“Fly, night dragon!” he shouted in my ear. “Stay airborne for a moment longer!”
The smoke was sharp and thick and even this high, it was work simply to breathe. Rufus pulled his sword and brought it down once, twice, three times and the harness that held the right pole snapped free. Immediately, all the weight jerked in the opposite direction and the drag caused my wing to bend unnaturally. We plummeted as the carriage swing wildly beneath.
The air stung my eyelids and the heat beat like waves on a rocky shore but with remarkable skill, the rider scrambled under my neck and around my chest, swinging his sword to the braces once again. Suddenly, the carriage was gone, down, down, down, shattering into a thousand splintering pieces across the Prefect’s gate.
I soared up to the sky, released but off balance as the rider clung to the harness across my chest. I pitched forward, losing altitude so quickly that I thought we too would shatter across the gate but he swung his leg across my neck, settled into the muscular hump and hollow of my shoulders as if home.
A rider.
I had a rider on my back.
It was heavy and strange but not at all awkward, for his weight seemed to right my balance. It was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.
He leaned his weight forward along my spines.
“And down, night dragon. You can touch the ground now, without fear.”
Down. Down, he wanted me down. I could feel pressure from his legs across my shoulder, seat bones pushing down my spine. It was a natural extension and I angled upwards, throwing my weight into my haunch and beating my wings downward to lessen the impact. When my feet touched the earth, my body lost all strength and I collapsed onto the street. The mud felt good on my charred belly and I barely noticed it when the brown rider left my back. The sticks were still fighting – stick against stick, citizen against centurion, and I realized at that moment that I hated them all except the riders and their Dragon Flight.
I never knew what had happened to the body of the Prefect.
I stayed down for a very long time, until the soldiers and the Flight cleared the streets. Kellus returned to take me to the aviary. I never got mash that night, and the next morning, Junias fitted me with a walking harness and led me to the markets, where I was auctioned off yet again, this time to the Pits. I was glad for the exchange, for in the Pits I could fight and be free of sticks and carts and the dreaded silver band when I died.
Chapter 10
LIFE & DEATH IN THE PITS
It was like nothing I could have expected. In fact, it was like a city unto itself, isolated in the mountains between the cities of Bangarden and Salernum. Known simply as ‘The Pits,’ it was a sprawling complex of caves and underground tunnels leading to and from the bestiaries that housed well over a hundred animals. Sitting atop it all was ‘The Crown,’ a large circular arena built of limestone, travertine and marble. I could not help but be impressed when I first laid eyes on it on the long road to the underground.
I was perhaps the smallest dragon there, but not the smallest creature by far. As I was led into the tunnels (flanked on either side by sticks riding cerathorns – large armoured four-legged beasts with coats like iron and horns like spears), I saw cages and pens of the wildest variety, containing creatures from sink-lizards to the scaly land monitors of the Remoan deserts. There were creatures like jumpbucks but with razor horns, and creatures like leather-backed phogs with tusks and spines. Many of the creatures had rings pierced through their snouts. I wondered if I would receive such a ring and if so, what manner of tools would be used in the piercing. A two-year old dragon’s snout is already strong and hard – piercing such a thing would require strength and no little skill.
And rather than the smell of death as in Bangarden, these tunnels smelled of blood; old caked blood that held together the very stones beneath our feet.
The noise was deafening, even louder than Allum’s aviary. These were angry beasts and wild, throwing themselves at the iron mesh in hopes of freedom or a ripping fight and I found it took all of my nerve not to flinch as we walked past. Besides, I could smell trees and grass and fresh air and I prayed that the aviary was as big as Gavius’, if not bigger.
It was called the Dome of Dragons.
A huge circular cave that opened to the skies above, containing a veritable jungle beneath an iron mesh roof. Dragons were penned on three levels surrounding the Dome, like the many spokes of a great wheel. All the cages shared one central mesh wall with it and for that, I was grateful. At least to look on trees and sky; to smell the wind and rain. It would be a good way for any dragon to meet his fate then, with a chest filled with jungle air and a memory of sunshine.
