by Marc Secchia
Pity she could not simulate a desert sun, she muttered.
“Tired of the snow already?” Dragon goaded.
“Never! The toes don’t agree, however. In fact, I’m not sure how many I have left.”
“We should check her circulation,” he said at once. “Humans are susceptible to frostbite. Take off your boots, Princess, and let someone tickle your feet.”
Azania snorted, “That’s not the treatment.”
“How would you know, o Princess of baking sunshine?”
“Wicked beast, I’ll check my own toes, thank you,” Inzashu said boldly.
Dragon promptly plucked her up and hung her upside-down by her feet, despite her protests. “Wicked beast? I’ll paddle your pampered behind, I will. That’ll be good for the circulation, I promise!”
She folded her arms and glared at him. “What’s this, pick on the Princess day?”
“I am very picky about my Princesses, aye. Only the best will do. Say, have you ever been dumped headfirst in a snowdrift?”
“Dragon!”
“Just can’t stop calling my name, can you?”
Azania said, “Save it for Ariamyrielle Seaspray, will you?”
“Ooh, there’s a Dragoness in the picture?” The imp in his paw waggled her eyebrows. “Is she pretty? Is there a romantic story involved? Azania –”
“By my wings, not enough snow to dump you into. Narrow escape, Princess.”
“Tell me the story, please?”
“Do I have to?”
“Come on, Dragon, you can’t leave it like that. You know I’ll just get everything from my sister anyways. Want to get your version out first?”
Azania snorted, “When we do find a snowdrift, Dragon, dump her in it for me, would you?”
Delightfully deadly warrior Dragonesses who lived on faraway islands were clearly the stuff of dreams, in Inzashu’s opinion. Pest, she would not leave him alone until she had every salient detail, and then it was tragic, romantic, beautiful, a match made in the very heavens. There just had to be a good outcome, she announced. Fate could not possibly cut him off so cruelly.
Could it not? Ah, the innocence of youth.
Following the storm, the air was crisper than ever. The peaks stood exquisitely delineated against the crimsons and purples of the evening sky. Flying on, Dragon’s directional sense told him that Juggernaut’s lair was behind the next range of peaks, but the easterly pass he had expected was not yet apparent when he felt Yarimda surreptitiously rubbing her chest.
Her response to his query seared his ear canals.
No mind. A lifetime’s strict diet of respect for one’s elders tempered his natural draconic ire at the rebuke. The only issue was that his previous idea of always being stoic was now undermined by the ebullient fires forever ready inside his throat, and the blasted itching of his hide. Agonising! He flew onward until at last he spied the high pass to the west, shadowed now by the setting suns. Time to find another suitable place to overnight.
They needed to prepare Yarimda for the hop over the top.
“Ready to roll?” Azania asked the following morning, as Taramis set the snowfields ablaze.
“Do I look that fat?” Dragon inquired, trying to push out his lean belly.
All this flying was packing on the muscle. He was quite sure that his shoulders bulged at least a foot wider than before, and no, that was not his natural, well-developed male ego speaking. Besides, any Dragon with a hide in his condition had nothing to boast about. Flying rug. Not a good sort of rug, either. This one had been liberally chewed on in places, and was starting to hang off him like badly fitting Human clothing.
Not good. Nor pleasant.
What he wanted was a hide that fit like Azania’s trousers.
One that might earn more than a passing glance from a cobalt Dragoness, to pick no example in particular.
Bundled up in every scrap of clothing or blankets they owned, his four Riders took their positions. This time, Inzashu-N’shula took the neck seat behind Yarimda, where she could monitor her and touch her with magic if needed, while Yardi gingerly settled herself onto the seat behind Azania and buckled herself in with white-knuckled hands. The armourer still acted uncomfortable with the idea of flying Dragonback.
“All passengers aboard and strapped in?” he rumbled. “This flight is leaving in one minute. In the event of another vengeful flight of Terror Clan Dragons appearing, no-one is to jump overboard this time. We will outfly them into Grinder territory –”
Yardi grumbled, “Can we not talk about going overboard, please?”
