by Marc Secchia
Well, this one’s idiocy had to trump them all.
A strange-smelling red liquid splattered his face as he tucked his wings in to accelerate, just a few tens of feet away from the creature now as it tumbled into the void. Flicker gasped with the effort. If it could just slow a little, maybe extend that skin covering to make wings, the creature might slow its headlong fall. It made another screeching noise which set his fangs on edge.
Down, down it fell. The cliffs blurred past, the heat increasing by the second, the rocks and long, trailing vines flashing past his wingtips. Flicker inched closer, measuring the creature’s trajectory. It would strike near the base of the cliff, splattering its brains out on the slope before being picked over by windrocs and other aerial predators. Would its brains make a tasty meal?
Regardless, his seventh sense impelled the dragonet onward. He had to save this creature.
Reaching out with his paws, Flicker gripped the creature’s body covering and began to flap mightily. Great eternal fires, it flew like a rock! It did not even pretend to help. Obstinately, he struggled on, ignoring the pain in his wings and joints. If he could just change the angles enough, drag it a few more feet in the air … foliage slapped his cheek. More! With a scream of his own, the dragonet allowed his wings to cup the air, slowing them at the expense of a tearing sensation in his major flight muscles.
Whap! They slammed into a leafy branch, bursting right through it in a spray of greenery. The creature hurtled through a patch of tangled vines, stripping them in an explosion of ripe fruit and a flurry of leaves. The resulting rotation almost flung him free, but Flicker was not done. He dug his claws into the creature’s soft flesh, and flared his wings again.
Another, sturdier branch smacked the creature in the side. Thankfully he missed that one, but lower down, there was a huge branch overhanging the red-hot lava flows a mile below. So low already! Right in the danger zone, beyond which even dragonets feared to venture. This was his last chance. Flap, flap and flap again! Wrench this lumpen creature by any means possible into the right trajectory, screaming, muscles burning, magic assisting … thump! They bounced. Rebounded twice more, and then lay swaying on a broken, leafy bed.
Flicker opened and closed his jaw.
I am awesome, he told himself, and fainted.
* * * *
When he woke, a volcanic twilight enflamed his world in auburn and gold hues. Flicker began to stretch before stopping with a grimace. Unholy monkey droppings, what a bad idea. He eased his wings. No more flying for him, not for several days, he suspected.
Oh … the creature lay right next to him, face-up to the blushing skies, breathing shallowly. It had a green cloth covering on its body, and a large patch of crimson stained its stomach area. Was that its blood? He flinched. Grotesque! Not even a hint of gold, unlike the blood of Dragons.
Wake up, weird creature, he chirped.
It did not move.
Flicker stretched out a paw curiously, hesitated, and then pricked its limb with his talon. How daring was he? The creature’s skin was so supple, it yielded immediately to his touch. More red welled up. He winced. What was the matter with its hide? It didn’t have hide? Now, what word had the scrolls used? Skin, yes. He rolled the unfamiliar word across his forked tongue. They had skin, not Dragon hide, a covering so smooth and colourless it reminded him of a newborn, blind rodent. His stomach-fires soughed uneasily. Its limbs were long but supported no wing struts or elastic membranes. How could it have hoped to fly?
Instinctively, his tongue flicked out to taste the creature’s blood, finding it rich and metallic, full of enigmatic undertones. Without warning, a vision struck him. A big creature beat this smaller one with a flat piece of metal. They exchanged meaningless sounds. The little one attacked, but it was not as powerful a beast as the one with the fungal growth on its face. The big one stuck a shard of metal into this one’s stomach.
Flicker’s throat swelled. Murder? A fight to the death?
Was this creature a female of their kind, rather than a handsome male like him?
By the fires of the Ancient Dragons, she had to be the ugliest female of a species he had ever encountered! Flicker shifted closer to examine her face, fascinated and repelled in equal measure. When she sighed and shifted, he shrank back, all three hearts tripping along, but then she made a purring sound like a sleeping dragonet. Well! What a foolish idea, sleeping outdoors at night. Perhaps she was as stupid as she was ugly? Just look at her flat, squashed muzzle, and her tiny nose. How could she scent food with that thing? Strange blades of grass sprouted from her head, grass as pale and golden as the wisps that grew lower down the cliffs, near the caldera, bleached by the heat and gases. Her paws had talons, but they were weak and clearly impractical for rending her prey.
