Dragons of Krad

by Jackie French Koller

  “Tell me who you are,” she commanded.

  “Darek,” Darek mumbled. The woman’s face wavered and swam before his eyes.

  “Darek who?” the crone asked.

  Darek searched inside his head for an answer, but his mind was nothing but a vast, empty cave. “I . . . don’t know.”

  The woman smiled. “You are Darek of Krad,” she told him, “prisoner to the Kingdom of Zahr. From your past life, you will remember only the things that are of use to us here. Go now with Org, and do as you are commanded.”

  5

  DAREK FOLLOWED ORG THROUGH NARROW, twisted, foul-smelling streets. Kraden children hissed and spat at him. Women leaned out of the doorways and called him names like “dragon-wit” and “fang-breath.” It was a relief to reach the pastures at the far side of town at last. Vast numbers of dragons grazed there, but not the Red Fangs. They were kept in their cage on the outskirts of the village. Darek recognized some of the dragons—Green Horned, Yellow Crested, and Purple Spotted. Others were new to him.

  “You’ll know all there is to know of dragons before long,” Org told him.

  Darek was not unhappy at this prospect. The dragons were far more pleasant, it seemed, than the people of Krad. But why were the great creatures content to stay among such men?

  “Why don’t the dragons just fly away?” he asked Org.

  “They can’t,” Org told him. “We bind their wings when they’re young, until their flight muscles wither. You’ll see soon enough. Come. Might as well get you started.”

  Darek followed Org into a long, low building. It was a combination stable and nursery for the dragons, as well as a dormitory for the prisoners who tended them. A number of prisoners were hard at work mucking out the dragon stalls. They looked up when Darek and Org came in. Darek felt an immediate kinship with them. The prisoners were not large and furry like the Kradens. They looked much like Darek and seemed close to him in age too. The prisoners paused and stared as Darek and Org passed, but the crack of an overseer’s whip quickly returned them to their duties.

  “Got a new one for you, Daxon,” Org said, pushing Darek toward another Kraden.

  The man named Daxon seemed pleased. “Three in a fortnight,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “To what do we owe this good fortune?”

  Org shrugged. “Word must be spreading about the pleasures of life here in Krad.”

  Daxon roared with laughter over this joke.

  Org grabbed Darek by the collar and shoved him in front of Daxon. “Bow,” he said, pushing Darek to his knees. “Daxon is master of the stockyards, your master now too. You will call him ‘master’ when you speak to him, and you will obey his orders without question.” Then he let Darek go and turned to face Daxon.

  “His name is Darek,” he said. “Jazee probed his thoughts. She says he should be a natural with dragons. Rebellious by nature, though, so don’t spare the whip.”

  Daxon laughed. “When have you ever known me to spare the whip, my friend?” He looked down at Darek, pulling at the fur on his chin. “Rebellious, huh?” he said slowly. “Well, we’ll just have to see to it that you’re too tired to rebel, won’t we?” Daxon looked over toward the other prisoners. “Pola!” he shouted. “Come here!”

  One of the prisoners dropped his rake and hurried over. Darek couldn’t help noticing how thin and tired the boy looked. His hands were all raw and blistered. The prisoner bowed to Daxon.

  “Yes, Master?” he said.

  “Take this new prisoner, and teach him everything you’ve learned. Start in the nursery. No supper for either of you until the pens are cleaned, the dragonlings fed, and the newborns wing-bound.”

  Pola’s face fell. “Yes, Master,” he whispered, bowing again. Then to Darek he said, “Follow me.”

  Darek rose to follow, but suddenly Daxon’s hand flew out and boxed his ear. “Bow!” he thundered.

  Darek quickly dipped his head. “Yes, Master,” he mumbled.

  “That’s better,” Daxon said. “Never enter or leave my presence without bowing!”

  Darek bowed once more, just to be safe, then turned and silently followed Pola.

  6

  A MILLION QUESTIONS RACED THROUGH Darek’s mind as he followed Pola along the corridor to the nursery. He hoped he and this prisoner boy would have a chance to talk privately. Maybe Pola could help him understand what was happening to him.

