? Flying cart had nothing on this effort.

  “The interior of the volcano on Terror Isle, I believe,” said he, passing the stone over to Dragon’s paw.

  Dragon swore beneath his breath.

  “I … don’t understand,” Inzashu said. “What does this mean, Tarangis?”

  He said, “To clarify, this mage also examined the magical properties of the stone. The precise signature of the binding runes identify this, beyond doubt, as the handiwork of Terror Clan Dragons.” Worth another blistering word, which Drago
n readily supplied. “Aye. We can reasonably conclude that there is a thriving trade between the Terror Clan across the Umber Steppes and the Blood Desert, to Skartun. Therefore, the Terror Clan may be plotting against all the Dragon Clans of the Tamarine Mountains, or against Humanity in general, or both.”

  “Skartun’s buying in dark magic?” Yardi growled.

  “Sure looks like it,” Azania replied. “I should write to my brother at once.”

  “I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a scroll summarising the findings related to your inquiry, Ambassador,” Tarangis said formally. “If you would like to read and sign it, I’ll have it dispatched to King N’chala by a trusted courier today.”

  The Princess said, “Tarangis, why are you doing all this for us?”

  “Highness, the proceeds of good business are far more readily enjoyed in the current life than in the afterlife.”

  “True.”

  “During the last invasion, the Skartun butchered my family. I was the only one who survived. So aye, it is personal. Right now, I don’t see anyone else working quite so hard to stop this fresh invasion. I’m here to wish you lightning speed and favour with the Clans of the mountains – but trust me when I say, if the talon of Terror Clan lies beneath this, we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

  Bending over his wheelchair, Azania gave him a hug and a kiss on the scruffy beard.

  Instantly wound around her littlest talon.

  One of his Dragon Rider’s finest qualities, he reflected, was that she had no idea what impact she had on people. Artless, her affection; a heart which knew no limits. Witness how she had extracted a certain morose Dragon from his lair and turned him into one who believed he could breathe fire, traverse oceans and change the face of his world.

  That was the thought that buoyed his wings as he arrowed into a sky brightening from the deep purples of early dawn to ruddy furnace fires. That, and Yarimda’s laughter. Yardi had a death grip around her grandmother’s waist, holding onto an improvised saddle strap anchored to his neck. They rode in tandem, as did the Princesses upon his back, just behind the Dragon bow mount. The muscular armourer muttered as if she might be praying. Yarimda giggled like a young girl and wiped her eyes on her sleeves. The wind, of course. Nothing to do with the emotions turning her colours blue and yellow and pink, and as turbulent as the ocean.

  His five hearts quickened with a fierce, pounding rhythm of joy as he recognised the longing they shared. Ocean rose inside of her, too.

  Ocean always rises.

  Chapter 5: Terror Clan

  THE FLYING CART ITCHED worse than the two Princesses. Their skin, at least, although it had blistered and then peeled in numerous places, was recovering with gratifying speed thanks to an additional treatment Tarangis had sourced for them. Back in debt, of course. Seven paintings sold were not about to cover a spot of unintended obliteration, plus all their spending on clothing and supplies in addition to Tarangis’ earlier advance of several gold bars. Resting over lunchtime in a wooded vale in the foothills of the Tamarine mountains, he scratched endlessly at his scales, all over. The rasp of his talons was matched only by his incessant grumbling.

  He wished he had never imagined what it might be like to have shivery Human skin bobbles beneath his scales. This was as if he had been doused in itching powder, infested by fifty billion scale mites, or contracted a nasty bacterial hide infection.

  To distract himself, he told Yarimda the tale of their doings since last they had met. Ten minutes into his story, she vented a delicate snore.

  Azania gave him one of her looks.

  “I’ll have none of your cheek, woman,” he groused.

  “Did I say anything?”

  “For a change, no, but you were definitely thinking it.”

  “Are you telling me to stop thinking?”

  Conversational porcupine! Gnashing his fangs, he gazed into the distance.

  The three younger women worked at weapons training together and shooting arrows at targets until the early afternoon, when they set out for another stint in the air.

  Their chosen flight path curved over the south-eastern foothills of the Tamarine Range, a dry but wooded range of hills that smelled strongly of pine scents and bitter herbs. They kept to the vegetation belt without intruding on the Blood Desert itself; in the early evening, Dragon spied a smaller Bloodworm through his spectacles.

  What did monstrous worms do for fun? Burrow beneath kingdoms?

  Turning north with the vaulting ranges of snow-capped peaks to their left paw, he searched for a campsite while Yardi and her grandmother engaged in a heated discussion about how much travel seniors could handle, even if they were having the best time of their life.

  “There, beside that hot spring,” Azania suggested. “Is that a small buck?”

  “Aye. Shall we sneak in?”

