by Jane Yolen
It was on that third Bond-Off, as Jakkin and his dragon were lazing in the sand after a hard session of training, that Jakkin thought about the latest mating flight he had seen.
"Canst use thy wings yet?" he asked, picturing the wild mating spiral in his mind. "Canst thou do more than a hover?"
The dragon responded by pumping its wings strongly, stirring the sand and making little frothy eddies in the stream. Then, as Jakkin watched, the dragon began to rise. Its great wings pumped mightily and Jakkin could see the powerful breast muscles moving under the shield of skin. The dragon rose as high as the shelter roof; then two more pumps brought it above the treeline, where it hovered a minute. Suddenly it caught a current of air and rode off into the sea of sky.
Jakkin stood, one hand over his eyes, straining to follow the disappearing dragon. He bit his lip and touched his bag. Now that it knew what its wings were for, the dragon might never return. It might go feral, finding a colony of wild dragons out beyond the mountains. Loosing a feral—that had always been a possibility. And yet he hadn't believed it. Not with his dragon, not really.
In the nursery only the mating dragons were ever allowed to fly. And since they were not ready for mating until the females were two years old, the males three and quite settled into nursery routines, there was rarely a nursery dragon that went feral. Only one that Jakkin could remember had ever gone from Sarkkhan's nursery—a red-gold stud on its first mating flight, a stud named, appropriately, Blood's A Rover. It had happened when Jakkin had first helped in the barns. Likkarn had raged for days, and everyone had felt the back of his hand or the lash of his tongue.
For over an hour the sky was empty and Jakkin was near despair. And then the dragon was back, wheeling and diving and cresting the waves of air with the same buoyant grace with which it had ridden the stream. Finally it settled down, landing on the ground with an earth-shaking thump right next to Jakkin.
He looked at it with a great smile on his face. "There is none like thee," he said, moving to it and circling its neck with his arms. He put his cheek on its scaly jaw. "None."
He was rewarded with a cascade, a waterfall, a sunburst of color, and this time he did not ask it to mute its fiery show.
The Fighter
17
THE YEAR TRAVELED straight across the season, but Jakkin saw only the wavy lines of progress that his dragon made. By year's end, the dragon towered above him, and it was hard to recall the little hatchling in its yellowish eggskin that had staggered around the oasis under the weight of its oversized wings This yearling dragon was a beautiful dull red. Not the red of holly berry or the red of the wild flowering trillium that grew at the edge of Sukker's Marsh, but the deep red of life's blood spilled upon the sand. The nails on its forepaws, which had been as britde as jingle shells, were now hard—the lanceae were almost indestructible. Its eyes were two black shrouds. It had not roared yet. But Jakkin knew the roar would come, loud and full and fierce, when it was first blooded in the ring. The quality of that roar would start the betting rippling again through the crowd at the pits, for they judged a fighter partly by the timbre of its voice.
Jakkin dreamed of the pits at night, fretted about them by day. The closest minor pit—for a First Fighter could never start in a major pit; that was only for champions—was past Krakkow, the town that was fifteen kilometers from the nursery. Jakkin had tried to ask seemingly innocent questions of the other bonders about the route to Krakkow and beyond, because Akki had never been to the minor pit there. But Likkarn had overheard one such conversation and had interrupted it as he passed by, asking, "Checking out the fighting dragons for some purpose, boy?" as if he knew something. So Jakkin had stopped asking anything. He had debated going one Bond-Off to the minor pit to check them out himself. But the trip by truck cost a coin, as did the entrance fee to the pit, though Slakk said there were ways to sneak in. And he might have walked there and back in a long day, but he needed the Bond-Off to train and he had little enough gold left in his bag. Most had gone with Akki to buy more burnwort and blisterweed seeds. He never asked her how she got them, only thanked her when she handed him the precious paper packets of seeds.