  “Here,” Pola said. He took a rake down from a hook on the wall and handed it to Darek. Then he pushed a door open and motioned Darek through.

  The air inside was warm and damp and filled with the chirpings and callings of young dragons. Darek couldn’t help smiling at the colorful creatures tumbling and playing on the nursery floor. He noticed a little cluster of Blues huddled together, sleeping, on the far side of the room. His smile broadened. They were so beautiful, even as babies. But the bandages wound tightly around their silvery wings saddened Darek.

  “How long do they have to wear those things?” he asked.

  “Half an anum,” Pola said tiredly. “Until their wing muscles shrink beyond repair.”

  “Why don’t the Kradens want them to fly?” Darek asked.

  “They’re easier to manage this way,” Pola said.

  “Who are these Kradens?” Darek began. “And why—”

  “Look,” Pola interrupted. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us if we want to eat.”

  Just then, Darek heard a commotion. He looked and saw that one of the little Blues had awakened. It was struggling to make its way through the maze of other dragons toward Darek and Pola.

  “Thrummm!” Darek could hear it singing as it got closer. “Thrummm, thrummm, thrummm.” Darek could have sworn its big green eyes were looking right at him.

  Pola frowned. “That dratted Blue,” he said. “Too darn friendly for its own good.”

  The Blue dragon kept making little hops in a sad attempt to fly. But that, of course, was impossible. At last, it hurled itself through the air and smacked with a thud into Darek’s chest. Both of them tumbled to the ground.

  “Thrummm,” the dragonling sang. “Thrummm, thrummm, thrummm.” Then thwip, thwip! Out flicked its forked tongue, covering Darek with tickly kisses.

  Darek twisted and rolled, laughing until his stomach hurt.

  “Stop it! Hey!” he begged. “What’s wrong with you, you silly thing?” He finally managed to push the beast off and get back to his feet. Still, the creature kept dancing around him, butting him and nuzzling his chest.

  “He seems to want something in your jerkin pocket,” Pola said.

  “There isn’t anything in my pocket,” Darek said. He put his arms up to fend off another nuzzle.

  “He sure seems to think there is,” Pola said.

  “Well, there isn’t,” Darek insisted. But he felt his pocket just to be sure.

  There was something there. Darek reached in and pulled out several hard, white lumps.

  “Thrummm,” sang the little dragon. It gobbled the lumps before Darek even got a good look at them.

  “What were they?” Pola asked.

  “I don’t know,” Darek said. “But he sure seemed to know. I wonder how?”

  Pola shrugged. “Smell?”

  Darek shook his head. “Dragons don’t have much sense of smell.”

  The little dragon nuzzled Darek’s pocket once more. “Sorry, pal,” Darek said with a laugh. “I don’t have any more.” He rubbed the budding horns on the dragon’s head.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Pola warned.

  “Do what?” Darek asked.

  “Get too friendly with him. It’ll just make it harder in the end.”

  “In the end?” Darek repeated. “What do you mean?”

  “When they feed him to the Red Fangs,” Pola said.

  Darek’s breath caught in his throat. “What?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “Didn’t they tell you?” Pola asked quietly. “That’s what they raise them for.”

  7


  DAREK AND POLA SAT STARING at the empty table in front of them. Darek’s stomach was hollow and aching, and his blistered hands stung. He and Pola hadn’t finished their chores fast enough to suit Daxon.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t faster,” Darek said. “This is my fault.”

  Pola waved his words away. “I didn’t finish in time my first day, either,” he said. “You’ll be faster tomorrow.”

  And Darek would, he vowed, if it killed him. Pola would not have to go hungry another day on his account.

  “Wench! More slog!” Daxon yelled from a nearby table.

  A young girl, around Darek’s age, made her way among the tables. She was balancing a heavy tray of foaming mugs.

  “Faster!” Daxon bellowed.

  “I’m moving as fast as I can!” the girl snapped. She reached Daxon and banged a mug down in front of him. Flecks of foam splashed up into his face. Daxon grabbed her wrist and glared into her eyes. She glared back. Darek held his breath, wondering what would happen next.