I was led up and around to the top level where they kept the youngest dragons and I was relieved to see none younger than I. I suppose it was self-defeating, but the thought of a juvenile dragon sentenced to a life in the Pits fanned those coals once again. I would have been a very angry, bitter dragon indeed if there were any younger than yearlings here.
The sticks turned me out into a pen that was lower but wider than Gavius’. The walls were stone, carved directly out of the mountain rock, and the bedding was straw and dirt. I had a new head-harness, one that allowed me to eat and chew and bite. It had a metal ring under the jaw so that I could be clipped to a cable and led with little resistance. As I have mentioned before, our heads are at the end of our very long necks. For creatures so impressive, we are remarkably easy to control.
The first thing I did was press my face against the mesh wall overlooking the Dome, breathing in the scent of damp soil and old trees. Vines and grasses, flowers and moss, palm trees and cedar and olive pine. For some reason, this soothed me and after the two days of travel, I stretched out by the mesh and studied the roof, wondering if I could, over time, chew my way through the iron as Ruby had done. The thought of chewing anything sounded rather good, and my belly rumbled in the absence of food. Eventually, I dozed and dreamed of sea snakes and lemonwhites and the vast expanse of blue that was the sky.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d dreamed of the night sky. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen the stars, nor the winking, waning or wide moons of my father, Draco Stellorum. I knew enough of the world of dragons to know that he wasn’t my sire but some things I clung to with a fierce tenacity. I was a night dragon. He was my identity.
Morning brought horrendous screeches of waking dragons, and sticks with whips came to roll open the bars to my pen. Two of them led me out and down a long stone ramp and I passed many pens with many dragons. All watched me with intense, combative stares and I ignored them all, keeping my own eyes from straying too far to the left or to the right. I was led to a small circular arena, not high enough for flying and fashioned out of the familiar metal mesh. Inside, two sticks waited with a hissing blue drake, holding him against the walls with whips and spears. My handlers led me inside, closing the door behind me, the blue and his two handlers. The drake was released and a live goswyrm was tossed at my feet.
Goswyrms are awkward creatures with leathery necks and spindly legs. Their wings are frequently tattered (for they like to sleep hanging upside down in caves), but their bodies are disproportionately round and plump and they make a fine meal for any dragon. It tried to run but I stomped down with my clawed foot, stooped to catch its head in my jaws. The blood that sprayed across my tongue was hot and sweet.
Immediately, the blue dragon lunged across the pen, snatching the wyrm from my mouth. He began to shred the flesh with his dagger teeth into strips tiny enough for him to swallow and the handlers behind him laughed. I shrank back, puzzled. That goswyrm had been clearly meant for me and I snapped my beak at him in protest. He did nothing, merely continued until the meat was small enough to slip past the band down his throat. I looked past him to his handlers, assuming they would rectify the situation but they circled the inside of the ring, one on either side. One man cracked the whip at me, the prodded me with his spear. I swun
g back to look at the blue, barked once, twice, three times but he ignored me. I sat back to puzzle some more.
The smell of blood was thick in my nostrils and my belly rumbled with lack. Suddenly, I knew what they meant for me to do. They wanted me to fight for my food.
Those coals began to burn once more.
I swung my head toward the handlers once again, growling in a sound that rumbled like distant Hell Down. They raised their weapons but they had not reckoned on my many weeks under the hard-faced man. I lunged and they both staggered back into the mesh wall. I pressed them into it, raising my wings and lowering my head in threat. Shouts now as all the other sticks rushed toward the pen, whips and spears in hand and I brought my face so close to the first man, my mouth open wide, dagger teeth gleaming. He covered his face with his hands as if that simple act would stop my jaws. I did not bite, however. I loosed a long, furious roar that emptied the room of all other sound and echoed until it faded away like ripples on a dead sea.
There was silence now in the arena and I leaned back, let them scramble out of the pen. They slammed and locked the door, leaving me with the half-eaten goswyrm and the blue.
