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

by H. Leighton Dickson

  Honour, integrity, respect. Things I thought I possessed, qualities I believed would set me in good stead with these sticks, were merely lies to keep me submissive and working. I understood now how they had used pride as both bait and capture. It was clever really. That’s why they were masters and I wore a silver band.

  When Philius had come to call…

  The memory stirred inside me.

  I swung my head, scanning the sea of flat faces, finally seeing the torch and limestone burning on the arena floor. I arrowed towards it and scooped the torch in my jaws, tossing it so I could swallow the flames back as far as the silver band. The crowd roared and I soared over the red dragon, spitting acid flame at both handlers and their pathetic weapons as I went. Spear and axe instantly blazed and the handlers scrambled out of the way as I spat again, this time lighting the brooms with the borrowed fire. My mouth burned and my tongue sizzled and the fire from the torch quickly sputtered and died but I was not going to repeat the night in Gavius’ fields. No stick would do this because of me.

  The blame was mine. Likewise, the blood.

  The crowd fell silent as I landed near the drake. His eye rolled up to meet mine and, with wings spread wide, I put a clawed foot on his shoulder. I wished in that moment to have been able to talk the way the sticks talked, to exchange thoughts with such ease and fluidity. Dragons are not blessed with language. We roar, we sing, we bellow, we grumble, but we don’t talk. And I wondered if I had finally stumbled on the one true thing that made the sticks more powerful than dragons.

  I reached down and sank my teeth into his throat, the one area that has no spines or spikes to protect it, and pressed down. Too hard. Our skins are too hard, so I tore with my clawed foot once, twice, three times until blood sprayed across my scales. I could see the vessels now, red and blue and oozing with life and I bit, severing them as if they were lemonwhites. He shuddered once, then died and I lifted my head, blood dripping from my teeth and jaws.

  I spread my wings and bellowed at them now, at the pathetic handlers who thought a broom could stop me. At the pathetic crowds who paid to see us fight and kill each other. At the world of sticks in general and at the injustice of life and power and death and I roared so that the blood sprayed out of my mouth like fire and I hated them with all the fire that was in my belly. I hated myself as well, for my vanity and foolishness and pathetic integrity and in that moment, I vowed to change the laws of dragons and men.

  Perhaps it was a good thing that we don’t have language, for the crowd went wild – cheering and leaping and throwing coins like the rain. But they didn’t know what I was thinking and they couldn’t tell what I had just said, for at the next chance I got, and every chance after that, I would kill a stick for every dragon until the scale was even once more.

  I let them lead me to my pen but I did not sleep that night, nor for many other nights after that.

  Chapter 11

  DOME OF DRAGONS

  After eight months in the Pits, I was still alive. I suppose that meant I was unbeaten. I never liked to think of the blood I had spilled along the way.

  It wasn’t because I was stronger. It wasn’t because I was more savage. I think it was simply because I was smarter and had a canny recollection of where I had come from and where I was going. I was also angry and I harnessed that anger, made it very small like those coals, using them instead as fuel when I needed them. I killed many dragons because of those coals, when what I really wanted to do was kill the sticks that imprisoned us. In those eight months, I had maimed several men, delimbed one and crippled another but I still hadn’t killed. They were careful around me, all the while rewarding my misbehaviour with freedom and food.

  When I say freedom, I mean the Dome of Dragons. It was mine for several hours a day then, to fly, to swoop, to sleep and to hunt, for they would occasionally release a wild jumpbuck or daggernewt into the Dome so I could keep my skills sharp. Not often, however. They needed to keep us on the edge of starvation, rewarding us with food if we survived a match and killed. A cruel bargain – death for food. Cruel but effective. We all desired to live.

  I don’t think they’d ever had a wild dragon in the Pits, only those who had been bred into service to fish or pull carts or whatever else a stick could think of for a dragon to do. I had been born wild. I had fished for my dinner and I remembered back to the time as a fledgling when I had fought off a seasnake and won. Those memories added to the fuel and anger became my core; a hard, sharp white-hot coal of fury and self-loathing and will.