The dragonet cocked his head to one side, his eyes roiling with Dragon fire. Well, you’re not dead, he said, speaking Dragonish telepathically. Say, ‘thank you for rescuing me, Flicker.’
She snored.
He tried speaking aloud. I do declare, you’re the bravest, most beautiful dragonet in this entire Island-Cluster, Flicker. I am eternally in your debt.
Drool slipped from the corner of her mouth; saliva laced with more of her freakish blood.
She was wounded, probably dying! Her body fluids oozed forth steadily–and he prattled on like an empty-headed parakeet about his looks? Abruptly, Flicker retreated, muttering, I’ve done you wrong, strange creature.
That night, sore-pawed and even sorer of wing and muscle, he hunted up and down the cliffs for the herbs and roots he needed. Using several broad fli’iara leaves as his worktable, the dragonet shredded and prepared his materials, making a selection of poultices which he masticated carefully in his mouth, adding his highly antiseptic dragonet saliva to the mashing process, and no small dose of magic. The Ancient One had taught him well.
Only, would his medicines work on one of their kind?
Flicker eyed the branch judiciously. At least he had picked an excellent landing place. The branch jutted four hundred horizontal feet from the main Island, but had a soft, leafy crown which he had picked out perfectly. He blinked his double eye-membranes several times, showing his happiness. Even this clumsy female could not easily fall from their nest among the leaves, although he worried about windrocs, vultures and feral Dragons, to name just a few aerial predators.
His deft paws made short work of tearing her covering and pulling it aside, revealing a deep double puncture wound in her belly. Nasty. He drew out the shard of metal which had made the wound, before licking the site clean with care. The dragonet wrinkled his nose at the odour of her skin. She tasted salty. At least it was not a foul taste, but he decided he should wash out his mouth at the first opportunity. No telling what unmentionable diseases her kind might carry.
The dragonet stuffed the holes full of his most potent healing mixture. There, that should stop her leaking. Muttering fussily to himself, Flicker covered the wound’s open lips with another poultice, before checking the rest of her body for further wounds. She had an impressive collection.
Just let the Ancient One see him now!
Since no other creature was nearby to express due admiration, he congratulated himself, Ha, I’ve saved the life of a two-legged straw-head, a mighty and worthy deed!
By the radiant light of the Yellow moon, Iridith, which covered half of the southern horizon, Flicker saw that the branches beneath her body were slick with blood. He sighed. What dragonet had a chance of lifting such a lump of flesh? How demeaning, now he had to crawl through the branches beneath her body to find where else she was wounded.
The gash on her back, however, made his fiery eyes darken with anger. See what that fungus-faced, mange-ridden rat had done! A flap of skin roughly the size of his right wing hung loose from her back, torn and dirty, already attracting flies. How did flies find an open wound so quickly? By the stench of her blood? If he did not treat this, she would be infested with m
aggots before the next Blue moon. Admittedly, maggots tasted much like lemur meat, they were just squishier. Yum.
Perhaps she might share her maggots with him? There was an agreeable thought.
With a contented gurgle, Flicker returned to his medicines. Now, where to start? If she was anything like a dragonet, her hide was a sack which held the fluids inside. First, the wound must be thoroughly cleaned. After that, the muscles should be returned to their rightful places, and the hide sewn together to prevent it from shifting about while she healed.
He worked for several hours more before deciding, with a huge yawn, that his heroism and dauntless service ought to be rewarded with a nap for the remaining three hours of darkness.
* * * *
Lia dreamed the blasphemous dream.
Once, she had dared to tell Fyria about her dreams. Her sister relayed them to their father; King Chalcion beat her with his fists. That was the day she learned, to the tune of a broken rib and a split lip, that people did not dream about flying with Dragons. Only wicked, depraved girls dreamed about soaring over the everlasting thermals of Fra’anior’s great caldera upon wings a hundred feet wide, which cut the moons like crystal blades.