  “He sneaks?” Yarimda inquired in surprise.

  “You’ve no idea how quiet and sneaky a beast of Dragon’s size can be,” Azania said truthfully. “Show her, Dragon.”

  Drawing his magic about him, he silenced the wuthering wind, his breathing, even the thudding of his hearts which Azania told him she could hear during flight.

  “Awesome,” Inzashu chirped.

  “Shh!” said everyone else.

  Silent as a drifting snowflake, they ghosted down toward the multihued springs, set in a shallow green valley, which possibly arose from mountain meltwater, Dragon surmised. Out there in the rust-red desert wasteland, there seemed to be no moisture at all. Would the suspected trade route follow the coastline, or would the flying route parallel the mountains here, as they were doing?

  As he came down into Azania’s range and the Princess landed a perfect shot to the heart, he found an answer of sorts. He spied paw prints in the crusty white salts beside the steaming spring, the most easterly of a set of at least five.

  Why else would Dragons be out here?

  After setting down and unloading, he took a long, long soak in the hottest spring. Glorious. The heat unknotted his weary muscles. Every ten minutes or so, he could enjoy a hot shower from a regular geyser. This was a balm to his unbearably itchy hide. Maybe he would just sleep right here. The crusty salts looked and smelled tempting, despite being every colour of the rainbow. The girls set up camp, did their laundry – he lazily pictured hanging up Dragon scales to dry – and Inzashu changed her sister’s crusty bandages. The double wound had puckered up and was oozing a few nasty yellow spots Dragon could have done without seeing.

  Human bodies – blergh!

  “A hot salt water soak would be best,” the younger Princess announced. “Clothes off, sister, and find a pool you can tolerate.”

  Hand to bosom, pretending – he was not quite sure what this was, but it might be related to the literary idea of maidenly palpitations, which he was convinced Azania had never experienced in her life – the older sister declaimed, “Oh, not near yon fearsome beast!”

  “Sister, that snaggletoothed monster, that fiendish four-pawed –”

  “Snaggletoothed?”

  Fire dribbled from his mouth, contributing to the general heat of his pool. Once, he had been a beast of enormous draculinity. Now look at him!

  “Fie, hearken how he awakens in fearful, panting majesty, sister!” Azania cried.

  “Ah, I tremble that he did not even let me finish my one and only polished sentence, and now I am laughing too hard to think of any more creative insults –”

  “I can always come up with a few extra.”

  Rising from his pool, Dragon stalked over toward them. “I think I’ll practise my Princess-throwing skills now. Which pool did you want to try?”

  “The one not overrun by a formidable monster,” she crooned.

  To his annoyance, his new fire stomach promptly began to rumble as if he had swallowed a small but decidedly angry Dragon. Even though the girls’ laughter irked him, he decided to play with the sensation, experimenting, perhaps learning an element of control.


  No chance. Once it was present, the fire had to be expelled. Was that to do with the electrolysis process, whereby his lightning magic worked upon highly flammable gases? He let the flame play from his lips, governing the flow with his throat and tongue. The sensation was marvellous, like playing with silken cloth that slowly, endlessly whispered up out of his body – but soon, the familiar tingling spread all over, and with it came the excruciating itching.

  Scratch, scratch, SCRATCH!! GNARR!

  Tell me about these fires, Dragon, Yarimda invited. I understand that you’ve found the song of your ocean. Now, if you had never breathed fire in twenty years, we must expect things to change. You are fire. Fire is the Dragon – but moreover, your fire is unique amongst Dragons of the air, as I understand it. That will mean changes to your physiology, some of which are clearly uncomfortable.

  By my wings, that’s an understatement! he growled, watching his talons curling helplessly at the jangling sensations playing up and down his nerves. I thought – wrongly, it seems – that after I found my fires, everything would be easy.

  Serenely, she said, But it is. Your fire arises at a thought.

  He scratched his rump glumly.

  Come on. Tell an old lady all about it – and this time, I promise not to fall asleep, alright?

  Fire! He gulped twice, threw back his head, and lost it.

  Yarimda cocked her head and watched his flame gush and gush and gush. Eventually, she said, Now that’s a breath weapon worthy of the name, Dragon! Come on, let’s get to work on you.

  An evening’s pleasant conversation, theorising, testing and experimentation came topped off with three-quarters of a delicious fire-grilled bushbuck prepared by Yardi. Skills beyond the furnace and metals, clearly, he approved, washing it down with long sips of water and several chunks of rock salt.

  Dragon let out such a belch, it almost flattened Princess Azania’s hair.

  “Dragon!” Inzashu squealed.

  “It’s cultural,” said her sister. “When among Dragons, you will need to learn to burp – like this. Brrraaa-ooouu-arrrpp!”

  “What a rip-snorter!” Dragon approved.