Night of the Dragons

by Miranda Martin

  I scrunch up my face, shielding my eyes from the sun and coming to a stop as I stare harder. But they keep coming closer, confirming my suspicion that they're also walking. Though walking describes what they're doing about as well as it does what I've been doing for however long I've been out here. They're almost gliding across the sand even though their feet touch it, their wings spread out. Like they're using them to skim across the dunes rather than walk, preventing their feet from sinking like mine are each time I take a step.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and rub at them roughly. Maybe I'm at the point of hallucinations. It wouldn't surprise me. The heat, the lack of food and water. If I had a Scotty, I'd definitely be telling him to beam me up right about now.

  I open my eyes again, narrowing them to focus in front of me. Hmm. Still there. And bigger and clearer now. I tilt my head back to take them in as they draw closer. They're huge. I can't think of another word to describe them more accurately than that.

  I don't think it's just because I'm short, which I am. I long ago made peace with the fact that I would never be taller than my five-foot frame. Petite is just my lot in life. So everyone is basically taller than me. This is definitely more than that average height difference I've encountered. They're so heavily muscled they look like some of the action heroes I've seen in movies. Or even bigger than that, actually.

  They look like they might make the Terminator think twice before going head-to-head with them. Now that they're closer, I can also see details I didn't notice before. On top of the wings and the tails, they also have scales that gleam prettily in the sunlight, a subtle pattern of them surrounding the edges of their faces, expanding as they go back. The skin around the scales is a light brown that doesn't look at all affected by the burning rays of the two suns. That instantly makes me envious. I'm sure I match my surroundings in color at this point.

  All right.

  Okay.

  Dragon-men.

  I'm on an alien planet, so why wouldn't there be hot-ass dragon-men wearing only kilt-like cloths wrapped around their slim hips, revealing their rippling muscles with weapons strapped to them? If this is a dream, I'm kind of embarrassed about what I've come up with.

  The sun glints off the curved blades adorning the ends of the long staffs each of them holds in one hand. I can tell they're sharp. Very sharp. I swallow as I look back up from the blades to see them almost upon me.

  I can see their eyes now. One of them has the most gorgeous emerald eyes, matching his green-and-yellow scales. The other has full-on violet eyes, matching the variegated purple scales on his body. Only, their pupils aren't round. They're slits. Like lizards. Or dragons, if dragons existed. Both of their handsome faces are framed with long, dark hair, with partially hidden . . . are those horns? They look like they run along either side of their heads, though I can't see how far back they go from the front.

  I can also see now that their kilts are made of a mesh-like breathable material that actually looks much more appropriate for this heat than my suit is. Another reason to feel kind of envious.

  They stop just in front of me, towering over me. Towering is definitely what they're doing, though I don't think it's on purpose. I don't know if they could be anywhere in my vicinity without making me feel tiny. Though I don't mind that they're blocking the searing suns while they stand there, leaving me in welcome shade.

  Even as I stare at them quietly, I know for a fact I should be more scared than I am. I'm already swaying on my feet, and I can't bring myself to care. I'm punch-drunk. They're already talking to each other in deep voices, their accents almost hissing. Which I guess makes sense, being part dragon and all. Hey, if they have a language, maybe I can communicate with them! Couldn't hurt to try.

  "Hi?" I try in Galactic Common. They stare at me blankly, glancing at each other for a moment before looking back at me, uncomprehending. "Uh...do you speak Common?" I try again, though I'm pretty sure I have my answer.

  They look back at me and say something I don’t understand. Perfect. A language barrier is all I need right now. I try again.

  "Have you seen any more of me?" I try, pointing at myself, and pretending to look around in an exaggerated way, feeling like a complete idiot. A mime I was not. I'm greeted with more blank stares. Great.

  "Crashed ship?" I try, holding my hand up flat, palm down, and swing it through the air like a ship. Then I make a crashing sound as I show it swooping down and hitting the sand. Okay, that was a stellar performance. I look up from my crouched position to see them giving me even odder looks.

