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

by H. Leighton Dickson

  The sky was filled with dragons and my heart soared at the sight. They were moving in all directions – some in Flights, some alone, some ascending to the skies, others descending to the towers but all in patterns, carefully orchestrated and controlled. There was no chaos like in the Anquar Cliffs. These dragons flew with purpose and order. I hated to admit that it was because these dragons had riders.

  Beside us, a large brown drake and his armoured rider guarded us and I reined in my temper. I could have easily escaped – leapt into the twilight sky to freedom but Rue’s words were still ringing in my ears. While understandable, my fear had turned to fury and I had panicked. In doing so, I had almost killed him. I couldn’t blame it all on the Pits. It was my pride once again, threatening to destroy his dream before it had even begun. So, with claws digging into the snowy stone, I stayed. To Rue’s credit, he remained standing and did not seek refuge in the warmth beneath my wing.

  Sometime during the night, a man approached, his boots crunching ahead of him in the snow.

  “Come with me,” he said. “They want to meet in Celarus’ Landing.”

  “Both of us?” asked Rue.

  “You want to be a dragon rider, don’t you?”

  Rue nodded.

  “How you going to do that without a dragon?”

  Without further address, the man turned and walked the way he had come, across one of the narrow stone bridges that led into the mountain.

  Rue looked at me.

  “Please behave, Stormfall,” he said. “For both our sakes.”

  I growled but it was half-hearted. Together, we followed the man across the bridge to the mountain.

  ***

  Celarus’ Landing was a large circular room with a ceiling easily as high as the Crown. Torches lined the walls and high window arches were open to the darkening sky. These arches were obviously made for dragons and the smell of dragonhide was everywhere. But, unlike the Crown, there was no smell of blood. No offal or death, just dragon, leather, smoke and stick and I was grateful for that. For his part, Rue was grateful to be out of the night, although his shivering did not stop. Such frail creatures, I marvelled. One bite and they’d be finished.

  There were guards armoured and holding spears, standing by the many doors of this Celarus’ Landing. Were they protecting those going in, I wondered, or those going out? It seemed a moot point – Celarus’ Landing was the heart of the Citadel. You wouldn’t be here if you were an enemy.

  Not for the first time, I was glad I didn’t understand the politics of sticks.

  Other than the guards, we were alone.

  Dragons are partial to a rare type of beauty. Colours that please the eye and patterns that engage the mind. As I swept my eyes around the room, I found myself admiring the floor in Celarus’ Landing. It was a glass and stone mosaic, a pictorial history of dragons and riders throughout the ages. On the walls were dragon skulls, some almost as large my entire body. I marvelled at the thought of a dragon living to such an age and remembered Rue telling me the legends of Anquarus, a dragon the size of an island, living in the sea.

  There was a marble man astride a huge limestone dragon literally carved into the rock and I wondered if this represented Celarus himself. On our way here, Rue had told me the story of Celarus the Swift, lieutenant of Remus and the commander of the first Dragon Flight. His name literally came to represent the one thousand dragons and riders that served the Emperor in peacetime and in war. I remembered the Lamoan pirates, their cannons and swords and I wondered if in Remus, there was ever a time of peace.

  I could hear the echo of footsteps and from one of the many doorways, a party of sticks approached. I sat up, ruffling the spines at my neck and lifting my wings from my body. Not in threat – I was not so foolish anymore – but as in a statement of presence, demanding respect. It is the way of dragons. These sticks didn’t stop or slow their approach but rather fanned out around me, hands on hips to study me like a specimen to be bought or sold. I growled, feeling like I was back in the Corolanus Markets.

  A white-headed wrinkly man in long robes stopped in front of Rue, tapped the ground with a twisted cane.

  “Ruminor has smiled on us,” said the old man.

  “Ruminor has smiled on us all,” repeated the others. Rue said nothing and silence descended into the room.

  And so, nothing was said for several long moments. Nothing was done. I relaxed my spines but did slap my tail on the mosaic, just once.