I swung my head his way now. He had frozen in place, the wyrm hanging from his jaws like waterweed. I snapped my beak and he dropped it into the sand. I lunged forward and snatched it up, shaking it to break its bones before I settled down to shred it with my own dagger teeth.
I knew what they wanted me to do. I knew what game they wanted me to play so I would play it like a master dragon. I had anger, I had cunning, I had been wild and they only had whips and spears. This game, I would win or die trying.
And this time, the blood on my tongue was all the sweeter.
***
In the Pits, no meal came without a price.
A fight, a lesson, a battle, a skirmish. All was intimidation and rage, and while I had the rage in full, the intimidation took a little time in coming. I was young and inexperienced in fighting other dragons. Still, I remembered my talons raking through indigo eyes; remembered the axe plunging into Ruby’s head. They were dead because of me and I found that a sickening guilt swept over me whenever I faced a frantic, hungry dragon. But here in the Pits, guilt was a weakness so it quickly hardened into self-loathing which, when fuelled, became fury. It was that fury that gave me the edge in the practice pits. If you succeeded, you were fed. If not, you went hungry. I ate well most nights, whereas others limped to their corners, broken and bleeding and hungry still.
What set me apart from the others, however, was the fact that I did not fear the sticks either. I remembered the thrill of the Lamoan pirates, the rush as I spilled their blood on the decks of the ships. I remembered the crunch of Philius’ wrist as my jaws came down on the torch, the smell of burning flesh as I sprayed flames into his eyes. That, I reckoned, none of these combatants had ever done. I had a reputation now and it gave me a nerve that the others lacked. I believe the handlers feared me, just a little and that was a very good feeling.
Now, even my dinners had an audience. Sticks would pay for the privilege to watch us fight and kill and eat, and I thought it an odd business to cheer at the defeat of such majestic creatures as dragons. Apparently, they paid more now, as the handlers faced danger and ‘certain death’ while working with me. I had been fitted with a new collar, one with spikes of steel called a blood-bolt, and in glimpses of silverstone, I can assure you that it looked very menacing around my night-black throat. They also had a new name for me, which once again I must admit was fitting for a dragon of my proud, tragic, terrible nature.
Warblood.
One evening, I was led up a long underground tunnel and the sound of sticks grew louder with each step. There was a large wooden door bolted from the inside that vibrated with the sound of their chanting. Warblood. Warblood. Warblood. It rekindled my fledgling vanity and when the door was finally swung open, I burst out onto the arena floor, the sticks wildly trying to control me with ropes and whips. It made, I believe, for a most excellent entrance.
I was in the Crown.
It was the very first time and I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the strange light. The sky above was dark, with my stars and the twin moons shining like beacons. Torches burned along the travertine walls. Columns and arches, stairs and benches and most of all, sticks. Rows and rows of their odd, flat faces seated all around me, many levels up like rocks dotting a mountainside, protected by a web of iron mesh that ran up to the very high ceiling. It was dented in many places and I imagined it was from dragons flying too fast and not making the turns. The entire place smelled of blood and sticks and smoke, and when I reared onto my back legs and spread wide my wings, the entire crowd fell silent.
The only thing I could think of was my colouring. I was a night dragon, the colour of ash and stars and smoke and death. Stealthy and silent, I could steal their flocks in the night. I could murder their children and set fire to their homes. They didn’t know that all I wanted was to be free of this silver band and return to the Anquar Cliffs a wildling once more. They didn’t know that I would do it or die trying.
I bugled to the night sky, once, twice, three times and the crowds went wild, a roar like the thunder of Hell Down and my heart soared at the sound. My handlers moved forward, using poles to remove the ropes at my head and neck and I lunged at them, causing the crowd to roar more. It was the oddest thing I had ever experienced but I knew that in the Crown, a dragon was expected to perform if he was to live.
I vowed to give them a performance they would not soon forget.