She woke with a choked-off sob. A daytime thermal drove hot, faintly rancid air up from the depths. Up at Island level, a league above the Cloudlands, the air would be fragrant with the scent of a thousand pollens and rich with birdsong and dragonet-song, but down here, the heat shrivelled her lungs. Lia’s eyes traversed the lush green precipice rising above her until it was lost in the mists above. She wondered dully why she roosted in a tree.
Captain Ra’aba’s dagger! Falling through the twin suns’ warm, radiant beams … she was alive? Ridiculous! Off-the-Islands crazy.
Despite the heat, her body felt chilled. Hualiama shifted her aching neck to examine her wounds. Shock jolted her as she discovered a green dragonet curled up against her left shoulder, purring softly in his sleep, just like a wild rajal kitten she had once tried to tame. How sweet! The tiny paws twitched slightly and the eyes darted about behind the animal’s shuttered eyelids as though it dreamed. She saw multi-jointed wings, folded neatly back to its sides. It had a row of spine spikes which exactly matched those of the Lesser Dragons who roosted at Gi’ishior Island to the west of her home, and at Ha’athior, and claimed many other Islands for their homes. But Fra’anior’s great volcano was the most ancient and beloved of Dragon roosts, where Dragons lived on the peaks and in the caves, and Humans on their Islands, in an often uneasy truce.
Lia moistened her lips with her tongue. She remembered small, fluttering wings, and the sharp clasp of talons. This dragonet had rescued her, landing her on Ha’athior Island? That was the only possible explanation. She had explored the caldera and its twenty-seven Islands many times, sailing her single-handed or solo Dragonship with her brother Elki, or alone. Even Elki, more mischievous than a troop of monkeys rolled together, had never set foot on holy Ha’athior Island. Dragons tended to take a dim view of trespassers. They dropped them into lava flows or hurled them into the Cloudlands.
Nobody crossed a Dragon.
And whoever had dreamed up the misnomer ‘Lesser Dragon’ to describe an awesome reptilian predator which grew up to a hundred and twenty feet in wingspan, and could devour a three-thousand pound ralti sheep in a sitting, had to have a flock of chattering lovebirds for brains. Dragons were the mightiest creatures of the Island-World, bar none.
That did not stop some people dreaming about them.
Craning her neck gingerly, Hualiama worked out that she lay on a leafy, spreading branch a mile above an open magma pit. She was further down the cliffs than she had ever been, probably being poisoned by the Cloudlands’ toxic gases. Her right arm was heavily bruised, almost definitely broken. Between her shoulder blades, her back ached as though Ra’aba had cut her open a second time. And her stomach–great Islands! Someone had cleaned the wound and stuffed it full of green pulp. She saw very little bleeding on the outside, but she did not want to think about the mess inside.
This must be the dragonet’s work–just look at the neat piles of herbs stacked on broad leaves near her left hand, and the sticky green mess still visible on the animal’s paws.
Impossible. Dragonets were beautiful, amazing, and as thoughtless as the average clump of rocks. What they could do was sing. Often, when taking vocal training as was required of all Fra’aniorian royals–proper or adopted–Hualiama would hear the trilling descant of dragonets accompanying her vibrant soprano. They seemed to prefer her voice even over her youngest brother, Ari, whose developing tenor was widely regarded as the finest voice of his generation. Big Ari. His speech was a muddle, but when he sang, the very Islands sat up, wide-eyed and agog.
Would she ever see her family again?
She was alive. Quiet, hopeless tears slid down Lia’s cheeks. If they were fortunate, her family would be marooned on an unmarked boulder somewhere in the trackless reaches of the Cloudlands.
When a volley of sobs shook her body, the dragonet stirred.
* * * *
Flicker awoke from a dream of being a hatchling again, sleeping alongside his egg-mother, safely cocooned in the warm heart of a dragonet warren.
Unfortunately, his waking was not quite so peaceful, as he found himself cuddled up to his patient. A squeak of dismay escaped his muzzle as Flicker instinctively tried to flap away. Agony! He tumbled muzzle over paws, but something jerked his wing.