  "Everyone's a critic," I mutter as I straighten up again.

  Then they decide to give it a try. I stare intently at their gestures as I listen to the sounds coming out of their mouths. I'm trying really hard to make some sense of the two. And I got nothing. I have exactly zero idea what they're trying to tell me. I think my equally blank look is easy for them to read. Their tones become more and more frustrated as everything they try doesn't work.

  The green-and-yellow one turns to the purple one and throws his hands up into the air, saying words that probably mean something like 'The girl is an idiot.'

  Okay, I'm not sure. But the tone does lend itself to that conclusion. I cross my arms. Same to you, buddy.

  The violet one nods and steps forward abruptly.

  Wait, what—?

  His arms slide around me, and suddenly I'm being lifted up, right against his muscled chest. It's really high off the ground. I stiffen at the unexpected move, but I'm immediately distracted by how cool he is to the touch. I slide my hand down that hard chest, reveling in the temperature difference. Oh, that's nice. And the muscles aren't bad either, if I'm honest.

  Maybe I should be more cautious, but he feels so good. I slide my hands up to wrap them around his neck and rest my hot cheek against his chest, the relief from the heat and from having to hold my body up making me almost giddy.

  Probably I should be more worried about their motives, but it isn't like I can fight them off anyway. They're so much bigger and stronger it wouldn't really even be a fight. May as well enjoy the break and deal with whatever comes next when it comes.

  I hear a snarl from behind me, and then new arms are wrapping around me and ripping me away from the violet dragon-man.

  Whoa.

  I look up as the yellow-and-green one snarls, clutching me to his chest possessively. Startled, I stiffen again, but I'm so tired, and he's just as hard, cool, and muscled as the other one, feeling sturdy against my body. Sturdy and strong. I settle in against him, closing my eyes. I'm just going to let myself rest for a bit, if they'll let me.

  I feel my transportation start to walk away without another issue between the two of them. Good. I need a rest, damn it, and I'm taking it.

  I have no idea where they're headed with me but I can't summon the energy to care too much right now.

  3

  I stay close to the coolness of their chests. It helps counteract the glaring heat of the suns. Being carried isn't terrible either. I'm not falling anymore or pushing my body past its breaking point, which I'm pretty sure I reached before I even left the remains of the ship. All in all, I know the dragon-men have greatly increased my chances of survival.

  On the other hand, I still have no idea what their intentions are, so I might be celebrating prematurely. But I don't want to think too hard and ruin the first glimmer of hope I've been given since I woke up. So I relax and slowly recover a bit of my energy while they carry me across the desert wasteland, gliding along the sand with their iridescent, membranous wings spread.

  I check back in as the green one growls again and holds his arms out to the violet one holding me. I can feel the violet one hesitating, but he hands me over without a struggle. They're taking turns carrying me, but it seems like the fight is more over who gets to carry me than who has to. I guess I'm not much of a burden if you have muscles stacked on top of muscles.

  We stop after traveling for a relatively short time, though I'm su
re we've gone much farther than I did traveling for much longer. The view hasn't changed at all, though. Still just red sand and more red sand. The green one carefully sets me down in the sand before they both lower themselves as well, staying close to me. Then they offer me what looks like a container made of some kind of animal skin.

  "Water?" I ask as I hold my hand out.

  They seem to readily understand the general idea of my question, though maybe not the specifics. The violet one pulls the bag back to himself and then takes a sip, watching me to make sure I understand that the bag is to drink from. Then he hands it over to me, his face patient, expectant. At this point, I don't care what's in that damn waterskin. So long as it's wet, I'll take it.

  Taking a firm grip on the smooth bag, I bring it to my mouth right away, hoping it isn't something disgusting. I don't want to offend them if I spit it out. That would really look ungrateful. Bracing myself, I take a careful sip.