Azania said, “On that note, there’s our first draconic visitor – see, right up there? She’s sunning herself at the top of the pass.”
“Oh, well spotted,” Dragon noted. “Let’s go give her greeting.”
Taking off with care for the oldest member of the team, he flew steadily up the pass under the scrutiny of the light yellow Dragoness. No rush. Unconcerned manner. Nothing to see here but the impossibility of a Dragon carrying four Humans upon his back – nothing new under the suns, right?
The pass had to be all of eighteen thousand feet, a vertical climb of over a mile from their previous altitude. Dragon attuned his scent ability to Yarimda’s breathing and sense of herself, finding the rich desert-rose scent of Inzashu-N’shula already present. He chuckled. Well named for the rose, these Princesses. Despite that she was a youngster, he knew her for his better in matters of magic. He had the strength of Dragons to his credit, however, so between them, he was confident that they could keep the old woman safe despite the danger.
The yellow Dragoness waited until they had almost reached her altitude and started to sweep forward over the long snowbound saddle of the pass, before making a lackadaisical launch of her own. Nothing of her posture indicated aggression.
Shortly, she circled and drew alongside and a little above, assuming the position that declared she was Grinder Clan, in Draconian speak, the territorial-dominant Dragoness.
Ho, nameless Dragon, strength to your wings, she called. Are you he who carries the Princess Azania of T’nagru as … flight companion?
Her query betrayed disbelief.
Aye, that I do. I am Nameless and of no Clan. Call me Dragon. We fly to Juggernaut’s lair this day, peaceably seeking what little peace he offers those who take up his training regimens.
She chuckled smokily. I am Chalice the Grinder, Dragoness of this territory.
He genuflected with his wingtips. Strength to the Grinder Clan. Forgive me if I fly swiftly on, o Chalice, but I carry upon my back one of no less than ninety-four years beneath the suns. We must bring her quickly back down to a safer elevation.
I am well … enough, Yarimda gasped. Please make all speed, Dragon, I beg you.
Her heart rate was too quick, surely? He had no idea what it should be for Humans, but all of their pulse rates had quickened considerably as they climbed. Inzashu’s magic enwrapped the old woman, strengthening, soothing, even oxygenating the blood.
Chalice echoed the genuflection. Strength to your paw, Dragon. You will need it to face those who wait ahead. I shall fly with you, for I also am bound for Juggernaut’s lair this day.
Escort? Subtle.
Stretching his wings to their utmost now, Dragon piled on the speed. To his surprise, he began to draw ahead of the Dragoness almost immediately. She could not keep up – in a few minutes, she waved and called for him to hurry on. His struts and wing bones creaked audibly at the lateral and wind-shear forces he exerted against the thin air, while he kept so low to the barren white saddle between the peaks shading the skies to either side that several times, his tucked-up paws kicked up puffs of snow.
Beyond the saddle was a high plain just a few miles in length, dominated by extraordinary mauve clusters of boulders.
“Fairytale garden,” Azania gasped.
Not only that, but there was no snow. The rich mauve colour extended to the ground, but the smaller rocks were covered in many pla
ces with bright red, green and yellow mosses.
Incredible! Mental picture for when, if ever, he got back to his beloved artwork.
How he missed painting.
Imagine splashing this mountain scene upon a canvas, or somehow capturing the endlessly changeable billows of the ocean.
“Dragon?” Azania called, at the same instant he glanced sideways at one wing, then the other, in confusion. His wingbeat had … changed?
A Dragon’s wingbeat was like breathing. Usually, one did not need to think about it. As he lost headway slightly due to his surprise, he was forced to lightly run over the top of several boulders before he pulled his wings and thoughts toward himself and found his normal rhythm again. His old rhythm, which meant …
Ocean always rises, Yarimda said, in a strangely high-pitched voice.
Smug, he felt, but she had a right to be. Years must give people wisdom like that. The ability to place a finger precisely upon the insight he had been struggling toward.
Rest in … the oc …
Oh no!
“Yarimda!” he bellowed.
