DW02 Dragon War

by Mark Acres

  He did not have to wait long for the sinuous form of Scratch to appear, slithering down the mountainside toward him. Lifefire followed behind.

  “You have brought food, as we agreed?” Scratch demanded.

  “See for yourself,” Bagsby replied proudly.

  “We shall feed,” the dragon said. “Give us the holy man’s powder.”

  Bagsby produced the small cloth bag, opened it, and asked, “How do you take this?”

  Lifefire reached out one of her tiny forearms and grasped the bag. She snaked her long wet tongue down into the small opening, coating it with the white powder. She held the pouch for Scratch, who did the same. Without another word, the dragons began beating their wings, building up speed with them, until they launched themselves into the night sky.

  Bagsby was relieved to see that they stayed low, soaring over the plain below. Soon, he saw several short bursts of flame drop from the darkness of the night onto the ground below. There were a few bellows and bleats, then more short bursts of flame. In all, though, their performance was very restrained. If any watchman along the city walls spotted the brief gouts of flame, he would be unlikely to send anyone to investigate. Bagsby trooped on back up the mountainside to the spot where they had camped the night before. No sounds came from the plain below.

  Bagsby shed his armor, checked his packed gear to make sure all was in readiness for the morning, and lay down, a flat rock serving him as a pillow. The dragons had explained to him that they would feed for some time, eating an immense amount of flesh, but that they would then be sated for a week or longer. So long as they were not seen, all would be well. Bagsby gazed up at the stars above, and his eyes drifted shut. Somewhere from the back of his memory, the face of Shulana drifted into his consciousness, and he felt a pang of loneliness as he sank into unconsciousness.

  The wind hit him suddenly with its full force. He awoke to the stinging of sand and dust in his nose and eyes and saw his heavy pack go flying off the mountainside, driven by the gale. He clutched the flat rock and tried to dig his toes into the earth; otherwise the force of the wind would blow his body along the depression in the mountainside like a dead weed across the desert. The roar of the rushing air was deafening, a hollow, deep, bass, roaring that pummeled his ears. It was as terrifying as the winds of the gods, which he had once seen called down upon Valdaimon’s wyvern-riding troops

  Then the fear struck him—sheer, dumb terror, unlike any he had ever felt before. It was blind, unreasoning fear; Bagsby didn’t even know why he was afraid, only that he was, that he would do anything to get away from that place and that time—anything except let go of the flat rock that anchored him. He did the only thing that animal instinct allowed him to do. He screamed. He screamed loudly, a high-pitched, terrified wail that was blown away by the winds as soon as it left his lungs and mouth, a scream of pure terror dissolved into the nothingness of the night. He screamed until his raw throat was swollen and he could scream no more.

  The wind ceased as suddenly as it had begun. There was silence, and then... then... as sober consciousness slowly returned to the little thief and the terror receded into the deep recesses of his mind from whence it had come, he heard it. He heard the deep sounds of breathing, of huge quantities of air being sucked into living lungs and snorted out again through wet nostrils. Bagsby waited, still clutching his rock, his eyes still shut against the terror, waited to see if the horrid breathing would go away, or if....

  “Bagsby.”

  The voice was deeper than the deepest bass he had ever heard, deeper even than the bass tones of the priests who chanted the praises of Wojan in the temples of Heilesheim, deeper than the sound of thunder, deeper than the rolling sound of an exploding fireball. And underneath that incredibly deep sound was a gravelly rattle, as though a million small stones were being shaken inside an earthenware jar.

  “Bagsby,” the voice called again.

  Slowly, Bagsby forced himself to open one eye, then the other. He kept both eyes glued to the earth, not ready, just yet, to see the source of that sound.

  “Bagsby. Wake up,” the voice boomed again.

  Bagsby raised his head and looked out at the depression in which he lay. In front of him, it was swept clean, as if a broom wielded by a god had swept away every large rock, every bit of scrub brush, every loose grain of sand. The voice had come from behind him. Bagsby thought about looking around but decided not to, not just yet.

