by Paul Dale
“Congratulations, Father,” said Morden. “I think you’ve just set a new record for parenting. You must be proud.”
Lord Deathwing’s expression was not one of paternal pride. It reflected more the dread realisation he had more than twenty mewling, demanding children.
“It could be worse,” said his father.
“It could?”
“Nappies,” said Lord Deathwing. “At least they won’t be needing those.”
The screeching of the dragonlings had reached a cacophony of hungry screams.
“I guess it’s feeding time,” said Lord Deathwing, and he strode forward, changing smoothly as he did into a lithe black dragon. He was not as big as his wife, but he was still an impressive beast—he was more muscular and moved with the grace of a predator. Between the two of them, they did a good job of making the huge cavern feel that much smaller.
He joined his wife, who was surrounded by her young, and roared. It was deafening and silenced the young, who cowered before this new dragon. Lord Deathwing then turned his attention to the captives who remained huddled to one side. They cried out as he approached, the cries turning to screams when he lunged at one, taking the man in his maw. A snap of his jaws and blood spewed out. With a shake of his head, Lord Deathwing ripped the man apart and gobbled him down. The dragonlings watched their father and began to cry. Lord Deathwing called them over and they came in a bundling mass, fighting past each other to get to their food. The guards ran for the entrance, beating back any captives who sought to follow them. The dragonlings launched into the men, snarling and fighting as they set about tearing them apart and feeding.
Morden watched with a mixture of fascination and horror. Until now, he had never fully appreciated all that being a dragon meant. Perhaps it was because his father spent so much time looking like any other man, or close enough, he had assumed dragons were not that different to men or orcs. Perhaps it was because when he had been able to assume his own dragon-form, he had never had the inclination, or desire, to eat people that he was horrified by what he was witnessing. It felt like cannibalism, but it obviously was not. Obvious now, anyway. It was not cannibalism when one species devoured another. That dragons and men had anything in common, other than physical appearance when they wished to hide themselves with mimicry, was washed from Morden’s mind by the blood and gore that covered one side of the cavern.
Lady Deathwing took no part in the feeding, instead concerning herself with one egg that had not hatched. She warmed it with her fire and used her claw to tear away the shell when it had softened. The dragonling inside was curled into a ball and slid onto the cavern floor, lifeless. Lady Deathwing nudged it with her nose, as though trying to poke life into the stillborn, but no amount of prodding or cajoling was going to bring it back. Seeming to realise this, she pulled back and turned the corpse to ash, then turned her attention back to the young that had survived.
The twenty-one dragonlings that had survived were cleaning up what remained of the prisoners. Crying with hunger, they cast around for more but the guards had legged it. Morden couldn’t blame them, nor would he want them eaten; it would be terrible for morale if word got out that his personal guard had become little more than breakfast. When there was nothing left but stains on the rock and blood smeared across faces, Lord Deathwing cried a command and resumed his human form, though with his dragonscale skin. His young cried out in consternation at the change. They poked their noses cautiously in his direction and sniffed.
Again, his father called out. It was odd to hear a dragon call coming from—black scaled skin aside—a human. Morden understood what he wanted but it was not clear the dragonlings did. And then one changed, and a naked, black-skinned girl—no bigger than a six-year-old—was standing amongst her brothers and sisters. His father held out a hand and she ran to him and grasped it. Lord Deathwing lifted his daughter and held her in the crook of his arm. She wrapped an arm around his neck and he whispered something to her. Morden was too far away to hear clearly.
From one side, Lady Deathwing called out, changed, and joined her husband. She stroked her daughter’s dark hair.
The message was clear, and another dragonling changed, followed swiftly by a second and a third. In no time, there was a hoard of naked, black-skinned boys and girls clamouring for attention. Morden watched, fascinated and ignored. His father and his wife knelt and embraced each of their children in turn, whispering something in the ear of each as they were hugged. When they were done, Lord and Lady Deathwing stood and approached Morden, their children in a flock behind them.