He could have stolen what he needed from the nursery stores. Just a handful of seeds seemed an insignificant thing. But he never even considered it, just as he never considered sneaking into the pits. Taking an egg was acceptable thievery, the mark of a possible master. But taking supplies from a nursery might condemn an older dragon to short rations in a bad year. It could even mean death to the nursery worms. And sneaking into the pits meant cutting into the most basic part of Austarian economy. Besides, if he was caught it was punishable by a prison term on another planet. Jakkin simply would not do such a thing.
One evening, while Jakkin was putting the red through its paces, Akki came slipping quietly through the weed and wort patch. The old shoots were mostly all grazed down, but the new crop, planted with the purchased seed, was sending smoky signals into the still air. Akki's passage moved the gray smoke away from the stalks, and some of the clouds clung to her dark hair, crowning it with fuzzy gray jewels. She tried to brush the stuff off her hair and bond bag with impatient hands.
"Akki," Jakkin cried out when he saw her, unable to disguise the pleasure in his voice. It had been many days since she had visited the oasis.
She grinned lopsidedly. "I've brought you a present."
"A present? For me? What?" He sounded like a child, and willed himself to stop chattering.
She opened her bond bag and reached into it, withdrawing some crumpled pieces of paper.
"Registration papers. For the Krakkow Minor," she said, holding them out to him.
"I don't understand," Jakkin began.
"I didn't think you would. You have to sign these papers in order to fight your dragon at the pit. They don't just let anyone in, you know." She shook her head at him.
"But my father never ..."
"Your father was training a feral," she reminded him. "And he never got far enough along with it to register it. Ever since—well, the Constitution at least—there have been rules about this sort of thing."
Jakkin suddenly felt as crumpled as the paper. "I didn't realize. What would I have done?" He began half a dozen other sentences and finished none of them, mumbling half to himself and half to Akki.
"Never mind," said Akki. "I've gotten the papers all filled out. All you have to do is sign them with your mark."
"That's all?"
"That's all. I'll take the papers in and file them with the right people," Akki said. "And then, on the right day, you and the dragon will be there. At the pit. If you think your dragon is ready."
"Ready?" Jakkin gestured at the dragon. "Just look." The yearling dragon was lying by the side of the stream. It stretched out parallel to the bright ribbon of water, its red contrasting with the blue-white. In the moonlight, both the water and the dragon scales shone equally. Slowly its tail rose and fell, weaving little fantasies in the air.
Akki nodded slowly. "Thou art a beauty, in truth. In truth," she said, her voice free of its usual mocking tone.
At her voice, the dragon stirred and looked around at them.
"So," said Akki, turning back quickly to Jakkin. "How do you propose to get the dragon there? Walk along the main road with that great thing galumphing at your side? Or sneak it under the cover of darkness and get frozen during Dark-After?"
Jakkin looked down at his feet. It had been a question that had troubled him frequently and he had put off thinking about it.
"Perhaps ... I thought..." he began, then finished with a rush. "That the dragon could carry me."
"Look," said Akki, and she pulled him along by the hand to where the dragon lay in the sand. Then, as if giving a fairly stupid child a lesson in spelling, she pointed: "The dragon's shoulders, here and here, are too thin and smooth scaled for sitting. The hackles would be damaged by pressure there. And if you tried to hold on there or there"—she touched the dragon along its long
, sinuous back—"the slightest turn of its body would send those sharp-edged scales slicing into you at your most tender points."
Under the withering lecture, Jakkin held his shoulders rigid and fingered his bond bag with one hand. Akki was right. And the worst of it was, he had already figured that out for himself.
"It's been tried before, dragon riding," said Akki. "And the men who tried it had scars they would not even show the bag girls." Her voice got hard. "The ones that lived."
"I was thinking more of a harness," he said quietly. "With a swing of some kind."
Akki was silent for a moment. "Hmmm. You know. It might just work. If ... if you had more training time. And a dragon whose claws you didn't mind ruining while you practiced. But this, my boy, this dragon is a fighter."