The creature had grabbed him! He bit her paw.
“Ouch, you little rajal!” she cried.
Don’t you touch me, you freak!
“Islands’ sakes, little one, I didn’t … I only wanted to save you a fall.”
Flicker hissed, flaring his wings and mock-charging the two-leg. Ooh. He grimaced. Whatever damage he had done, he could not escape … don’t touch me. Grr! By the First Egg, the wretched little windroc had dared to grab his wing! Dragonets were extremely fussy about their wings and tails.
She withdrew her left hand. “Down, girl. Take it easy,” she said. “Here, I won’t hurt you. Did you make these herbs? And treat me? I feel surprisingly good, thank you.”
Meaningless monkey-chatter issued from her flat muzzle, but when she indicated the herbs, he realised that the creature must have some sort of tiny brain after all. Well, didn’t he know that? They used tools and built their communal warrens–so why couldn’t they talk like normal creatures?
Now, her strange face became animated. He began to say, You’re the ugliest … Flicker pulled up with a gurgle of surprise. He was quite certain she was baring her fangs at him, but as he gazed into her smoky green eyes, exactly the same colour as his scales, an inexplicable power seemed to seize his body. His hearts expanded in his chest. A singing began in his ears; not Dragonsong, but a deeper, more spine-tingling melody, a type of magic he had never experienced before.
All Flicker knew was that he neither wanted to move, nor could he.
Her lips parted even further, exposing her pathetic incisors; those gimlet eyes crinkled at the corners. With more of her soothing noises, the creature reached out to touch his neck with her worm-like digits. The dragonet trembled.
“You’re a beautiful, perfect little Dragon,” she said. “Are you hurt? Did you hurt yourself, saving me?”
Don’t, that’s … very nice. Flicker’s scales prickled as she stroked his neck, growing bolder. A low vibration of satisfaction emerged from his chest. Listen here, flat-face, you’re taking liberties … I can’t believe it. I’m actually touching a two-leg. By the First Egg, just wait until I tell my warren-mates!
Wonderingly, she said, “When you look at me like that, I could swear you’re trying to talk to me, little one. Are you talking? Do you like this?”
Flicker shifted restlessly. Enough. Remove your paw, scoundrel.
She jerked her hand back as he made a token snap toward her trespassing digits. She said, “Gently, my beauty.”
> How do you survive with no Dragon hide? he wondered, awash in confusion and wonder. Aren’t you cold? Do you have belly-fires, like me? What is this water leaking from your eyes? What magic did you summon? Why did the fungus-faced one try to kill you?
She was looking around, taking in her precarious perch in the V between two branches, supported from beneath by the thickness of the secondary growth, which twined together beneath her body. Flicker moved to his pile of medicines and selected a leaf. She needed to eat at least a pawful to keep the infection at bay. Right. Since he was so brave, this should be easy.
* * * *
“No!” Hualiama flinched as the dragonet rushed toward her.
The movement jerked her right arm. She distinctly felt the bones grate together, a few inches above her elbow. A deep groan accompanied the blenching of her face. Fire spread in her stomach as fresh blood began to seep from one of the puncture wounds.
Eat, insisted the dragonet.
“Er …” Hualiama flopped back on the branch, which swayed and dipped alarmingly. Dancing dragonets–she chuckled to herself as the phrase crossed her mind–she was right near the end, a bird in her leafy nest. How a small dragonet had dragged her to safety, she had no idea, but she had the scratches and burn-marks from branches to prove what the miniature Dragon had achieved. “You want me to eat that concoction?”
It looked like something the dragonet had regurgitated.
Don’t you know what’s good for you, two-legs? said Flicker, flicking his eye-membranes in irritation. This is medicine for the pain.
Feeling too weak and dizzy to refuse the strangely insistent dragonet, Lia sniffed the mess being waved beneath her nose. Actually, it smelled rather agreeable, like one of Queen Shyana’s allegedly ‘uplifting’ or ‘invigorating’ herbal brews she swore by for all ailments.