At the opposite end of the arena, a red drake was ushered in. He was a little larger than me and I immediately recognized him as the ill-tempered drake from the Corolanus Markets. The crowd cheered when he spread wide his wings and roared. I could see the scars from many months of living in the Pits and for the first time in weeks I felt a pang of fear. Life in the Pits was ultimately about killing, a thing that I had never actually done. I was responsible for the death of the indigo dragon, I had aided the execution of Ruby, and while I was guilty of imagining the gruesome deaths of all the sticks I hated, I had never actually taken a life other than a fish. I was all bravado and threat. Now I was being asked to kill and it set my blood racing. Could I do this and if so, how?
The red drake spied me and he let out a bellow that shook the mesh. I bellowed back, knowing that if we’d had arcstone, the entire Crown would be ablaze.
His handlers released him and he stalked forward, hissing and whipping his blood red tail. He was hot, so I needed to be cold. I glanced up at the sky and the mesh ceiling. It too was dented and I swiftly judged the number of wingspans to get there. I spread wide my wings once again, allowing myself to feel the length and width and breadth of the Crown. It was a matter of speed and precision – how soon to reach the sides, how to bank to prevent me from adding another dent in the iron web. He had likely flown in here. I had not. Added to my lack of killing, this would be my downfall.
But what a fall it would be.
Suddenly, there were only two dragons in all the world. My heart was a war drum, my blood the ice of fear but there were also the coals of fury kindling in my belly. I lowered my head, raised my wings and roared.
He leapt through the air toward me, body arched like a bow, teeth and talons leading, wings spread far back. I sprang up to meet him and our jaws clashed as we sought a hold on the other. My talons raked his belly, his raked my chest. I felt fire run like ribbons from the wounds.
In that instant I knew that he was too strong so I launched into the air. As expected, he followed, his wing beats slow and powerful. But mine were swift and efficient for once upon a time I had been a fisher dragon and I knew how to move so that the wind stung my eyes. But there was a ceiling and walls and a floor, not miles and miles of open sky. I would need skill as much as speed.
I began to circle around the widest part of the Crown, faster and faster and faster. He was at my tail, snapping and spitting acid that stung my scales. As w
e raced, his wing clipped one of the torches and it crashed to the ground, taking bits of limestone with it. At one point I scraped along the iron mesh protecting the sticks. Pain flashed behind my eyes but for their part, the sticks howled with pleasure and I hated them for it.
The red tried to intercept my circles but I was faster and he struck the mesh again and again in my wake. Faster and faster I flew, angling my flight so that it was ceiling to floor now, ceiling to floor in a dangerous ellipse that could kill either one of us with the slightest miscalculation. I counted the wing strokes that it took to go up before the ceiling, and then the sickening lurch of a spiral, counting the strokes before I hit the ground. He matched my speed, his jaws snapping as he sought my tail and I whipped it like the wind to dizzy him. My stomach flipped as I approached the ceiling, banked so sharply that my talons clanged along the mesh. Downward now and I timed it, my heart threatening to burst as the ground rose up so quickly. Barely a wingspan above the floor, I suddenly reversed, lurching upwards and reaching back with my talons, hoping he would be where I expected him to be. He was and I caught his red face and swung him downwards despite his beating wings.
He hit with a crunch and tumbled tail over spine, tail over spine, before finally sliding to a stop in a twitching heap in the sand.
There was silence in the Crown.
I hovered over him, wings beating slowly, blowing bits of sand across the arena floor. His tail whipped back and forth, his legs kicked and thrashed but his head, neck and wings did little more than quiver. In one instant, I had broken his neck and for some reason, I remembered Ruby, flailing in the mud.
Ruby, the indigo dragon and now this warrior red.
It struck me like a poison-tipped spear.
I was a killer of dragons.
The crowd however erupted in cheering, sent coins flying through the air so they fell like hard rain upon us. The handlers entered the arena, two with long brooms to keep me away, others with spear and axe to finish what I had started. I bellowed but they ignored me, moving toward the thrashing red with their instruments of death. I remembered the night in Allum’s pen, when Philius had come to call and those hard, simmering little coals began to rage.
Dragon of Ash & Stars: The Autobiography of a Night Dragon Page 10
