Dragon of Ash & Stars: The Autobiography of a Night Dragon

by H. Leighton Dickson

  But I froze when I saw his face. The face that had always been hard as mountain rock was now gone – fleshy, raw and blackened by flames. With a savage backhand, he whipped the switch across my beak and stars exploded like Lamoan cannons behind my eyes. He swung a net of hemp across me and I dropped back to the charred wood with a thud. Rue cried out and threw himself, fists flailing, onto the man but Serkus struck him to the dock with savage ease. I thrashed against the netting as he kicked me over and over and over. The blows were hotter than the fire on the docks, but soon, even the heat faded and Rue’s cries drowned under the pounding of my ears until there was nothing but ash and stars and blackness and silence.

  Chapter 5

  THE COROLANUS MARKETS

  I was in another cage now, traveling on the back of a cart pulled by noxen – strong buck-like creatures with low horns and no imagination. They were happy to pull carts. They were happy to eat grass. They were happy to be in harness and happy to be free of it. I easily understood the myth that dragons ate noxen, for if I’d had the chance, I would have killed and eaten them too. I think they would have been happy for their deaths as well.

  We rattled along the road through foothills of yellow grass and red rock. I could see mountains in the distance; great white peaks that were impressive yet so very different from either the Anquar Cliffs or the Udan Shore. This dry land was alien to me and I found my scales flaking in the arid wind. I missed the water that had shaped my early life, but it wasn’t the only thing I missed.

  Next to me in an identical cage was Summerday. She had survived the attack on the village, for which I was grateful, but she had not trilled, she had not cooed, she had not done any of the things that had previously marked her as a glorious young drakina. I realized quite soon then that she was blind. Something had happened on the night of the attack and rather than slit her throat, the hard-faced man (whom I now called the no-faced man) was going to sell her as a breeder, taking whatever he could get for her. I didn’t know if it was the right thing. While a dragon lived, there was always a possibility of life out of the ashes. Once dead, a dragon merely fed the earth and the many creatures that lived on her.

  Skybeak was not here, which told me much.

  The worst thing, however, was the fact that I had not seen Rue since that morning on the docks and I prayed that the no-faced man hadn’t killed him. I couldn’t imagine how he could have, not with Rue almost grown, but sticks lived by very different rules than dragons. They killed dragons easily, but I wondered if killing each other was allowed by the laws of their land or their god.

  Without Rue, I felt torn in two, like a sliver of lemonwhite left to dry on the shore. If he was alive, I knew he’d find me and free me from this terrible cage. We’d live on the ocean and fish forever, he’d promised and I believed him. But if the no-faced man had killed Rue, I hoped he was with his soul somewhere where spirit dragons flew to the song of his pipes.

  I would have protected him with my life had I been given the chance. I would have given my life for his.

  There was no fighting this cage. I had tried and I had failed. The bars were rattan and very strong and the little acid I could produce would only sizzle the smooth oiled surface. And so I lay, curled upon myself and cursing the life of a dragon. I should not have left the aerie, I told myself. I should not have been so vain. But vanity is like youth – it fades in time, to be replaced by ache, stone and ash.

  But then again, I would never have met Rue. I would never have flown alongside a Dragon Flight, battled warships, learned about sticks. I couldn’t regret my choices. They had been mine and had been right at the time. Still, I was so very young. What did a young dragon know about life?

  After several days on a terrible lurching road, I saw the signs of another village, this one larger than the Udan Shore but smaller than Venitus itself. Huts high up in the mountains, farms along the hills, fields of noxen and tallybucks, and more carts that joined us on the road. That night, the no-faced man pulled into an inn as the rains started, taking his noxen into the stables but leaving Summerday and I under a tarp on the back of the cart.

