I am Dragon (Dragon Fires Rising Book 2)

by Marc Secchia

  Three hours later, Dragon snooped outside the King’s chambers as the three Princesses slipped inside to attend to the heavily sedated King.

  The man’s colours were all wrong, he sniffed out immediately. Fascinating. Could pain or infection do this to a person? The wound was already two days old. Or … he tapped quietly on the balcony doors, left closed apparently because fresh air was a terrible idea for any convalescent. Primitives. Barbarians! And they had the cheek to reject magic as a solution when all they relied upon was superstition and not sound science. Inzashu came over to speak with him.

  She said pensively, “Good job on the lower break, but he left a bone splinter loose that I had to reposition. Terrible job on the thigh. Completely misaligned. Can you reach him from here? I need to readjust the bones and I’m not strong enough.”

  “I can try. You’ll coach us, right?”

  “Do my best.”

  At her direction, the two Princesses and two servants held the King down while Dragon gingerly – biting his tongue – exerted pressure by pinching his knee and pulling downward. Sweat. Grumble. Check, no. Again. Inzashu cautioned him several times to use less strength. As directed, he made a slight twist while the poor man moaned even in his drugged-up state, and then, click.

  “Did you hear that, Princess?”

  “No, but – thanks, Dragon.” Her hands palpated the King’s leg with great care. “That’s done it.”

  “Where did you learn to set bones, Inzashu?”

  “Learned the trade in a field hospital,” she said. “The Skartun have a great many disagreements with a great many nations. I only discovered what my mother was doing there when I was nine. She wanted bodies to experiment on. Dead or alive.”

  Azania’s eyebrows shot toward the ceiling. “Truly?”

  “Aye. Dragon, how does he feel to you now?”

  He reached out with his senses. “Far better. Still, I don’t like the scent of that wound.”

  “Me neither, but the surgeon did clean it thoroughly. Can’t fault him there. I might see if there are a few apothecaries in town who could supply herbs and essences for burning here in the room. The vapours might help, in this case. Yuali?”

  “I’ll assign someone to help.”

  “I meant, would this be acceptable in your tradition?”

  “Aye, more than acceptable. I cannot thank you enough for all your help, Inzashu. It truly is fate’s providence that you arrived in perfect time.”

  She smiled tiredly. “He’s not out of the woods yet, as you northerners say, but I’d like to think that leg’s safe now. Much depends on how the next couple of days go.”

  The girl startled as Princess Yuali drew her into an embrace.

  * * * *

  The King’s condition deteriorated over the following day and a half, but with a nudge from Inzashu-N’shula abetted by a fretful white Dragon, his fever broke that evening and the man sweated it all out, which was supposed to be good news for Humans. Not so good for one with nostrils as sensitive as a Dragon’s.

  The range of Human whiff and pong was truly astounding.

  Like a Dragon with bad digestion, he teased Azania. That could be impressive, too.

  Before they departed, a few jobs. One was for his Princess to weep copiously over her little sister’s understandable desertion, as she put it. Yuali and Inzashu planned to join the army which Amboraine had already begun to muster with the help of the surrounding kingdoms, and eventually to make her way down to T’nagru, if Dragon and Azania did not catch up with her first. The second job was a special request from a grateful king.

  “You wouldn’t mind awfully if I asked you to pay a visit to Lord Varlan on the way north?” he asked, propped up on his cushions. Dragon peered in through the window. “A strong force is on its way there as we speak, but besides his annoyance value, Varlan has a highly secure castle with not less than three outer gates. It has withstood every siege in two hundred years.”

  “Interesting,” Dragon purred. “Do my nostrils detect a whiff of honourable pillaging in the air?”

  Harilan chuckled weakly, his bearded face breaking into a grin. His daughter often had the same expression, and they shared the same hardy, not-fainting heritage so absent in the rest of their kingdom.

  He said, “Honourable pillaging? Music to this ruler’s ear. To wit: my knights should be most grateful if Varlan’s gates could be reduced to a state of not working or rubble, whichever works best, before their arrival day after tomorrow. They will do the rest.”