  “Aaahhh,” Bagsby gasped. He tried to say, “I’m awake,” but his raw throat could not form the sounds.

  “Bagsby, what is wrong? It is time for us to travel,” the voice called.

  It couldn’t be, Bagsby thought. It was not possible. The exhausted, trembling man drew on all his courage, all his physical strength and, with a great effort of will, flipped himself over onto his back, his eyes open, ready to confront whatever it was that addressed him so.

  The first thing he noticed was that the dragon’s head alone was bigger than he was. In fact, the dragon’s snout alone was bigger than Bagsby. It could swallow me whole without ever having to chew, he thought. Nor would Bagsby ever allow a dragon to nuzzle him again. The nostrils at the end of the long snout were protected by two huge crescents, covered with red scales, their edges sharp as razors. The same type of ridges protruded outward over the creature’s eyes, which were set wide to the sides of its enormous head. The teeth were truly a marvel, visible as it sat with its mouth only slightly open, double rows top and bottom of gleaming white, sword-sharp, pointed teeth, flecked now with blood and bits of flesh after the dragon’s feeding.

  Bagsby gathered the courage to sit up. He made no effort to speak. His fear was ebbing now, being replaced by sheer awe. He wanted to see the beast in its entirety, to be able to say he had once seen such a sight. He looked down the length of the sinuous body on its right side. The back, of course, was covered with sharp ridges that jutted outward, protecting the spine. The sides bulged, bloated by the just finished feeding frenzy. Even in the pale light of the cold night, Bagsby could make out the ruddy hue of the countless thousands of scales that armored the beast. Its underbelly, barely visible as the creature lay on the sandy, rocky ground, was a lighter shade, perhaps even a yellow—Bagsby couldn’t tell in the dark.

  Then there were the wings, which Bagsby slowly realized were the cause of the gale-force winds he had experienced. They were folded now, two great spikes of black blotting out the stars. Extended, how far would they reach? Bagsby couldn’t tell. He stood, mouth agape, and walked slowly to the side of the creature, gazing upward at the peaks of the wings. He tried to gain some perspective, but could not; the dragon’s spine was higher off the ground than his head, and Bagsby could not measure how much farther the wing fold truly was.

  The little thief walked the length of the giant’s body. Almost forty paces he counted before he came to the end of the tail, with its magnificent, deadly barb. Bagsby circled behind the beast and came up along the opposite side. He saw the bulging muscles of the great rear haunches. Protruding from beneath the body were the long, armored toes, culminating in claws so large and sharp that a scrape from one of them could split open an armored man.

  His tour completed, Bagsby stopped in front of the dragon. The creature raised its head, and an expression something like a smile seemed to form on its snout. The huge eyes were wide and gleaming, not listless as they had seemed before.

  “You admire me,” the beast said.

  Bagsby tried to speak, felt a stab in his throat like a knife blade, and gave up the effort. He mutely nodded his assent.

  The ground trembled slightly. Bagsby shook, extended his arms, and fought for his balance.

  “That is Lifefire,” the dragon boomed.

  Again Bagsby nodded.

  “We grew,” Scratch told Bagsby—for it was he.

  “Aah, aah, how?” Bagsby croaked.

  “The ma
gic powder that Ramashoon gave us. An ancient potion of dragon growth. Prepared by a race that was old even before the elves came upon the earth, a race that once lived in the lands beyond the mountains. I am an adult now,” Scratch boomed. “I am the equal of any mighty one of my race. I am in my prime. I am ready for any battle, any challenge....”

  “Enough, Scratch,” Lifefire called, her voice not noticeably higher in pitch than his, but somehow less threatening in its rumblings. “We have terrified Bagsby.”

  “All creatures are terrified at our appearance,” Scratch bellowed, elated. “Behold us! Are we not the true terror of the world?”

  Uh oh, Bagsby thought.

  “Remember,” Lifefire said. “Remember the fate of our father and mother, and temper your pride with humility.”

  “Ummmhhhh,” Scratch rumbled. “The elves killed them.”

  Bagsby saw the black eyes light up again when the dragon mentioned the elves. And this time, it was not the fire of pride he saw.