  The no-faced man had left us each with a small wooden boards blobbed with mash. I was very hungry and tried to eat it, but my tongue rebelled and I pushed the board out through the bars to get the scent away from my nose. It was then that I heard the first sound from Summerday – a snapping of her beak that drew my attention. The no-faced man had missed the mark and her mash board sat just outside the cage, beyond her reach. She could smell it but couldn’t see it, and she battered her head repeatedly against the bars of the cage as she tried to reach. I was not a sentimental dragon but the sight of such a glorious drakina reduced to this filled me with an ache of an altogether different sort.

  I glanced down at my food. I wasn’t going to eat it so I nudged the board with my own beak, edging it towards her cage. I nudged it again and again, until it caught against the base of the bars. She heard it bump and flattened her head, spines lying elegantly against her neck. I had to try harder. I slipped my beak beneath the board, tipping it up and the mash slid down, down the board to blob at the base of her cage. It was gone in a heartbeat and I felt a wave of satisfaction, not so much in the act of helping her but in the act of thwarting the no-faced man.

  My anger burned again and I vowed to kill him even if it meant death for me, which it would. Sticks could kill dragons, but dragons were forbidden to kill sticks. If dragons were a proud people, sticks were prouder still. Perhaps we were similar in that regard.

  Maybe I would kill him for Rue too. I would kill him for Rue, for Summerday and for me.

  The rain continued all night and water seeped under the tarp to run through the cart. I didn’t mind. I was a fisher dragon and water was my friend. I stretched my neck under the bars and let it roll onto my tongue. I felt bad for Summerday however – she couldn’t catch the water and after many hours of missing the raindrops that fell through her cage, she stopped, lowering her beautiful head onto her claws, defeated. She went thirsty that night and after the meal of rotten fish, it was heartbreaking.

  At first light of morning, the no-faced man climbed back into the cart and we rambled off again. I was grateful he didn’t bother to feed us but wished he had removed the tarp. While the rainy season meant cooler weather, it was hot under that heavy cover. My wings and legs were aching from the confinement, and I longed just to be able to stretch and flap and fly. I dozed and my dreams were filled with longing and fire and Rue.

  By noon, the rain had ceased and noise from the streets had intensified. I knew that we were no longer on rural roads and I was elated when the cart jerked to an unceremonious halt. I raised my head when the tarp was thrown off and blinked as the light poured in from above. My cage was yanked from the cart and I could immediately smell dragons.

  It was a market, bustling with sticks and animals and carts and stalls and despair. Brown puddles splashed under foot, wheel and claw. Waterlogged canopies hung from poles and masonry walls were streaked from the night’s rain. Still, the sun was strong, making the air heavier than ever. I was glad to be out from under the tarp.

  The no-faced man threw my cage up on a wooden platform between three other young drakes. One, a large red, hissed and flung himself against his bars, but I spat a mouthful of acid at him and he recoiled, showing me his back. The others were grey-greens and I don’t think they even noticed me. They lay with their heads on their wings, uncaring and dull and I wondered at the apathy of dragons. It was an entirely foreign concept to me. Then again, I had wished to die those first days on the Udan Shore. Perhaps apathy was not so different from grief. Both crippled like chains.

  A moment later and Summerday’s cage was wedged between us. Surprisingly, the red drake hissed at her too and I wondered if he were as blind as she.

  The stick people gathered round a sandy circle, shouting and laughing as one-by-one the half-yearling drakes were auctioned off. The red was sold to a fighting pit and I thought t
hat it was a fitting end for the foul-tempered creature. The grey-greens were sold as a pair to a family of arcstone miners. They would spend most of their lives underground now, detecting and grading the stone for the men who mined it. Apparently, arcstone was as vital for sticks as it was for dragons, although what they did with it, I still don’t know.

  Next, it was Summerday and I craned my neck as the no-faced man pulled her from her crate. She wobbled awkwardly on his wrist and he gave it a shake so that she unfurled her marvellous golden wings. A murmur of approval rose from the crowd and for the first time, I wondered if sticks had an appreciation for finer things.

  “What is her story?” asked a woman from the back row. “Can she pull?”

  “She’s a fisher,” said the no-faced man. “Best I ever had. But she can pull, given the right harness.”