  Mmm, Dragon agreed, rubbing his keel bone as the heat blossomed immediately.

  “Listen to him,” Azania smiled.

  “That low roaring –”

  “That’s the sound of Dragon fires rising, my King. I think you just made my Dragon’s day.”

  Chapter 15: Honourable Pillaging

  ONE LESS IN NUMBER, they took their leave of Amboraine the very next morning. Many hugs. Even one for Chalice, who graciously received the Human touch, despite that Dragon was convinced he smelled deep consternation. Ah well, one did not change a Dragon’s scales overnight.

  For every rule, an exception.

  He peered at himself. How peculiar to have shucked one set of scales for another, almost like a Princess changing her clothes. Silver scabs from all the arrow wounds spotted his new scaly robes. Even his wings were now turning properly white on the surfaces, but the rich brown-and-gold patterning remained … engrained, he supposed, in many places. Azania said he looked most fetching and unique. Dragon agonised over what Aria would think. As if it mattered. She would be mated with another. What could he do to change this fate? Nothing.

  He hugged Inzashu. “Now behave yourself, young lady, and don’t stir up any more trouble than your sister would.”

  “Thanks for everything, Dragon,” she said. “We’ll fly together again, won’t we?”

  “Absolutely. Just as soon as I find you the right boy Dragon so that you can boss him around and tell him what to do.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “Nasty little liar,” he growled, pretending to swat her behind.

  “Dragon, Aria will be yours, you’ll see.”

  She had the strangest way about her, sometimes. The air of a Mage, some called it. Was this a childish faith that life always served up good outcomes and happy endings to tales, or something more? Could her unique gifts encompass foresight?

  This fearful hope lurked uppermost in his mind as they winged out over the endless forests of Amboraine. The drizzle began within ten minutes of their departure. Naturally.

  Seizing her opportunity, Yarimda set about teaching them a fifteen-verse song that claimed to describe every important detail of the culture of her native Kingdom of Hamirythe. He learned about a boy whose nose was pinched off by a crab, how to make a seaweed trumpet, the belief in a type of mermaid called a sea siren that lured sailors off to a terrible fate, and the custom of ‘skulling,’ which involved displaying the preserved skulls of one’s deceased relatives upon the mantelpiece. This last one was even true. One commonly dug up one’s relatives seven years after the burial, she informed them.

  Yardi shuddered. “A nation of grave robbers?”

  “Isn’t it marvellous to understand one’s heritage?” the old lady tittered.

  “Rattle those family skeletons,” Azania said.

  With an unimpressed hiss, Chalice said, “That one would even touch the bones of one’s ancestors is unthinkable.”

  “I have to agree,” Yarimda said. “People believe it’s a way of honouring the ancestors, but I always found it macabre to be eating dinner with the toothy grin and hollow eye sockets of Great-Aunt so-and-so staring down at me. Let the dead lie in peace, say I.”

  Too true. It was rumoured that the Talon Clan lined their lairs with the bones of their ancestors.

  Flying two three-hour stints, they reached the location carefully shared with them by the King’s cartographer; a short, deep ravine that abutted a huge mountainous o
utcropping locally called ‘The Anvil’ for its flat top. Beyond, they would find the Rillimis River, effectively the northern border of the realm of Amboraine. Lord Varlan’s impregnable castle lay nestled within this ravine.

  Landing carefully out of sight, Dragon and Chalice searched for and located a well-concealed campsite where they might wait for nightfall. Training with her, he passed on a few lessons which Juggernaut had taught him, and learned a new vertical tail whip technique in return. He recalled seeing Aria doing this one, a particular undulation of the hindquarters that generated considerable centrifugal force. Naturally, the slightest inclination of his thoughts toward the lethal whipping action of certain hindquarters, notably those of cobalt colouration, instantly wrecked his concentration.

  Occupational hazard.

  Nightfall came early and drizzly. Exactly what the wicked Dragon had ordered off the menu.

  “I’m going with you,” Yardi stated, when asked.