  Cool, refreshing water trickles into my mouth and down my throat. I almost cry as the parched tissues immediately absorb the moisture. I force myself to sip carefully, even though what I really want to do is guzzle the whole thing. But I know the last thing I need right now is to throw up this precious water, wasting it and making myself weaker to boot.

  They watch as I take my cautious sips, waiting until I lower the skin. Then the green one reaches into his pack and hands me a piece of what looks like jerky. I don't know what kind of animal they killed for that skin or that jerky, but my stomach feels even emptier after having the water. I need the food.

  "Thank you," I murmur, as I take the meat, bringing it up to my nose and sniffing at it. It smells . . . different. Definitely different.

  The green one takes a cue from his friend and takes a bite of the piece he's holding, watching me as he chews, obviously urging me to take a bite as well.

  All right then. It isn't like I have a choice. I need food and this is what they've got. I take a deep breath and take a small bite of the slightly tough, chewy piece. Oh, wow. My eyes widen as I meet green eyes. The flavor bursts over my palate, the eye-watering, spicy meat slapping me awake almost more than the water had. That stuff is potent!

  The green one chuckles a little—probably a reaction to my face upon eating that piece of meat—and the violet one says something quietly to him, his tone more serious, though I can see his eyes dancing with amusement as well.

  I feel better already, even just from that one bite. I look up at them as I take another bite, my jaw muscles working to break it down. They're watching me discreetly, talking to each other in low voices. Maybe they don't want me to feel self-conscious while I eat. That's almost . . . sweet.

  As I watch them, I also realize that it might be time to give them names. I can’t keep referring to them as the green one and the purple one. It's clunky and also feels a little, I don't know . . . racist? Alienist?

  I look at the one with the gorgeous green eyes. The color is clear and a true dark green that reminds me of emeralds. Not that I've ever seen any in the flesh, but I have seen plenty of stills and videos of the sparkling green gems. Emerald. I say the name in my head. It fits. Emerald it is then.

  I look over at the purple one next, taking in the depth of the violet in his scales. He isn't a lavender purple or a magenta purple, more of a . . . royal purple I would say. Royal purple. Royal. I like the sound of that. It doesn't just fit his coloring, it also feels like it fits his quiet, steady manner. I've only been around him a short time, but he holds himself in a way that I can imagine him as a leader. And since I'm the only one that's probably going to be using these names, my opinion is what counts most, doesn't it?

  Royal and Emerald. I wonder what they would think of the names if they understood.

  While I'm thinking, I keep working on the meat, my shrunken belly filling quickly. I didn't eat anything while I was in stasis either. Even that little bit of water and meat feels like it's expanding my stomach. I manage to finish the meat, and as soon as I do, both Emerald and Royal get to their feet. They were definitely keeping an eye on me, waiting on moving until I was finished. That was really thoughtful. Could aliens be called gentlemanly? Gentle-dragon-manly maybe?

  Royal comes to me, his arms reaching out to pick me up, but I hold up a hand to stop him.

  "I can walk," I protest, taking a step to show it's true. It isn't pretty, but it's much better than the ones I was taking right before they found me. It is a step.

  Royal isn't having it. He growls something that sounds really similar to the sound Emerald makes, the irritation and demand in it clear, even though it's just a sound. Then he simply swings me up in his arms, striding forward, along what I think is the same direction we've been traveling this whole time.

  I guess that's the end of that discussion.

  I sigh as I lean my head against his cool chest. Fine. Maybe I should put up more of a fight, at least for the principle of the thing. But they feel so nice, and it's way easier for them to move across the sand, with the way their wings give them just enough lift so they can glide rather than sink in with every step like I do. So I let it go and relax again with a mental shrug.

  Brienne of Tarth wouldn't just let herself be carried like this. Neither would Captain Phasma, most likely. But I was clearly no Gwendoline Christie—much to my dismay—though either of her kick-ass characters would have a hard time standing up to these guys. They'd probably just make her look petite and small too. I get an image of her in Emerald's arms, dressed in full armor, a pissed look on her face and have to hold back a snort of laughter as we keep moving.