“My lord,” said his father, bowing his head in deference. Morden was taken aback but understood. His father had assumed a dominant position with his offspring, and, in showing deference to Morden, he was establishing a hierarchy. He was Morden’s father, but Morden was a Dark Lord, and that trumped the familial relationship.
“Lord Deathwing. Lady Deathwing. I believe congratulations are in order. You have a fine family.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said Lady Deathwing. She ushered her children forward so they swarmed around the three adults. Their little hands grasped at their parents. The braver ones tugged at Morden’s robe, one even taking his hand briefly, then thinking the better of it and letting go.
“And you, my lord,” said his father, “have a Black Dragon Flight.”
Chapter 28 Dragons Revealed
The devil in the detail has big horns, sharp nails, and a pointy tail.
The Dark Lord’s Handbook
All it had taken for Hal to get a job was bake one loaf. Likewise, all it had taken for Zara to get a job was to punch the orc captain in the face when he had laughed at her application to join the guard. Both jobs kept them busy—Hal, because there was a fortress full of hungry orcs, and Zara, because there was a fortress full of bored orcs when they weren’t training. Eating, drinking, and fighting seemed to be the full repertoire of life in a Dark Lord’s army. As for Ferg, Hal thought the orc had got a little strange. He was coming and going all the time and was vague about what he was doing. Whatever it was, he was able to keep them up-to-date with what was going on.
Rumours were rife about the Dark Queen, Griselda, having had a monstrous tiff with Morden and she had been seen leaving with Lord Deathwing. Where she was going, or when she would be back, were the subject of heavy betting. Many thought she was pissed off with the volcano exploding, and all the ash, and she had gone to sit on a beach. In the meantime, training was stepping up, and, more importantly, the smithies were working flat out. War was coming and the excitement levels were rising. After three years, it looked like something was going to happen.
This was all well and good, but Hal felt like they were making no progress in their quest. He was forming up a batch of crusty loaves for the morning bake instead of dragon slaying. If all he wanted to do was bake bread, he could have stayed at home. The bakery here was so familiar. The only major difference was the quality of the flour; he knew good flour when he saw it, and he didn’t see any here. The fact Hal had quickly gained the reputation for making the best bread in the fortress was more down to his use of the right amount of salt. Personally, he thought it tasted like the sawdust he suspected it was made from. But he was happy enough; kneading bread did give him plenty of time to think. He was still unsure how he was going to kill a dragon even if he could get close to one. He had no weapon other than a cheap sword. How the dragon slayers of yore managed to notch up a death toll to the point that dragons became creatures of myth was a mystery. They must have had a trick. He couldn’t imagine for a second they went toe-to-toe and came out ahead. Hal was sure it had something to do with the odd feelings he had had when he had been face-to-face with the Dark Lord in the sewer. Part of him had recognised the dragon inside Morden. It was as though he knew him in the way a predator knows its prey.
As if to reinforce the notion he may as well have been at home, there came a familiar knock from the front of the bakery. Hal set his dough aside and went to let Zara in
. He went to give her a kiss but she put an arm out.
“What happened to your eye?” he asked, as she pushed past him.
Zara didn’t say anything at first, unbuckling her sword and planting herself on a stool. She leaned against the wall and put a hand to the eye in question, prodding it gingerly. “I didn’t duck in time.”
Hal fetched her some water and a saved roll from yesterday, then went back to finishing his batch. Yurg would be in soon, expecting to see the first loaves of the day in the oven. While he was more than happy with Hal, he was still a taskmaster, cutting Hal no slack in his duties. He didn’t like Zara much either, being part of the guard who were universally disliked for spoiling everyone’s fun.
“Rough night?” asked Hal.
Zara chewed on her roll. Hal wished it were up to his normal standard, but he knew it wasn’t.
“No rougher than normal,” said Zara. “These orcs like to fight. If they put this much energy into the war then the folks back home are in for a big surprise. Have you see Ferg? I dropped by our place on the way here and he wasn’t there. He’s a sneaky bastard.”