Dragon’s neck vertebrae popped as he struggled to look back at the first neck position. From the corner of his eye, he saw a sight that had always intrigued him before he learned what it truly meant. Yarimda and her granddaughter were much paler of skin than the Princesses; the colour Humans called white, but was really a kind of light tan-pink. Just as black was not black, but many variations on deep, attractive browns – speaking as a member of the brown association, of course.
Foolish beast! He snapped his mind back into order. Yarimda was blue. The kind of blue that did not go together with Human health in the slightest. Hypoxia. Somehow – oh, by his sire’s egg, it was Inzashu who had lost control of her magic!
At once, he replaced what the Princess had been doing with his own, less sophisticated and sensitive framework. Colours brightened, galvanising his magic to greater heights of effectiveness. There. Breath restored. Even the sense of their blood flow hearkened to a susurrus upon the seashore just as he remembered from the Lumis Ocean. His own was more complex, but no less reflective of the life pulsating within.
A Dragon swam in triumphal majesty through the air.
He revelled in the blast coursing over his sensitive wing membranes, in the protective flickering of his narrowed eyelids, in speeding low over the mosses and lichens. Blowing over the end of the plain as if a Bloodworm were chasing him, Dragon focussed his energy into shooting down a long slope, seeking a safer, lower altitude for his passengers.
Even Azania and Yardi bent low over his back.
Battle speed!
Never had he flown like this. His thrusting wings were making a more convoluted action in the air, more a figure of eight than a standard rowing motion, which reduced drag as well as producing power both in the upstroke and downstroke. How was this? A resonant drumbeat of joy pulsed in his Dragon hearts.
Up on his back, a Princess chuckled, Fly, Dragon. Fly! Oh, how he thunders over the mountains!
The wind’s roaring did not drown out her voice?
Somehow, through slipstreaming or angles or something to do with his body position and speed, he heard her as if she were talking right inside his ear canal. Drop! Hurtling over a cliff, he swooped into a rapid descent, realising that Juggernaut’s lair lay not far ahead, and for sheer exultation, he might just crack open his jaw and – a cramp seized his hearts.
My sire!
Blaze the Devastator was present. Whatever was his father doing up at Juggernaut’s lair?
All the old feelings came crashing back into his breast as his poor eyes followed the far sharper lead of his scent senses. The familiar flame-orange dipped over the edge of the crater. Were his brothers with his sire? Not unlikely. His hearts crashed around his paws at the thought. Gone, the joy. Vanished, the beautiful oceanic sounds that had hurtled him across the miles at a speed he could scarcely credit. That was a thirty-mile sprint. Thirty!
He panted hard, not only because of the physical exertion.
A tiny hand patted his scales. “Alright, Dragon?”
“Not so much.”
Yarimda croaked, “That was your sire?”
“Aye, but we must not admit it. I am an outcast, unknown to these Dragons – but known, if that makes sense. It’s easier if we pretend we don’t know each other. I’ll be treated with stiff formality at best. What’s imperative is that we get our message across.”
His voice trailed off as his slack wings took them over the cliff’s edge. Far from being the quiet retreat he had yearned for, Juggernaut’s lair was a busy hub of Dragons hailing from at least seven Clans that he could identify at the tap of a talon. Perhaps more. That was nothing compared to the anxiety of gazing down and seeing his brothers Brand and Brawl strutting their stuff around his sire, greeting the Dragonesses, trying to get wing-touches with Juggernaut – blergh!
Was it wrong to hate his kin so?
Brand the umber, sly and suave. Brawl was the same burnt orange as his sire; as Dragons said, born in the same scales. Together with his sire, they must represent the Devastator Clan at this gathering.
The draconic congregation hushed dramatically at the sight of a shabby, moulting Dragon of considerable size arriving in their airspace with four Humans clinging to him like fleas to a deer’s ears. Four! Jaws creaked, fire spat here and there, and wings quivered with indignation. Best guess? None of these Dragons had ever seen, or even imagined, indignity to compare. His brothers must be livid! Trying to rescue his shattered dignity with a whirl of his wings, Dragon hovered above the training ground, seeking wing space to land.