"You don't need to remind me," said Jakkin, straightening up and walking away. Akki made him feel two ways. He was happy to see her but he was angry at her long lecture, at her calling him a boy. He had already proven his manhood—fighting drakks, stealing and training a dragon. What more did she want, anyway? His anger communicated itself to the dragon, who blew a sudden hot breath at Akki's foot.
Akki caught up to Jakkin and touched his shoulder. "Then what are you going to do?"
Jakkin flinched from her touch and sat down suddenly in the sand, his head and arms on his knees. "I ... don't ... know." He said it with a finality that precluded pity.
Akki sat down opposite him, her toes touching his. She pushed his head up with the palm of one hand. "I do!" she said, and waited.
He looked at her but could not speak.
"I have ... friends with a dragon truck," she almost whispered. "A big hauler."
"You said," Jakkin began, each word an accusation, "you said you would tell no one."
"I haven't. Yet."
"Then don't. I fill my bag myself."
She heard her own voice echoed in his and nodded. "But what else can you do? Your fight is scheduled in three days." She held out the papers again.
"What?" He grabbed the papers and smoothed them out. Slowly he read the print by the weak light of Akka.
AGREEMENT made this 127th day of Stud, 2507, between the management of the Krakkow Minor Pit and Jakkin Stewart of Sarkkhan's Nursery. WITNESSETH
In consideration of the mutual covenants herein contained, the parties agree as follows...
"Where does it say that?" Jakkin asked, the words on the page a jumble. Some of the words he had never even heard before, much less spelled out.
"There," said Akki, her finger pointing halfway down the first page.
Jakkin looked. In between the words "Jakkin's Red" and "First Fight" was a date. "It is in three days," Jakkin said.
"It was the only opening," Akki explained. "The season is already booked up with dragons from all the major and minor nurseries. But in this one fight, a dragon dropped out, a promising Second Fighter. The dragon escaped somehow. Went feral. Its owners are wild themselves. They've even accused someone of pirating, of setting the dragon free. Anyway, I was able to get the place for you. Don't ask how. It wasn't easy. But it's your only chance at Krakkow this season."
Jakkin looked up. He was about to thank her when he stopped, remembering her words of nearly a year ago. "You once said to me that letting another person fill your bag meant that there would be a hidden price to pay."
Akki smiled crookedly at him. "What a memory you have," she said. He felt, oddly, like a small child being praised. "It all depends whether you think that what you are getting is worth the price, I guess."
Jakkin looked over at his dragon. "A First Fight. In three days," he said. "It's worth it." He hesitated. "It's worth anything."
"Are you ready?"
"The question is really whether the dragon is ready," Jakkin answered, wondering why she shook her head at his reply.
At his voice, the dragon looked up and shot a single flame at them, neatly parting the two.
"Ready," said Akki, and she began to laugh.
18
AKKI'S PLANNING WAS perfect. Jakkin's Bond-Off coincided with the day of the fight. He was dressed and off to the oasis as the cold of Dark-After was still receding, a paper sack containing a slab of meat between two slices of bread inside his shirt. It was left over from the evening's meal. He had been too excited to eat it, almost too excited to sleep.
At the oasis he polished the red's scales from tip of tail to nostril slits. The first polishing was in the stream, where he made a mud bath of the sand, stirring up the streambed until the water ran brown. The second was on shore, where he dried the dragon with an extra shirt Akki had provided.
Well before the full sunrise, Jakkin was walking out across the desert, the dragon trotting docilely at his heels, heading first north and then west, well away from the nursery, to a ford in the Narrakka River. He had promised to meet Akki and her friend there.
The truck was waiting. He recognized it from Akki's description, but caution, an old habit, claimed him. He warned the dragon, "Drop. Stay." The dragon squatted down on its haunches, waiting.