  “Why are you selling her, then?”

  “I ran a fleet on the Udan Shore of Venitus,” he said. “Lost everything to pirates in the last raid and needs to pay my debts. See?”

  And he gestured to his non-existent face.

  Another murmur. Clearly, news of the raid had made it to this foothill town. I could hear the word “Lamos” from the crowd and a rumble like distant thunder of Hell Down. One man spat upon the ground.

  “She’s blind, see?” said the no-faced man. “Lost her eyesight in the fires so she’s no use to me as a fisher. But as I said, given the right harness – a fixed harness, mind – she can still pull.”

  The woman stepped forward, accompanied by a lady in waiting and two men, obviously guards. She was in cream linen, with gold belt and gold laurels in her golden hair. If I had been a stick, I’m sure I would have been impressed. As a dragon however, I knew she would burn as easily as the next.

  “Ruminor smiles on us,” she said and the crowd murmured.

  “Yah, Ruminor,” said the no-faced man.

  “Your blind drakina,” said the woman. “How can she pull?”

  “She’s a fine thing,” said the no-faced man. “And so are you. I’m assuming you’re not using her to pull a plow, harvester or tiller, are you?”

  “Certainly not. I’m from Bangarden.”

  The crowd murmured approvingly. She noticed.

  “Ruminor smiles on Bangarden,” grinned the no-faced man.

  “He does indeed. My husband is a senator and as such, I have a golden pilentus that is always pulled by a golden dragon. I have four, you see, but the golds – well, they don’t come along every day.”

  “Your headstalls have blinders, yeah? Well, she don’t need them. If you have a fixed trap and a good driver, she’ll do well by you.”

  “How is she for handling?”

  “As I said, best I ever had.”

  She whispered to one of the men before turning back to the podium.

  “Twenty-four denari and nothing more.”

  “Twenty-four denari?” barked the no-faced man. “She’s worth twice that!”

  “She’s blind,” cooed the woman and I suddenly hated her more than the no-faced man. “No blind dragon is worth a single coin so be grateful I’m offering what I am. She’ll have a year of service in a fine household and I have a golden drake that is around her age. Perhaps we’ll get a few clutches out of her before she kisses the axe.”

  I would tear out her eyes before I killed her.

  “Sold,” grumbled the no-faced man. “Treat her right. She’s a good girl.”

  But the woman was gone, whirling off into the crowded market with her lady at her heels. One of the men stepped forward to complete the transaction and I felt an unexpected tightening in my chest at the sight of her – beautiful wicked Summerday, sold to pull a vain stick carriage and likely die before her prime. Life was hard on dragons. So few of us reached maturity and once again, I thought of the Dragon Flight. Large, majestic, mature dragons living with a noble purpose.

  And, I thought, no silver band around their throats.

  Just like that, she was passed over to the woman’s guard, a muzzle strapped around her beak and her wings bound in leather. He bundled her under his arm and pushed into the crowd. I lost sight of her in a heartbeat and for some reason, my world was a little darker without her.

  I was the last of the half-yearlings and the no-faced man hauled my crate roughly to the podium. Like Summerday, he yanked me out and made me perch on his wrist. I was heavier and I could tell his muscles were straining under the feat, but still, he snapped his wrist and I stretched my wings for balance. There was silence from the crowd.

  “What in Hadys is that colour?” asked one man, a stick with more rolls on his chin than there was on the shore. “Black? Since when is there a black dragon?”

  “He’s perfect for night fishing,” said the no-faced man. “Or night hunting. The prey don’t even see him coming.”

  I remembered the words of the silver rider. A Night Dragon, he had called me.

  “A night dragon?” echoed a voice and the crowd parted on a small man with long grey hair and skin almost the same shade. He had a cane and was wearing a hat that looked like an upside-down cone. “Wouldn’t that would be dangerous?”

  “Dangerous? This one ain’t dangerous. He’s ominous.”

  And once again, the no-faced man shook his wrist. I flapped instinctively to keep my balance, cursing him and his theatrics.