  Daxon began to laugh. “Spirit!” he said, releasing her wrist. “I like a wench with spirit. Too bad you Zorians are so ugly.”

  The girl whirled and stomped away, and Daxon and his friends had another laugh.

  Ugly? Darek thought. He saw nothing ugly about the girl. He thought her quite beautiful, in fact. And he also admired her spirit.

  “What is a Zorian?” he asked Pola.

  “We are Zorians,” Pola said. “At least, that’s what the Kradens call us.”

  “Are all . . .”

  “No more questions.” Pola put a finger to his lips and nodded toward Daxon, who was eyeing them suspiciously. “We are forbidden to speak of anything but our work.”

  * * *

  Darek’s tiny cell of a room was cold and dark. The walls were rough gray stone, and there was one small barred window. He shivered as he lay on his pallet, a threadbare blanket clutched tightly around him. His body was exhausted, but his mind was even more tired. All day, he’d been straining to remember who he was, where he had come from. But the effort had given him nothing more than a pounding headache.

  Darek’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a soft scraping noise. He sat up, clutching his blanket close.

  One of the large stones in the wall near the floor was moving!

  As Darek watched, the stone slid slowly into the room, and a face appeared. A body followed the face, and then another. Soon four boys and two girls had crawled into the room. Pola was among them, and so was the girl who had spilled slog on Daxon.

  The boy who had been first to appear pressed a finger to his lips in warning. “I am Arnod,” he whispered. “We come in friendship.”

  “What if they find you here?” Darek asked.

  Arnod snorted softly. “They’ll feed us all to the Red Fangs,” he said.

  Darek’s eyes widened, but Arnod waved his worries away. “They won’t find us,” he said. “Daxon and his men drink themselves into a stupor every night. They have no knowledge of our meetings.”

  One of the girls smiled. “They think us simpleminded fools,” she added. “It suits our purpose to let them believe that.”

  Darek nodded his understanding, and the prisoners sat down cross-legged around his pallet. They told him their names, and the one named Arnod leaned forward.

  “You and Rowena are new,” Arnod said, nodding toward the girl who had spilled the slog. “And Pola arrived just last week. There must be a connection. What can you tell us of who you are or how you came here?”

  Darek sighed and slowly shook his head. “I remember nothing,” he whispered.

  “Nor I,” Rowena added.

  The faces of Arnod and the others fell.

  “I’m sorry,” Darek said.

  “It’s all right,” Arnod said. “It was the same with Pola. It has always been the same. We were hoping you might be from Zoriak. But we aren’t even sure such a place exists anymore. . . .”

  “Zoriak?” Darek repeated. “What is Zoriak?”

  Arnod sighed. “It is a long story. Our legends tell us that this valley was once called Zor. It was peaceful and beautiful then, and the mountains that ringed it were green and full of life. Only Zorians lived here.”

  “What happened?” Rowena asked.

  “The Kradens came, from Beyond. They were bigger and stronger. They conquered most of us and made us prisoners, but a few Zorians escaped over the mountains. In the Long Ago, some of them would come back and try to help us escape too. They talked of a land they had named Zoriak, which means ‘New Zor.’ They said we could live there in freedom. But few of those escapes succeeded, and then the mountains died. Those who came after that, like you, knew nothing of Zoriak.”

  “How did the mountains die?” Darek asked.

  “The dragonsbreath,” Arnod explained. “For some reason, it clings to the mountain peaks, killing everything.”

  “If the Red Fangs are the cause of the dragonsbreath,” Rowena said, “why do the Kradens breed them?”

  “They love blood sport,” Arnod said. “They compete to raise the biggest and fiercest dragons. Then they pit them against one another and wager on the outcomes. The Kradens use them in battle too. King Zahr is at war with his brother, Rebbe, whose kingdom lies south of the Great Plain of Krad.”

  Darek’s eyes widened. “King Zahr makes war against his own brother?”