  Twice a week I fought to a full Crown, and the theatrics grew more spectacular with each passing battle. There were parades and army drills first to warm up the crowds. Sticks fought each other and I knew that not all were soldiers. I thought of Rue, how he had been bought and sold and wondered if a stick could be sold to fight in the Pits. Regardless, sticks fought sticks then gore bulls and direcats. Then gore bulls fought direcats, and the winners fought dragons and finally dragons fought dragons. Not all would die, but many would and I learned that sticks loved the sight and the smell and the very idea of blood.

  Interestingly, dragons never fought sticks. I think the thought of us killing them was something too deep, too visceral, and therefore, too dangerous. Naturally, I thought about it all the time.

  My fights were now the finals of the nights. The sticks would lead in a new challenger and the crowd would cheer, wondering if this would be the one to defeat Warblood, the Night Dragon, Jewel of the Crown. The challenger would be released to fly to the roar of the crowd, but then the handlers would douse the torches one by one, leaving a very few to burn in the arena. Then, I would arrive, swooping from the ceiling in almost perfect cover – my scales the stars, my wings smoke in the night sky. Just like with the red drake, I would strike the killing blow almost immediately, leaving my opponent with enough life left for a pathetic parlay once the torches were relit. The crowd never knew my strategy – just the sight of a night dragon filled them with awe, wonder and more than a little fear. It was the easiest job I had ever done and I could have done it forever had it not been for the fact that I hated myself now as much as I hated the sticks.

  We never fought in the Dome. The Dome was a place of respite for dragons and sticks alike, and there were many days when I would watch handlers roam the great arena for hours on end. Oh yes, they would clean, they would prune, they would move rocks and rake sand and plant seeds but they would also sleep and spar and laugh and read. I never understood how men who lived in a world of violence and death, could have normal lives beyond that. As I’ve said, I thought of Rue often, wondered if he could have been a handler like this. Wondered if these men had been bought and sold into such a life or if it was merely a servitum like tending a plow or tilling a field. Something they did in order to have food and shelter and a modicum of purpose.

  Like life in Bangarden, I had much time to think.

  I had a new collar – not studded like the previous, but buckled leather cased in silver. It was called a clap-lock and I preferred it immensely. I also had a nose ring. It had happened quite suddenly when one day a tray of shredded goswyrm hearts appeared through the food hatch of my pen. Goswyrm hearts are particularly sweet and were a common treat for favoured dragons in the Pits. I never thought to question it and devoured it immediately, licking the tray clean with my sticky tongue. But almost at once, a heaviness came over me and I found my legs buckle beneath. I put it down to the contented effects of the wyrm until the door rolled open and a dozen sticks rushed in.

  I was used to being handled by them. I was used to them inspecting my teeth or tending my rare wounds but this was different. A heavy mesh was thrown across my back and the sticks held me down, pinning my wings and keeping me on the floor. My response was sluggish and now I believe they must have treated the hearts with a soporific. I could barely lift my head or lash my tail and before I knew it, a needle was thrust through the septum between my nostrils, which is the only tender bit of a dragon’s sn
out. Fire and light popped behind my eyes and I thrashed sideways, knocking several handlers to the floor. With a roar I rose up like a thundercloud but the sticks had done their job and fled, rolling the door closed behind them.

  I shook my head and snapped my jaws, blinking as I tried to adjust to this unnatural addition. My nose throbbed with the sting of many thornets, more so when I tried to rub it with my wing claw. A ring, I realized. They had fitted me with a ring like a common pit dragon and the coals of my fury blazed anew.

  If I had seen it reflected in a slice of silverstone however, I think I would confess to the fact that it was made of very fine hammered steel. Some part of me would have approved, if only just a little.

  Another important thing I must confess is the fact that, during my time in the Dome, I had bred a drakina. Several, in fact, given my advantageous colouring and prowess in the Crown. I suppose they were trying to breed for either of those qualities, though I truthfully didn’t care. A drake never thinks of eggs or hatchlings, only having more drakinas than any other drake in the territory. They are as important to him as his pride.