  The wrinkly man laughed.

  “Magnificent,” he said finally. “He’s big. How old?”

  “Three years or so, Master Dragoneer.”

  “And you?”

  “Sixteen summers, Master Dragoneer.”

  “Plinius,” said the man. “Dragon Master Plinius and I am as old as five of you, boy.”

  Rue said nothing. The wrinkly man called Dragon Master Plinius grinned.

  “So,” he began. “Cassien Cirrus, eh?”

  “Yes, Dragon Master,” said Rue.

  “What is your name, boy?”

  “Rue, Dragon Master.”

  “And your family name?”

  “None, Dragon Master. I don’t know my parentage. I was sold as an infant.”

  “In Corolanus?”

  “Yes, Dragon Master. In Corolanus.”

  “We don’t get many soul-boys here in the Citadel.”

  Rue swallowed, looked at the ground. I told myself he was admiring the glass and stone.

  “And do you have your soul back, Rue Soul-boy?”

  “No, Dragon Master.”

  “Ruminor hasn’t smiled on you then, has He?”

  “No, Dragon Master. I suppose not.”

  The wrinkly man grunted.

  “What makes you think a soul-boy can be a Flight Rider?”

  “Cirrus, sir,” said Rue. “He was impressed with my dragon, and then later, me.”

  “How did you come to meet our Cirrus, then?”

  “I worked the waters off the Udan Shore—”

  “In Venitus?”

  “Yes, Dragon Master,” said Rue. “Stormfall here was my fisher dragon. He helped Master Dragoneer Cirrus when the Lamoan pirates attacked.”

  “I remember reports of that raid,” said Plinius. “And how old are fisher dragons, Rue Soul-boy?”

  “Young,” said Rue. “Up to a year at most. Then they are too big for the skiffs and we have to sell them.”

  “So how old was your Stormfall when he helped Master Cirrus?”

  Rue glanced at me. “Eight months, perhaps, Dragon Master. We could only guess. He was not hatched in an aviary.”

  There was a murmur from the men.

  “Taken from wild, then?” asked the wrinkly man.

  “Yes, Master.”

  “And yet he lets you ride him. Why is that?”

  Rue shrugged.

  “He trusts me. I trust him. We’re friends.”

  “Wild dragon and soul-boy,” said Plinius, tapping his cane on the mosaic floor. “Both slaves to one master or another, yes?”

  Rue said nothing.

  “Fascinating. Tell me,” Plinius continued. “Did Cirrus mention what he wanted you for?”

  “Master?”

  “Did he say anything about the war? About Lamos or their dragons?”

  Rue frowned at him. “Lamos doesn’t have dragons, Master.”

  “Yes, yes. Yes, of course they don’t,” said the man. “And why don’t they?”

  “Well,” and Rue swallowed again. “The legends…”

  “The legends? Do you mean the history of the Remoan people, Rue Soul-boy?”

  “I, I only ever heard it over the fires as a boy…”

  “You are still a boy,” said Plinius. “What have you learned over the fires of the the myths and legends and history of the Remoan people, of the twins Remus and Lamos and the Golden Dragon of Ruminor?”

  Rue said nothing, looked back at the floor.

  “Not much, obviously,” muttered the old man.
“Have you any education at all?”

  Rue continued his study of the mosaic.

  “No history? No maths? Can you even read, boy?”

  “No, Dragon Master,” said Rue and he looked up now. “No one teaches soul-boys to read.”

  “And does that make you angry?”

  Rue shook his head.

  “That says a lot about your dragon then,” said the old man. “That he would choose a poor boy like you.”

  “We were both slaves, once,” said Rue. “Now, we’re free and here.”

  The old man grunted and now, all eyes fell upon me.

  “Interesting colouring,” said one man.

  “Cirrus said you can’t even see him at night,” said another.