  “Why?” Dragon said.

  “Someone has to get inside the gatehouses and spike the mechanisms of the portcullises. That’s my job. I’m a blacksmith and armourer. Me and gears …” She flexed her shoulders meaningfully, and when that did not change his expression, patted the large hammer he noticed had made its way into her equipment. “My job isn’t all about shaping and crafting, Dragon. Sometimes, a good old-fashioned round of demolition is called for.”

  He displayed twenty fangs. “Have I told you how much I like your attitude? So refreshing. Plus, I see our wardrobe has also undergone a little modification – do I spy actual trousers?”

  “If a Princess can flaunt it, so can I. These are utilitarian, hard-wearing and surprisingly comfortable.”

  A blush belied her words, however.

  “Kingdoms have toppled over less,” Yarimda put in dryly.

  “You approved, grandmother.”

  “It’s all the rage in man-snatching equipment, my dear. Lockable metal cages, wild panthers and snug trousers are all a girl needs –”

  “Grandmother! You are positively wicked.”

  “Oh, live a little. Now, you children run along and play with the nice castle.”

  “The previously unconquerable –”

  Yarimda quelled Dragon with a look. “I am speaking, young fire breather! I plan to relax right here. I’ve a fire and this lovely wineskin of red someone appears to have snuck into my belongings. Fresh from the King’s personal cellar, I believe. Can’t imagine how it might have got there.” Chuckling at her granddaughter’s scandalised expression, she added, “I asked, of course. King Harilan wanted to give me a gift, but I don’t need anything, not where I’m going. I suggested a suitable vintage might ease the chill of these damp Amboraine nights. Young Harilan has commendable taste, I must confess.”

  Yardi folded her arms. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

  “Not in ninety-four years.”

  “You’re an inspiration.”

  “Are you lot still here? I was planning to enjoy the peace and quiet, at least until the screams, crashing and burning begin.”

  “How’s about we go plan our pillaging?” Dragon said heartily.

  “What an excellent idea,” Yarimda grumbled. “Have fun.”

  Armed and dangerous, they took a slightly roundabout route, flying a mile to the south before scaling the heights and doubling back. Shortly, they knelt or perched upon the lip of the ravine, gazing down at the lamps and fires flickering in the darkness.

  “Anyone can see why he chose this spot,” Chalice growled. “So, those will be the outer fortifications, the middle wall is here beneath us, and there’s one last set beside the castle itself, I make it. Those look … challenging.”

  “Aye, but the middle gates could be dealt with from the inside – nothing too scary there,” Yardi commented. “Big crossbar, big Dragon.”

  “You speak my language,” he purred.

  “What if we attack the outer and inner walls simultaneously?” Azania suggested. “Dragon on the outer gates and us three girls see if we can sneak in and deal with the inner ones? Can’t imagine they would shut the portcullis as a matter of course. Not unless directly threatened.”

  Chalice narrowed her eyes. “I see guards on both sides of the battlements plus movement at ground level.”

  “Aye. They’re on the alert, as expected,” the Princess agreed. “Shall we do this?”

  Yardi said, “If they get the drop on you, Dragon, don’t go bend that portcullis, alright? It’ll be easier for us to raise it again and then smash the mechanism. Otherwise, you’d have to dismantle that entire wall to get the King’s men through.”

  “Understood.”

  That would require more than a dint of muscular flexing.

  Chalice said, “The mechanism is probably worked from that little room on this near side of the ravine – see the light? Flame that, and nobody should be dropping anything anywhere.”

  “Good luck, Dragon,” Azania said as they clasped paws and hands.

  “May you soar, Princess. Chalice. Yardi,” he growled. “Be safe, be strong and be smart.”

  As they snuck away, he heard Yardi whisper, “Is he always that protective of you, Princess? I never imagined such sweetness from a Dragon.”

  “Aye, he’s all the rage,” she joked back. “But never call a Dragon –”

  Their voices faded.

  Grrr! Just the commentary to warm up his fires.