“He’s not been here. And I don’t think we have anything to worry about. If he was going to betray us, he had more than enough time to do so on the way here, and even more opportunity while we’ve been here. He may be shady but I think he’s all right. I like him.”
Zara grunted and washed down the last of her roll with some water. She pulled a face like she had eaten something nasty, which she had. “I’m going home.”
“I’ll be back later.”
Zara left Hal to finish up his morning bake. He would be busy until early afternoon when the others came in. One of the reasons he had been given the job was because orcs were not early risers and, once Hal had proven his worth, Yurg had been happy to let Hal run things and amble in after a late rise. The orcs who came to the bakery had been circumspect at first but, once they had tasted the bread, they treated Hal like any other human mercenary who could be found around the fortress. It suited Hal because it gave him his afternoons off and he was used to working those hours.
It was a busy morning as normal and in no time Yurg was there and packing him off home with a couple of loaves. Hal generally used one to trade for meat. Getting home, he found Ferg downstairs spooning something from a bowl. Zara was likely still asleep upstairs. He wished he could sneak up there but he thought she needed the rest more. And Ferg was here. He didn’t want the orc around if they got passionate. Zara wasn’t the quietest of lovers and Hal would have found it embarrassing with Ferg downstairs listening. Hal put the loaf on the table next to Ferg and threw himself onto his bed. Ferg tore a piece of the loaf and began to mop his bowl with it.
Hal closed his eyes and dozed. He was dreaming of Zara’s soft bed, and even softer breasts, when he was woken by her stomping down the stairs, looking dishevelled and rubbing sleep from her eyes. Hal felt bleary-eyed himself. Looking round, Ferg was nowhere to be seen.
“That orc sneaked off again?” asked Zara.
“I was asleep.”
Zara poured herself a cup of water and sat at the one table they had as furniture. The room was sparse but it didn’t seem worthwhile doing anything about it, given they weren’t going to be there long—in theory. Whereas in fact, they were no closer to their goal than they had been when they had sneaked into the Dark Lord’s fortress.
Looking out the window, it was late afternoon. In an hour, it would be dark and Zara would leave for her job with the night watch. Hal wished she didn’t need to work, but they had to pay off the orc who let them stay here. And Zara used her license to roam to learn what she could about the goings-on in the fortress. In her private moments with Hal, she made it clear she didn’t want to rely on Ferg entirely.
Hal got up and considered what he would cook for their supper before Zara had to go. There was little choice. It would be stew using meat of indiscernible origin. Hal had started to separate meat from the small bones when there came a commotion from outside. Zara was quickly to her feet—commotions were her business. A second later, Ferg stuck his head through the door.
“You want to get out here and see this,” said the orc.
Zara grabbed her sword, clearly expecting trouble. Hal put the small knife he was using down, then thought better of it, picked it back up and followed Zara. The street was filling with orcs all looking in one direction, up and towards the volcano. Hal’s heart sank. The last thing they needed was another eruption. But when Hal turned to look for himself, it wasn’t a volcano belching fire he saw, but dragons. While he judged they were not adult, they were much, much bigger than any bird. They were sweeping around in a flight as though playing. If they were making any noise, it was drowned out by the commotion from the orcs on the street. There was clear jubilation at the sight and they began chanting Morden’s name.
Then two huge black dragons rose into the sky above the smaller ones, beating powerful wings to gain height quickly. Below them, the smaller dragons continued to tumble around each other. The two larger dragons started to fly as one, like dancers. They swooped and soared, twisted and turned, wingtip to wingtip. At the bottom of one dive, they belched fire in unison, lighting up the dusk and getting a cheer from the watching orcs. Among the smaller dragons, some continued to play. Others paired up and started to copy the dragons above them. Couples became groups of three and four. There were collisions and tumbles, some happy to keep up their rough and tumble, but after a while there was a ballet of dragons above the smoking volcano. As if performing a grand finale, the two large dragons rose high into the sky and tucked their wings into a dive. When it looked like they would hit the ground, they spread their wings and pulled up, breathing flame and setting the ground alight with liquid fire. Some of the braver, smaller dragons tried to follow the example, with varying levels of success, the best coming close, the worst face-planting into the ground and tumbling across the volcano’s slopes.