  “Yes,” Lifefire said. “And they still have the cunning to kill us. Do not terrify one of our few friends.”

  “Unnhh,” Scratch growled. “Will you ride now, Bagsby?” Scratch asked.

  Bagsby shook his head “No.”

  “Then we will sleep. When the sun comes up, you will learn to ride on my back as we agreed, and I shall carry you to the lands of the north.”

  The horse saddle fit Bagsby’s seat perfectly, but it didn’t fit on Scratch’s back at all. First, Bagsby climbed up on the dragon, lugging the saddle with him, and tried to place it on the dragon’s back, near the point where the long neck joined the torso. The saddle spread almost flat, and the protective ridges on Scratch’s spine, which Bagsby took great care to avoid scraping against, bit into the bottom of the leather. Besides, Bagsby quickly saw, there was no way to secure the seat to the dragon’s back. Scratch’s girth was much too great to cover with any type of strap, rope, or tie.

  The solution Bagsby eventually found took most of the day to implement. First he gathered wood, cutting some of the small scrub trees that dotted the mountainside. From this he constructed a chair-like seat, with a back support, and with great piles of sheepskin beneath it for protection from the dragon’s spinal ridges. This structure he mounted on the dragon’s back, securing it with metal nails and hooks bent from the chain-mail links in the suit of armor he had stolen in Laga. Finally, Bagsby constructed three straps, two of which crossed his chest and passed over his shoulders, the third of which went around his lap, and affixed these to the seat so that the occupant would remain in the seat, even if the dragon flipped upside down in flight.

  “Which,” Bagsby said hoarsely, showing the arrangement to Scratch, “I sincerely hope you will not do.”

  “I shall try,” Scratch boomed, “to restrain my exuberance. Is it not remarkable that even to ride such a creature as myself you must go to such efforts, while I can take to the skies with the speed of thought, spreading terror at my approach….”

  “Scratch, enough,” Lifefire said. “Let him mount this device and let us be gone to the north.”

  “Just a few more details to check,” Bagsby said cheerily.

  But first, Bagsby busied himself with more of his gear—little items of no interest to the dragons. These moments were important to the little thief, who had quickly realized that he was in the dangerous situation of being a pawn to these dragon-spawn. No matter how friendly or reasonable they might be, there could certainly come a time when Scratch, in a grumpy mood, might decide to end the annoyance caused by Bagsby’s presence with one snap of those huge jaws. Bagsby intended to provide himself some insurance against that moment. The dragons largely ignored him as he laid out items in rows on the ground, counted them, dug some holes, buried a few items, counted things again, then bundled his gear back together, a contented feeling in his breast. The great beasts had not noticed that one of the items he had buried was their hemisphere of gold and gems, which they had entrusted to him.

  Bagsby spent a good hour checking and double-checking the improvised wire hooks and nails to feel certain that the seat was secured firmly to Scratch’s back. At last, the seat as steady as Bagsby could make it and his gear loaded aboard, Bagsby climbed once more up Scratch’s huge side. Then using the ripples of muscle as footing, he grabbed onto the undersides of scales to gain handholds. Gradually he made his way onto the creature’s back, checked his seat one last time, and then stepped inside, extending his legs slightly forward and downward, and leaning his back against the backrest of the seat. He tied off the three straps, and only then did Bagsby allow himself to look down. The height was not that great—Bagsby had been higher many times, climbing the wall of an inviting building to reach a second-story window.

  “Ready, Scratch,” the small thief bellowed. “Let’s try it.”

  Bagsby felt the subtle motion of the dragon’s back beneath him, then the gentle rocking motion as the great dragon began to move forward. To each side, the huge, folded, reddish brown wings began to open and lower. The rocking of the seat became more violent as Scratch gained speed, hurling himself down the mountainside. The wings flapped once, twice, a third time—and suddenly, as the dragon took a great leap with the power of its rear haunches, Bagsby saw that he was airborne!

  The dragon soared off the mountainside, gliding downward at first, while the great wings slowly pumped up and down, up and down, until the downward motion stopped and the huge creature, its head extended upward toward the sun, began to climb in the clear summer sky.