  “My name’s Gavius and I’m from the Under Weathers,” said the gray man. “We’ve been having troubles with a dragon taking our flocks. How would I know this one wouldn’t do the same?”

  The no-faced man ran a hand along my scales. I snapped but he batted my beak and I relented.

  “Look at his scales,” he said. “Why do you think he so scarred up?”

  No one answered.

  “He was on the docks when the cursed pirates attacked,” the no-faced man lied. “He tried to save my dragons but the cannons were too much for him. He risked his life for the others, but all he ever ate was fish.”

  Lies, lies, all lies. Except the part about the fish.

  “So I can guarantee you, Master Farmer Gavius, that this dragon will not eat your flock. In fact, he’ll protect them. He’s the best drake I’ve ever had.”

  Acid. Flame. Teeth to the throat. Talons to the belly. All the ways I could kill him.

  “I thought you said the gold was your best?” came a snicker from the crowd.

  “I lied,” he said. “That horanah was rich and I wanted her money.”

  “Yah! You’re full of shat, Serkus!” said another.

  “That’s what his wife says!”

  And the crowd laughed at him. Almost as good as death, I reckoned but he bared his teeth, held me up all the higher.

  “The First Wing of the Eastern Quarter Dragoneers staked a claim on him,” he shouted above the crowd. “And you can get two hundred denari for a Flight Dragon recruit.”

  “Why don’t you train him then?” came another and the crowd murmured once again.

  He stepped forward and I felt his puckered eye fall upon me.

  “I don’t have the heart, see,” he said quietly. “The boy who used to fish with him…”

  My heart thudded in my chest.

  “They were inseparable, see?”

  Rue. He was talking about Rue.

  “That boy, he was like a son to me…”

  His voice cracked. A woman crooned in sympathy.

  “I just, I can’t bear to look upon these proud, valiant, Lamoan-fighting black scales…”

  I had no breath, no heartbeat, no thought. What was he saying?

  “So I needs to find him a home, see? A home where he can be treated fairly, with someone as proud and valiant as my poor, lost fishing boy…”

  I didn’t know what to think. He was lying. Surely, he was lying about Rue. But I didn’t know.

  I didn’t know.

  There was silence for a long moment, before Gavius nodded and raised his cane.

  “Twenty.”

  A knife smile split the raw face and h
e shook his wrist so that I flapped one last time.

  “Give me thirty for my poor lost fishing boy.”

  “Thirty!” called a large stick from the back.

  The bidding was hot and animated but all I could think of was Rue. He couldn’t be dead. The no-faced man was lying. And yet, why wasn’t he here? He had said we’d be together. He had promised we’d be free.

  He had been bought and sold in a market just like this as a youngling. I wondered if he had been afraid like Summerday, or apathetic like the grey-greens, or bewildered like me. Not for the first time, I marked our similarities but also our differences, and wondered what it was that enabled people as frail as sticks to rule creatures as magnificent as dragons.

  “Sold!” shouted the no-faced man. With great pleasure that he slipped the muzzle on over my beak, tugging the laces tight behind my head. One day I would kill him, I thought to myself over the tugging and the straps. I would summon all the fire in my dragon chest and finish the job the pirates had started. Whether Rue was alive or dead, I would be happy to watch him burn.

  He passed me over to the grey man.

  “This collar looks tight,” said the grey man. “When does he need a new one?”

  “Not for a few months,” the no-faced man lied. “It’s a fisher-bolt, see? Supposed to fit good and snug. Besides, this fella is slippery and can spit acid with even the littlest room.”

  “Noted,” said the grey man. “He have a name?”

  Stormfall, Rue had said. You fell out of the storm so Stormfall.

  “Snake.”

  The grey man shrugged, slid the wing-leathers down over me and once again, I was confined. He strapped me in across his back, so I could see where he had been. As he began to make his way out of the dragon market, I could see the yearlings brought in now – greys and blues, greens and browns, all of them as beaten down as the noxen that had pulled my cart.