Jakkin went ahead on his own, conscious of the great silent mound of dragon behind him. He was ready, at an instant's notice, to send the dragon a silent command that would have it winging into the air, past the oasis, to the far mountains, where it could live free. He walked up to the truck and knocked tentatively on the door.
A man looked out of the cab. His eyes were a calculating blue, his mustache full, and his skin neatly tailored over his bones. "Jakkin, is it?" he asked.
Jakkin nodded and, hearing steps behind him, turned quickly.
"Hello," Akki said. "This is Ardru." She pointed to the man in the truck, who opened the cab door and stepped down.
He was a bit taller than Jakkin, with an old scar that ran from the corner of his right eye to his sideburns. It gave him a piratical look. Ardru put out his hand. "I'm always happy to help Akki's friends," he said. His voice was low and he spoke the language so precisely that Jakkin could hear each syllable. Ardru smiled. "She appears to have a lot of friends."
Jakkin hesitated a moment. Ardru's name—if it was his whole name—lacked the double k that would identify him as a bonder, a son of bonders, a grandson of bonders. Only those whose ancestors had been the original masters—and there were very few left—had names free of the jailer's brand, kk. Jakkin had never met one before. He touched his bond bag with two fingers while he decided, then suddenly he put out his hand. Ardru's grasp was cool and firm. Jakkin thought at his dragon, Fly to me, now, thou First Fighter.
The air hummed with the sound of dragon wings and the sand stirred around the wheels of the truck as the red flew in and hovered. Then it turned tail down and, using the tail as a rudder, settled slowly to earth, backwinging carefully.
"Thou art an impressive worm," said Ardru aloud, fearlessly walking up to the dragon. He held out his hand for the dragon to sniff. Satisfied, the dragon houghed once and sat down.
Jakkin, too, was satisfied. The dragon filled his head with cool green-and-beige landscapes.
Ardru unzipped the back doors of the truck and gestured to Jakkin. Jakkin climbed into the cavernous canvas-and-frame body of the truck, checking the insides for anything sharp that might injure the dragon. When he found nothing, he coaxed the red in after him. The red responded at once, climbing into the truck with an eagerness that matched Jakkin's own. The whole truck shook as the dragon settled down with its tail tucked around its feet and its nose on Jakkin's sandaled feet.
"Come ride up front with us," said Akki, peering into the darkness.
"No," Jakkin replied. "The worm needs me here."
"It will do just fine without you," said Akki.
"The boy knows best, Akki," said Ardru, putting his hand on her arm.
The easy familiarity with Akki and the smooth way Ardru called him a boy angered Jakkin. He started forward, but the doors were zipped shut on his movement. And then everything was black. He could see nothing through the heavy dark canvas, but he
could hear the dragon's tail pound a sudden warning tattoo as it read the anger in his mind.
The ride to the pit was a series of thudding bumps and shimmies. Jakkin leaned against the dragon's side and tried not to absorb the shocks through his bottom, but by the trip's end he ached in every bone.
The sudden shuddering stop of the truck and the zigzag of light through the opening door seemed to happen simultaneously.
"Come on out. Hurry." It was Akki.
He got shakily to his feet and went to the door, his eyes drawn into thin slits to keep out the sun. Together Akki and Jakkin backed the dragon out of the truck.
"Where's your friend?" he asked as the red lumbered out and stretched.
"Standing watch," she answered.
Jakkin looked around. They were still in the desert, the tan truck disguised by the dunes. But ahead, about a kilometer away, he could see a large building squatting like a monstrous round beast on the sand.
"That's the pit," said Akki, nodding at the horizon with her head. "We didn't want to dump you out there. We can't have anyone know we helped you. I'd get into trouble—real trouble—at the nursery. And Ardru—well, he has to remain anonymous in all this. Do you understand?"
"Then that's not his real name?" asked Jakkin.
"Real enough," Akki answered. "And that's all you need to know. In fact, you should probably forget all about him. If I had been able to drive, I never would have asked him to help."