  I'm held in either Royal's arms or Emerald's, their gliding strides eating up the distance to wherever it is that we're going. They seem tireless as we travel, not even out of breath. I wish I was that strong. Instead, with water and food in my stomach and Emerald's cool chest against me, I slowly start to drift off, my body shutting down. It seems to have decided I'm safe enough to get some shut-eye.

  Before I can, Emerald comes to an abrupt halt, saying something sharp to Royal. My eyes snap open at the unusual break in our pace.

  Emerald takes a step back.

  When I look up at his face, it's to see a tight expression. He's looking at something, his eyes grim. I feel like I'm in one of those old horror movies from Earth as I slowly turn my head around to look at what he's looking at, knowing I'm not going to like it.

  And nope.

  No, I don't.

  What the hell are those things?

  There’s a pack of . . . creatures arranged in a semicircle in front of us, their segmented legs jerking forward and back as they watch us with multiple, wet, glossy-looking dark eyes. They're about the size of large dogs, their bodies scorpion-like with hard carapaces, bulbous stinger-tails curling forward to point at us, and spider-legs sporting spikes that look like they could cause some serious damage even with a glancing blow.

  I stare in horror at the wet-looking, armor-like exoskeleton they have covering their bodies, those beady eyes, those legs. The stingers are already dripping viscous clear fluid that I'm pretty sure I want no part of. They look like they belong in an episode of Black Mirror, maybe in one of those simulation episodes.

  These are, by far, the most disgusting and hideous things I've ever seen in my life. There isn't even a contest. I can feel my skin crawling just looking at them.

  Royal and Emerald don't seem to be too fond of them either, though they don't look as surprised by their appearance as I do. I'm guessing they've encountered these things before. Emerald carefully lowers me to the ground, saying something to me in a firm voice, his eyes still on those things. I have no idea what the individual words mean. But as he turns around, stepping forward with Royal, I'm pretty sure he just told me to stay put. And I have no plans to do anything else. See again my previous observation that I am no Brienne of Tarth.

  I watch as they both raise their staffs as they glide towards the creatures, their movements wary. I hold my breath as the creatures don't give w
ay.

  I flinch as one of them skitters over, its tail stabbing forward past its head as it aims straight at Royal's head. But Royal isn't there, stepping to the side and using a two-handed grip to swing the staff and lop off the thing's head with one masterful stroke.

  I wrinkle my nose at the acrid dark fluid that gushes out from the stump remaining. I feel my tender stomach roil, but I keep down the water and the meat through a pure effort of will.

  As if the first creature’s death was some kind of cue, all at once the fight is in full swing. The other creatures make an odd clicking sound as they swarm Royal and Emerald, apparently not taking their friend's demise to heart—assuming they even have hearts. At least, they try to swarm the dragon-men. Royal and Emerald just aren't there for them to latch onto.

  The two of them spring back and forth, their blades glinting in the sunlight as they use their wings to jump high and fast. Their tails whip around, acting as another weapon while at the same time steadying their bodies as they move. I watch wide-eyed as they work in tandem, each of them having the other's back as they almost dance through the fight, each movement looking purposeful and fluid as they stab and hack at the things. I can see the strategy behind every move they make, their minds moving lightning fast as they adapt to all the moving parts of the situation.

  Dark fluid arcs through the air as tails and heads are lopped off, the sounds of angry clicking the only real noise as they continue to methodically kill each and every one, constantly moving so the creatures can't focus on them in one place. The two of them seem to have almost a psychic connection as they predict exactly what the other is going to do, never in each other's way. They've obviously worked together before, many times.

  They've been snarling at each other the whole time I've been around them, fighting over who gets to carry me—go figure, I don't understand it—but the way they work together tells me they're actually close. Very close. That kind of teamwork doesn't just happen. They've spent a lot of time building that kind of rapport, finding how they work best.