  “He’s wearing a ring,” came a different voice this time. Lighter than the others and suddenly there was a hand on my flank. I swung my head to growl but it died in my throat. It was a woman and I was surprised. She didn’t look like any woman I’d ever seen before. She was as tall as the men and like them, her hair was shorn to the scalp. She looked like a warrior.

  “He’s been in the Pits,” she said, running her palm along my scars. “Cirrus said his name was Warblood.”

  “He’s killed dragons,” said another.

  “And citizens,” said the first. “That’s a problem.”

  The woman tried to lift my lip, perhaps to check my teeth. Dragon lips are tough as stone. I did not let her and I growled again.

  She laughed now.

  “He’s stubborn.”

  “He’s proud,” said Rue. “And he’s been badly treated at the hands of men.”

  “A Flight Dragon needs to be handled,” said the second. “He needs to respect our leadership and trust our instruction.”

  “Then we’ll handle him,” said Rue. “And teach him to trust. He was like that on the docks. He was the best fisher dragon I’d ever trained.”

  “And how many did you train?”

  Rue looked down again.

  “Two,” he said quietly.

  “So you a free boy now?” asked the old man and he tapped Rue on the arm with the cane. “Or are you a runaway?”

  “Free,” said Rue. “After the raid, my master released me from my servitum. I was almost done anyway.”

  “A Master releases a soul-boy why? From the kindness of his heart?”

  I could see Rue’s teeth clench, his jaw work to hold his tongue.

  “No…”

  “Why then?”

  “Because I was angry that he sold Stormfall. Because…”

  “Did you hit him?” asked the wrinkled man.

  “No.”

  Now his fingers, flexing and releasing.

  “But you wanted to.”

  “I am as tall as he is and almost as strong,” said Rue. “I could have.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “He had nothing left. The fishing huts had burned and he’d already sold the dragons. He said it was more trouble to keep me so he sent me away.”

  “Without your soul?”

  “Didn’t want it anyway,” said Rue, but there was something in his voice. The wrinkled man could hear it too. “Not that way, I mean. Not if I had to work for him for another year.”

  The old man tapped his stick.

  “That’s a very bold statement, Rue Soul-boy.”

  Now Rue lifted his eyes. They gleamed like steel.

  “Ruminor gives and Ruminor takes away,” he said finally. “If I wait for Him to give me my life, I’ll never start living.”

  “So you do have some iron in your spine, Rue Soul-boy.” Plinius grinned. It looked like it might split his wrinkled face in half. “That was two years past?”

  “Yes, Dragon Master. Two years.”

  “And what did you do with your freedom, boy?”

  “I found a job in Venitus, Dragon Master. In a fish shop.”

  “So why didn’t you take him and fish yourself?”

  “Serkus sold him immediately after the raid.” He shrugged now. “I didn’t try to find him. I had no money and no connections. Besides, the Corolanus Markets are not known for their records.”

  The old man snorted.

  “If you were a Flight Rider,” he said. “Nothing would have stopped you from finding your dragon. Your poverty has moulded you.”

  “I know what freedom tastes like,” said Rue. “I will never let it grow cold in my mouth.”

  The others murmured at that. I growled. These new sticks were proud and audacious. Too much like me.

  “Sticks?” laughed the old man. “Sticks? Do you hear him, Master Fisher Freed-Soul-boy-with-No-Surname?”

  And the cane struck once more. Rue winced and I growled again. I was weary of growling, felt the heat begin to rise in my throat

  “He’s going to burn you, Plinius!” laughed one of the men.

  “He’s going to roast you for breakfast!”

  Truth be told, I wanted to roast them all right then.

  Rue turned and grabbed my beak and for a brief flashing moment I wanted to roast him too. I lashed my tail instead, causing one of the men to leap lest I take his legs out from under him.

  “He won’t burn you,” shouted Rue. “But don’t insult him.”

  “What if I insult you?” asked the old man. “What if I hit you?”

  He struck him a third time.