  A fine drakina had been let into the Dome one day while I was dozing and at first, I thought they meant me to kill her. I had never killed a dragon in the Dome and wasn’t sure what to do when an overpowering scent reached my nostrils. It reminded me of Ruby in Gavius’ oryza fields and I suddenly understood the indigo dragon and his night visits. The scent was like the taste of lemonwhites – sweet, smooth and overpowering to all other senses. But I also remembered Summerday’s tease and Ruby’s temper, so I watched her from the branches of a very tall tree and debated what I should do.

  She was a year-and-a-halfling, fine-boned and charcoal like dark, dark stone. I don’t believe she had ever been in the Dome before as she explored first the rocks and trees and bubbling pond before finding the sand and rolling over in it, enjoying the feel as it polished her scales and spines. My heart ached at the sight of a dragon just being a dragon. We are majestic and charismatic creatures, ill suited to a life of service. I wished the sticks could see that.

  I unfurled my wings and soared down from the tree, surprised that I hadn’t surprised her. She lifted her head from the sand, blinked slowly and rolled again, lashing her tail from side to side. I sat and watched her for a while, wondering if I should bring her a gift. I had killed a young nox earlier on, one that had been unceremoniously shoved into the Dome and I had broken its neck with ease. (Honestly, I do believe he was happy to see me the instant before he died.) And so, I lifted off and returned with a haunch I was saving for later, reckoning it might serve me better in the belly of the drakina than in my own.

  She rose to her feet, shook the sand from her charcoal scales and approached without fear. She put a claw on the haunch and hissed at me, just in case. Language, I marvelled. We didn’t speak with words like the sticks, but we communicated. I sat back and watched her as she ate, pondering this lack of language among our people. But before I knew it, she was rubbing her head along my flank, growling and purring in a way that reminded me of Summerday yet again. She was obviously in season and the scents of drakina and nox blood were a heady mix. She snapped at me now and I snapped back, spreading my wings and dipping my head low to the ground. Suddenly, she sprang into the air, rocketing toward the mesh ceiling like a star. I leapt after her and followed, for the first time in a long time flying with someone who wasn’t trying to kill me. Soon, we were neck and neck, soaring around the Dome, the envy of all the other dragons who were watching from their pens. She twisted in midair and raked my flank with her claws before wheeling and spiralling downward. I bellowed and followed again until I struck her from above, our wings battering, our tails lashing like whips. We soared upwards now, twisting and spinning in an arc through the domed sky until my jaws clamped down on the back of her neck and suddenly, I knew.

  It was like Hallow Fire, I must admit. The flash of light that illuminates everything and threatens to burn all in its rush and quickly we dropped like stones to the sand. Wings and necks entwined we rolled across the floor, crushing shrubs and saplings under our weight and threatening to take down many of the older trees with our tails. Her scales were the wind, her spines the mountains and if we were not banded, our fire would have scorched the earth. Bellow and breath, claw and couple, the mating of dragons is a deadly thing. Even for us, it threatens to consume us, overturn all our majesty and turn us into creatures of instinct and lust.

  The mating of dragons also takes a long time and it was dark when the handlers came to separate us. Believe me when I tell you, if I had my fire, they would have all been turned to ash.

  I never saw the charcoal drakina again, but several weeks later, I was presented with another one, this time the colour of deep waters. You may also believe me when I tell you that this time, I was much more savvy, and shared only a very small piece of the haunch. As I’ve said, I am a clever dragon and was able to breed and still eat twice that day. A few weeks after that a brown and after that, another grey. If it weren’t for the Crown, life would have been good for me.

  And I could see the sky.