Then, a bellow reached his ears that almost made him shed his wings in shock. Dragon! How fared the war in T’nagru? Juggernaut thundered. Give us that battle roar I taught you!
Chapter 8: Blergh
GRATITUDE FUSED WITH THE cauldron of nausea churning in his stomach as the import of Juggernaut’s greeting hit him on many levels at once. Brotherhood, acknowledgement and a path to such honour as he could scrape together, delivered in one breath.
Yarimda kicked his neck with her heels. “I’m blocking my ears, young Dragon.”
He wanted to laugh, or weep, he knew not which. The years had taught him to hide his face at moments like this – yet he was changing, becoming something new. Could he believe it?
A ninety-four year old Human woman flew wing guard with him.
Sucking in a deep, ragged breath, he paused – and breathed in a bit more, until his ribs ached. Focus. He had one chance at this. Blitz the Fritz was dead and buried. He was a Dragon who had shot down a Bloodworm, frazzled Jabiz Urdoo in his own juices and carried a matchless Princess upon his back.
III – AAMM – DRRAAGOONN!! His sonorous roar reverberated off the tall grey cliffs of the sinkhole.
Auditory shock! Brand and Brawl smacked together and tangled wings, while many of the other Dragons reacted by assuming instinctual defensive postures and emitted involuntary spurts of fire. Using the space created by the reeling group, he landed gracefully – for once – and strolled over to greet the orange-black warrior Dragon.
Master. Apologies for the intrusion.
No, Dragon. I am glad you came, said he, touching wingtips as if they were old friends. Will you light our understanding with your testimony?
We shall. We flew directly from T’nagru, as you suspected. N’ginta is safe, but a far greater danger lurks in the desert.
Turning, Juggernaut offered a courteous paw first to Yarimda, but seeing she had already alighted and was trying to arrange her rickety knees beneath her with Inzashu’s help, he lifted the paw high instead. “Princess? Honoured guests? This way, please.”
Master politician. Dragon could only shake his head and take notes.
Remembering his manners, he introduced his group to the master warrior, from oldest to youngest following the draconic tradition.
In flawless Draconian, Yarimda said, Juggernaut the Grinder, your reputati
on precedes you. You are a master teacher.
His eyes widened at her fluency in the draconic tongue. Honoured Yarimda, you and your granddaughter shall room with me in my own lair. We are a little busy, as you can tell. Much ado about happenings beyond the desert. With a wink back at the walking sack of hide, he added, Dragon, you’ll sleep outside, of course. Princesses, this way, if you please.
In the guise of taking care of the elderly, he slipped them away into his small lair.
Once inside the cosy space, the Master settled Yarimda in a comfortable nest of cushions and fetched water for her. Inzashu rooted out herbs for her to eat and a couple of peppery oils that she rubbed into her wrists and temples. Meantime, Dragon made stumbling explanations.
“You are moulting,” Juggernaut confirmed bluntly. “Heard it happens with some Dragons of the Archipelago. Don’t worry, you’ll probably still have draconic hide underneath – imagine the bits leaking out between your ribs otherwise?”
Inzashu giggled as he prodded her ribs, exactly as one would tease a hatchling. He tried not to show surprise. The warrior Dragon liked younglings? Revelation!
Juggernaut aimed a glance sourer than a hundred lemons in his direction.
Ahem. Moving swiftly on … he said, “Did you hear –”
“Aye, Dragon. Reports reached the Tamarine Mountains of a Skartun army besieging N’ginta Citadel, including the detail that they field Dragon slaves in battle. This is what has riled up our kin – not many, by my wings – but some. These ones may decide to act, but as you know, agreeing on anything between the Dragon Clans may take a considerable length of time. Not to mention the politics. Blood will be spilled. Your reports will be invaluable.”
Turning to Yardi, Juggernaut said, “So, you’re an armourer? Ever worked with Dragon armour and forges heated by Dragon fire and magic?”
“No, Master,” she said.