  I swung my head and snarled. The walls of Celarus’ Landing echoed with the sound.

  “Take care, Plinius,” said the woman. “This dragon is angry. I can feel it.”

  “We can all feel it,” said the first man. “He’s as subtle as Hell Down.”

  The old man called Plinius grinned.

  “And what if I hit him?”

  “Please don’t, ” begged Rue. “Master Serkus hit him so much when he was in training. It was very bad.”

  The Dragon Master tapped my neck with the stick.

  “What are you thinking, night dragon?” asked the old man. “I can hear your anger like Hell Down.”

  I dipped my head, raised my wings, this time threatening true. The party of sticks stepped back.

  “Stormfall, no!” pleaded Rue but the old man tapped me again, this time on the snout. Rue grabbed my face. “I said No! Respect, Stormfall. He’s baiting you.”

  “Step away, boy,” said the man. “Let’s see what this night dragon is made of.”

  He tapped my face again. And again. And again. Rue tried to put his body between the cane and my scales but the old man simply moved around him. The tapping continued.

  “I feel it,” said the woman. “Watch out, Master Plinius. It’s coming.”

  “Oh I do know.”

  And he gripped the cane with both hands and brought it down across my head with a crack so that I saw stars.I was a creature of the stars.

  I heard Rue’s shout echo but it was only an echo, a dream, a vapour.

  I was also a creature of ash.

  I lunged forward, catching the cane entirely in my mouth, just shy of the man’s wrinkled hand. I closed my eyes and willed the fire to rise up over my tongue, creating a furnace of rushing, leaping flame. Celarus’ Landing echoed with a roar like Hell Down as smoke rolled from my nostrils. The cane instantly became char in my mouth.

  I stepped back and coughed. Ashes floated to the mosaic floor like snow.

  The old man had not moved, still held the hilt of the cane in his hands. He stared at me.

  And began to laugh.

  He laughed so that the cavernous room echoed once again with sound.

  “Well done, night dragon!” he said. “Very well done. You have the fire but you also have restraint. I would have roasted me in a heartbeat if I were you!”

  He stepped forward now.

  “Do I have your permission to touch you?”

  I swung my head to look at Rue, the men and woman cheered. It was surprising. Rue wasn’t my master. I was a free dragon, but still, that was the power of sticks.

  I turned back at the ol
d man, narrowed my eyes.

  “You understand our words,” he said, cupping my spiky chin with both hands. “That’s a good sign. Perhaps you will make a Flight Dragon after all. Hmm, a wild Flight Dragon and a rider without a soul. Surely, Ruminor is laughing now.”

  The man ran his hands along the scales of my face, up over the ridge of my eyes, placed his palms there and held. I was about to growl again but there was a sound in my mind, a whisper, a voice like wind in the sand pines. I knew it. I followed it. It was relaxing, calming, soothing and I leaned into it with both mind and body, inviting it to wash over me like warm, warm waters.

  My knees buckled and Celarus’ Landing echoed one last time as my entire body folded to the floor.

  The old man smiled, stroked my jaws with a touch like summer grass.

  “A pity you dragons can’t speak,” he said gently. “It would be lovely to hold a conversation with you. Any one of you. You are magnificent creatures. Riders are the luckiest people in all the world.”

  It was true, and I suddenly found myself approving of this strange, wrinkly, white-headed stick.

  He turned his face to Rue.

  “You will need to choose a surname. Servus, Solus or Liber. Your life, your choice. But you’ll need one, for Dragon Riders are not soul-boys with no names. I would choose Solus.”

  “Yes Dragon Master,” said Rue. “Solus.”

  “Very well, Rue Solus. You and your dragon both will need training,” he said. “Make no mistake. Dragoneers are an exclusive guild. You are here now but if you fail in any stage you will not stay. Which, given your unorthodox beginnings, is entirely possible.”

  Rue nodded as if he were uncertain. I merely blinked slowly, unimpressed.

  The old man patted my cheek.