  The stars called to me at night, telling tales of the Fat Fish and the Dying Wyrm and most of all, my father, Draco Stellorum. I learned the patterns of his eyes during that time – the Wide Eyes, the Sleepy Eyes, the Winking and the Blinking. Since the Dome was open (with only the iron mesh to keep us in), there was nothing to keep the rains out and when they came, it was magical. As I’ve said before, water is a dragon’s friend and even the fiercest of downpours was a delight. During those times, I would close my eyes and remember when I could fly without harness or mesh to limit me. There were times when I could almost hear the tides and I missed the sound of the sea, the rise and fall of the waves, the smell of the salt on the wind. It was very helpful in keeping those coals of fury alive, otherwise I could have grown complacent. As it was, it only served to sharpen my desire for freedom. I would return to the Cliffs or die in the process.

  One afternoon, while dozing in the Dome, I heard a sound and lifted my head to see five shadows cross the mesh roof. My heart thudded in my chest. A Dragon Flight. A Dragon Flight had come to the Pits. It filled my head with all manner of questions. What was a Flight doing here? Was it for fighting and if so, against me? Surely the riders of a Flight would never watch a match where dragons killed dragons for sport. I couldn’t possibly fight a Flight dragon – I wouldn’t and I resolved myself to die with honour instead of fight one of them. I’m not sure why I felt that way. I had never met a Flight dragon, not truly. I had saved the great silver drake, but I hadn’t met him. However, his rider seemed like a man I could respect and there was much to be said for that.

  Unless of course, the honour of the Dragon Flight was all in my mind. Perhaps there was no world in which dragon and rider worked as one, only served and servant. I thought back to Rue and Gavius, to little Tacita and her char sketches in the night. Good sticks, noble sticks, but still I wore a band at my throat.

  I glanced at the ceiling mesh. It was almost gnawed through in one corner. Teeth and dragon acid were a potent combination and I silently thanked Ruby for my introduction to the art of the great escape.

  Handlers showed up and rolled open my ground-floor door. That was my cue to return to my pen, although I’d often wondered what they would do if I didn’t. I never acted on that question and this time, like all other times, I soared down to land on the sand, snapping and growling and they gave me a wide berth as I lumbered in. My thoughts were racing however, and I found myself puzzling over why a Dragon Flight would be in the Pits. There had not been a jumpbuck, nox or daggernewt released in the Dome for me that day. Or the day before, when I paused to think about it.

  In my pen, I laid my head down across my claws, wrestling with my thoughts. I lay for the rest of the day, knowing that tonight I would be called upon to fight and kill and, depending on the challenger, perhaps die. I was nearing three and almost my full size. (Although dragons can g
row every year of their life. I have heard of dragons that are bigger than mountains, and dragons that live in the water where sticks make their homes on them like islands.) If I died today, I would never know how big I would have grown had I stayed on the Cliffs of Anquar. So little of my life had been my own choosing.

  And so I waited for the rising of the stars and the filling of the Crown and the trumpets and the parades and dousing of the torches and the rush of blood in my veins. And for the first time in my life, I dreaded the coming of the night.

  Chapter 12

  JEWEL OF THE CROWN

  It was dark when they came for me.

  I needed four handlers now and I moved slowly, reluctantly, down the tunnels toward the Crown. They tried to make me move faster, tugging at my nose ring, tapping my legs with switches, tapping my tail with brooms. My growl echoed in the tunnels and they stopped. I believed by then I had their respect. At least, that’s what I told myself.

  We didn’t use the wooden door anymore – that was for all others and for challengers. The Night Dragon didn’t walk in to the Crown. No, I had a special chamber on the sixth level. Originally a cleaner’s hallway, it had been reconstructed for me with a long low ceiling, narrow dark walls and a silent drape of linen for a door. But it opened high into the Crown and allowed for an entrance from above, unseen by sticks or dragons, thus preserving the element of surprise for both.

  As I waited at the linen drape, I could hear the crowd roaring again, could smell the blood and excitement of other dragons. The torches were still blazing so it was not my time and I tossed my head, rattling the ring and slapping the ropes. I was angry and eager to get on with the night. Victory or defeat. Life or death. There was no other way in the Crown and I was weary of the game.