And then they were gone, the larger dragons rounding up the smaller and ushering them to one side of the mountain where they disappeared.
“What was that?” asked Hal, standing next to Ferg.
“The Black Dragon Flight,” said the orc. “Your target.”
*****
The three of them sat around the small table, spooning stew from bowls with something that resembled beer to wash it down. Hal stared into his mug and watched the dirty brown bubbles swirl around. He missed the fruity beer from home. He’d forgotten what actual beef, or lamb, or pig tasted like. As for a fresh vegetable … he’d never been one for his greens but right now he’d do anything for some broccoli or peas. He swished his spoon around his bowl, chasing down the lumps in the gravy. Finding none, he broke off a chunk of bread and soaked it.
Zara and Ferg were equally intent on their food, the orc showing more relish in what he was eating than Zara. Both seemed lost in thought as they ate. It had been a sobering display. The difficult task of killing a dragon or two, one being a Dark Lord, had now become an impossible one. It had been hard to count how many dragons had been in the sky but it was well over a dozen. Nearer two dozen. At least there were only two incredibly huge dragons, so that was something. He could kill those first and then deal with the others afterwards. It couldn’t be that hard. After all, he was a dragon slayer and that meant he could slay dragons. All he had to do was stroll up and stick it to them. If he asked nicely, they would probably line up and wait patiently to be slain. If he got a good night’s sleep, he could probably get it done after work tomorrow and they could head off home to receive the heroic welcome the saviours of civilisation deserved. They’d probably name streets after him and put up statues. Just the one estate would be nice. Maybe two. A summer residence somewhere warm would be good. He and Zara could settle down and raise some head-cracking dragon slayers.
“What are you grinning at?” asked Zara.
“Nothing,” said Hal. He pushed his bowl away and leaned back. He was still hungry, but that wasn’
t new. He’d been hungry for two months. He put a hand to his belly; he’d never thought himself fat but now there was no doubting he was bordering skinny.
“That bowl isn’t going to wash itself,” said Zara. She grabbed the last bit of bread and wiped her bowl clean as though she were trying to avoid washing up her own.
Hal took his bowl over to the pail in the corner and splashed water over it.
“So. Dragonslayer. What’s the plan?” asked Zara.
The tone of her question made it clear to Hal she thought whatever hope they had of doing anything vaguely useful had gone. Hal sat down again without dignifying her sarcasm with an answer.
“How about you, orc? Got a cunning plan?”
Ferg was still spooning his food. With his free hand, he raised a single digit in Zara’s direction.
“Great. That’s just great.”
Ferg licked his spoon and with a flourish threw it into his bowl. “Actually, I do have an idea.”
“Really?”
“Zara, give him a chance. It’s not like you have a plan.”
“Actually, I do,” said Zara. “It’s very simple and doesn’t involve killing ourselves trying to do the impossible. Tomorrow, we gather together the pathetic amount of crap we still have, we get the fuck out of here, and go home. How’s that for a plan?”
Hal had to admit the plan had its merits. It was simple, for a start. And he was homesick. And it was clear he had no chance of killing any dragons.
“What’s your idea, Ferg?” asked Hal.
Ferg pushed his chair back and stood. “Doesn’t matter. Her plan is so much better. I’m going to go get drunk and we can leave tomorrow. How’s that for a plan? Hal, why don’t you make sure you bring back a load of bread tomorrow so we have provisions. We’ll leave tomorrow night.”
“You’re serious?” Hal was taken aback. He’d been sure Ferg would come up with something.