  A bright white fright sneaking through the night, he padded up and over a small ridge, angling for the outer gate. His senses reached out – oh! He noticed a guard station right up here. Cunning, now that he thought about it. He had approached within ten yards before he realised what he was seeing.

  Taking glance back over his shoulder, he spied Chalice’s signal; a brief flare of orange jetted out between her fangs. He made a slow count of two hundred to allow the girls – har-har-haaarrgghhh, the Dragoness’ sour expression at being called ‘one of the girls’ – to get into position. No chance of seeing them from here. Was he truly protective? Overprotective? Maybe, but his theoretically captive Princess had been there for him when all he wanted to do with his life was to throw himself off a cliff and never open his wings. He owed her everything. She might say the same, considering the circumstances from which he had rescued her.

  How could he ever give this girl to another?

  That King Azerim had better be the best, noblest, brightest, worthiest, most honourable – he laughed at himself, and reeled off a list as long as his tail. He had better be all of those things, and stupidly handsome and completely besotted with his Azania besides, or he would gut him like a fish!

  On the count of one hundred and sixty-three, a soldier emerged from the door, untying the laces of his trousers. “Nature calls,” he called back inside. “No looking at my cards.”

  Dragon froze. Icicle. I am the night.

  Singing an inane little ditty, the fellow proceeded to relieve himself at surprising length, making sounds of grotesque satisfaction all the while. Then he turned, and looked directly at the fifty-three-foot monstrosity lurking behind him.

  He smiled courteously. “Greetings.”

  Unfortunately, this man was a screamer rather than a fainter.

  Clearly a detriment to his kingdom, Dragon decided, removing his talon from the man’s chest. Not screaming any longer, was he? Darting over to the guard post, he smashed down the door and scrabbled about inside, crunching several men up together with a table and a bed, perhaps. He flapped his paw back and forth until nothing moved or squawked in there anymore.

  Time for this Dragon to shift his tail.

  Over the edge he dived, angling for the glint of light Chalice had pointed out. His lips pursed. Despite the blurriness, he took aim and filled that spot with his fire. There. Nobody left to operate the portcullis. On to the outer entryway, which needed a gentle, loving sort of tap. As he landed, Dragon darted into the wide tunnel that led to the outer gate, a thick timber arrangement that
lifted like a drawbridge from above a deep moat. He struck it with his shoulder, rattling the mechanisms so powerfully that he heard stone falling off the battlements. A little aged, perhaps? Kick! Kick! Nothing but a good rattle. Might have to burn through the chains and ratchet system, if he could.

  Dragon backed up, preparing himself for another charge, when he heard a loud squeal right above his back. By his wings, the portcullis!

  Must have flamed the wrong room.

  Fright lent his paws wings. From a coiled position, he launched into an all-out charge. The metal tips of the portcullis smashed down upon his tail, but he wrenched through and hit the massive timbers of the outer door so hard, splinters exploded from the ratchets at its base and the chains at the top.

  It fell outward slowly. Graboom!

  Perfect path into the castle. If the defenders had not been awake before, they certainly were now.

  Faint cries sounded from further away.

  Swarming up to the top of the battlement, he punched, flamed and tail-slapped the gate guard out of his way, clearing the area. Where was the gatehouse that controlled the portcullis mechanism? There. Opposite side from what Chalice had – no, he had hit the wrong room, as suspected. Foolish mistake!

  Gnashing his fangs, he did the necessary.

  No reaching inside there. The window was too narrow and the stairway too long for his paw. He’d leave this job for Yardi. Whirling, Dragon raked the deep darkness at the bottom of the gulley with his gaze. Night sight was no problem for the Dragonkind, but his ability to focus was doing its absolute worst. He nearly missed a soldier almost beneath his paws. A sword pierced his gut.

  GNARRR!!

  Thump. Dragon dropped the body in the stream which ran alongside the paved road leading to the second gate. No more men here.

  Beyond the second battlement, he heard Chalice’s roar and the clash of steel upon steel. Were the girls in trouble? One way to find out – charge!