  “Yes.” Arnod nodded. “They had a falling-out long ago over a prize Red Fang. They have been at war ever since.”

  “This Zoriak,” said Rowena. “Has anyone ever gone in search of it?”

  Arnod shook his head. “No. The Kradens have no interest in the place. Besides, they cannot tolerate the dragonsbreath in the mountains. It is poison to them in such density. Zorians tolerate it better, but it addles their brains.”

  It was all too much. Darek’s head was growing heavy from the talk. He was even starting to hear strange sounds, like dragon whimpers, in his ears. He caught Rowena’s eye and saw that she looked as tired and confused as he.

  Pola reached out and clapped them each on the arm. “Enough talk for one night, friends,” he said. “We will speak of these things again soon. For now, you must sleep.”

  8

  THE NEXT DAY, DAREK WORKED at a furious pace. He refused to give in to his hunger or fatigue, refused to pay heed to his swollen hands or aching back. There would be dinner tonight, he was sure. He was keeping right up with Pola, despite the annoying little Blue. The dragonling still kept butting him playfully and darting in to give him quick licks on the cheek.

  “Go away!” Darek shouted repeatedly. At times, he gave the little beast a gentle shove or raised his arm to block its advances.

  “Rrronk,” the little creature would whimper. Darek had no intention of encouraging it in any way, though. He had enough to worry about without getting attached to a Red Fang’s dinner.

  “Persistent, isn’t he?” Pola remarked.

  “Yes.” Darek frowned. “Why doesn’t he bother you? Why is it just me?”

  Pola shrugged. “He used to hang around me, until you arrived. But he was nowhere near as affectionate with me. It’s almost like he knows you.”

  Darek felt a little prickle run up his spine. He stared at the dragon. “Maybe he does,” he said softly. “Remember that pocket business yesterday?”

  Pola paused in his work and gave Darek a long, thoughtful look. He glanced over his shoulder to see if Daxon or any of his men were around, then moved closer.

  “It’s curious,” he said. “The other prisoners say that the Blues arrived the same day I did. They’ve been wondering where they came from. There haven’t been any Blues here in the stockyard for many years. The Kradens don’t usually raise them, because they’re so large and fierce. The Red Fangs have a hard time killing them.”

  A door opened, and Darek turned to see the girl Rowena come in with a broom. She walked by, sweeping.

  “Thrummm!” Darek sang out. The next thing he knew, he was da
ncing around the girl, butting her with his head.

  “What are you doing?” she cried. She whacked at him with her broom.

  “Thrummm, thrummm,” Darek sang. And then the little Blue was there, dancing and thrumming, too. Round and round the girl they both frolicked.

  “Enough!” a voice boomed.

  A whip lashed out and stung Darek with a blow on the back. Stunned, he found himself hoisted up, dangling in front of Daxon’s eyes.

  “What kind of foolishness is this?” the Master roared.

  Darek shook his head hard.

  “Um—I—I don’t know,” he stammered. “Something came over me. I’m sorry.”

  “You’ll be sorry, all right,” the Master said, “when you don’t eat again tonight! Pola, tether that dragon in the pen. Wench! Back to the kitchen with you!”

  Darek looked at the sad little dragon as Pola led it away. For an instant, something seemed to pass between them. It was too fast-moving, too vague to capture, but it felt strangely like a memory.

  * * *

  Darek felt himself blushing when the prisoners filed into his room that night. How could he explain his silly actions to Rowena?

  “I’m sorry about today,” he began.

  “No need.” Rowena gave him a strange look. “I understand.”

  “You do?”

  She nodded. “I think so.”

  “Understand what?” Arnod asked.

  Darek turned to him. “I think one of the Blue dragons might hold the key to who we are,” he whispered. “I’ve got to find a way to spend more time with him.”

  “But how could a dragon help us?” Arnod asked.

  “I don’t know,” Darek said. “I just think he can.”

  “Yes.” Rowena nodded. “Darek’s right. I feel it too.”

  Arnod shrugged. “It won’t be easy to arrange,” he said. “And there may not be much time left.”