  Bagsby gripped the sides of his seat in fear; his breath came in short, dry gasps; he tried to lick his lips, and found he had no spit in his mouth. But it was working! The great dragon’s wings beat faster and faster, and the heavy creature miraculously rose higher and higher in the air. Bagsby worked up the courage to look out to one side and then the other, but he could barely see over Scratch’s huge flanks. Then the dragon turned—for it had been heading west toward Laga and, as they had agreed, did not yet want to be seen by the townspeople. The great body banked hard to the right, and Bagsby gazed out over the vast desert and the city that was already thousands of feet below.

  At first he was shocked; he called out in alarm, only to feel a rumble beneath as Scratch chuckled at his exclamation of fear. Then he watched silently, in amazement, as the city passed slowly by below him, the people already so tiny they could barely be seen, the buildings looking like tiny architect’s models, the streams of traffic on the great highway no more than mere trails of ants, already receding out of sight. Bagsby marveled; he knew the dragon was traveling at great speed, yet the ground below seemed to pass beneath them at a leisurely pace, much more slowly than it would from the back of a trotting horse.

  Scratch leveled off as he approached the mountain from which he had taken off—high above its top now—and then rose suddenly and swiftly, catching an updraft of warm air from the base of the mountain. Bagsby grappled the sides of his seat again, and fought the rise of his stomach toward his mouth. How long, he wondered, could he bear this?

  Then Bagsby spotted Lifefire flying alongside. He saw her incredible grace as she rose on the air, wings fully extended, occasionally beating, occasionally tilting to change direction. The remarkable creature seemed to fly effortlessly, as if she had done it all her life. Which, Bagsby thought, in a sense she had. Somehow, the sight of Lifefire reassured Bagsby. He settled back, and began to enjoy the ride.

  Higher and higher Scratch soared, riding the gusts at the edge of the Eastern Mountains, working his way northward. Soon the mountains receded below him, until Bagsby could no longer judge their height above the plains over which they rose. Gradually, the desert yellows of the ground gave way to yellow-greens and then greens as the great beast ploughed toward the north at speeds beyond the imaginings of mortal men. Bagsby saw streams and rivers, and then the great, broad Rigel looking like a ribbon laid out across the
ground, shimmering in the sun.

  Bagsby’s spirit began to rise with the great dragon. This was wonderful! This was... freedom! Bagsby began to feel a heady elation. No wonder Scratch was so vain! To soar above the earth with the powers of a god—how could one resist this? Then one more thought occurred to Bagsby: Shulana. Shulana had to experience this. As his great mount sliced through the cold air northward, Bagsby lost himself in fantasies of himself and Shulana, soaring up beyond the clouds on the backs of their invincible warrior mounts.

  The journey was, for Bagsby, disappointingly brief. It took the great dragons only four days to cover the vast distance from Laga, in the far south, to the icy mountains that formed the northern and northeastern boundaries of the northern kingdom of Parona. Each day, Bagsby became more comfortable in the improvised dragon saddle, more inured to the cold of the high air, more accustomed to the motions of flight. By the fourth day, he felt himself an old veteran of such travel, though he still longed to share its joys with Shulana.

  It was just past midday on the fourth day of the journey that Scratch began spiraling downward in broad circles, coming ever closer to the icy surface of the high, frozen, northern mountains. Bagsby sat comfortably in his seat, well wrapped in the furs and skins he had thoughtfully brought with him. He had taken them from the remains of the dragons’ first feast. At length, Scratch thundered to rest on a snow-covered ridge on the side of one of the mountains. Stretched out below were the fertile plains of Parona, separated from the mountains by a land of rolling, tall hills.

  “Why have we stopped?” Bagsby called from his perch, surveying the ice and snow-covered granite. The occasional sturdy evergreen struggled for life in the bitter cold. Bagsby saw the steam of his breath, felt the chill start to bite into his hands, and dreaded the contact of his breeches and boots with the cold drifts of snow. “We can’t stop here—this is no place to camp,” he shouted.