by Marc Secchia
I Am Dragon
Fear the talon that carves your doom!
Dragon Fires Rising: Book 2
By Marc Secchia
Copyright © 2021 onward Marc Secchia
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
www.marcsecchia.com
www.dragonsglory.com
Map © 2020 onward Marc Secchia
Interior images designed by www.freepix.com
Table of Contents
I Am Dragon
Table of Contents
Map of Solixambria
Chapter 1: White Flame
Chapter 2: Princess Power
Chapter 3: Aloft
Chapter 4: Ocean Always Rises
Chapter 5: Terror Clan
Chapter 6: Water Fire
Chapter 7: Fly High
Chapter 8: Blergh
Chapter 9: For Shame
Chapter 10: Fires Burn Bright
Chapter 11: Rushing On
Chapter 12: Rains in Amboraine
Chapter 13: Royal Visit
Chapter 14: Dragon Fires Rising
Chapter 15: Honourable Pillaging
Chapter 16: Beginning of the End
Chapter 17: Orphan Smiths
Chapter 18: Ocean Bright
Chapter 19: Ocean’s Calling
Chapter 20: Until Mornine
Chapter 21: Sea Serpent
Chapter 22: Fate’s Talon
Chapter 23: Wave Dragonhome
Chapter 24: Trouble’s Odour
Chapter 25: Fiery Nuptials
Chapter 26: What Aria Sang
Chapter 27: New Dragon
Chapter 28: Riders Aloft!
Chapter 29: The Gift of Fire
Chapter 30: Dark Fortress
Chapter 31: Talon Magic
Chapter 32: A King to Save
Chapter 33: Sunshine
Chapter 34: The Little Prince
Chapter 35: Old Friends
Chapter 36: Calling Afar
Chapter 37: To the Point
Chapter 38: New Beginnings
Chapter 39: Ocean, Arise!
About the Author
Map of Solixambria
Chapter 1: White Flame
DRAGON AND PRINCESS SKIMMED over the Obsidian Desert, tracking the retreat of a defeated, broken Skartunese army. Weapons, armour and bodies littered the footprints and occasional paw print that wound southward between the dunes. Not all of the bodies had stopped moving, but the dense flocks of black crows and bald-headed vultures acted unfussy about the general twitchiness of their meals. The macabre feast had reached a deafening pitch of jollity, if one was a carrion bird.
The meat course was not so cheerful.
Thin shrieks drifted up to the mismatched pair as they arrowed across a dawn painted crimson by the giant red sun, Ignis. As the sun peeked over the horizon, mighty crimson flares burst from its corona, visible to the draconic eye.
Dragon adjusted his spectacles self-consciously. “I do wish I could show you the sun’s flaming, Princess.”
“Trust you to be taking in the glories of the suns rather than the goriness of the scenery, Dragon,” said she, touching his head fondly with her slim, dark hand.
He said, “When an artist stands accused of not knowing the difference between black sand and even more black sand, the situation is dire indeed.”
“I shudder in horror.”
What an incongruous moment. Dragon shook his muzzle, considering the peculiarity of a mighty Dragon, formerly of the Devastator Dragon Clan of the Tamarine Mountains, actually carrying a Human upon his neck. Worse, by his sire’s egg, he called her his Dragon Rider. The histories might not look fondly upon this ebullient excess of chutzpah. Neither the Dragon nor the Human histories.
His Dragon Rider, by full title, Her Royal Highness the Princess Azania N’gala of T’nagru, the Black Rose of the Desert, was not the sort of character to lose sleep over such niceties. Leaning forward against his neck, the tiny royal pointed ahead.
“A Dragon.”
“Aye. Doesn’t look good.”
He slowed so that they could examine the fallen Dragon from the air. All too clearly, it was too late for this creature. His flanks no longer rose and fell; the fires of life had fled his eyes.
The Dragon still wore the slave cage upon his head.
Dragon shuddered despite himself. “Let’s fly on. We have to save the others.”
“Go, Dragon.”
A soul’s heaviness shivered in her voice.
They were both exhausted following the conclusion of a long battle the previous day. With the siege on N’ginta Citadel broken and the Kingdom of T’nagru saved from being ravaged by the merciless Skartun, they had barely had a chance to rest before setting out to rescue the five Dragon thralls taken back into the desert by the retreating army.
Why was their course veering more and more to the East?
Pumping his wings, he accelerated into the chase, ignoring a plethora of aches and pains that accompanied his every attempt to move or breathe. It even hurt to think. Fire check? Aye. His breath rasped in a throat as dry as the tall, sweeping dunes below and his newly opened stomach blazed with pain, despite his having drunk well before they set out.
Every self-respecting Dragon ought to obey his Princess, especially when she was right.
Four-foot-eight paragon of distilled vexation!
Diminutive she might be in comparison to her peers, but his courageous pet – wicked chortle, bwa-haa-harr –was an exceptional Dragon Rider. He would be forever grateful he had chosen to redeem her honour and pillage the Kingdom of Vanrace that day. Twenty years of his life a fireless Dragon, a laughingstock, a pariah. Now look at him!
Still a pariah, mind.
“Dragon, not here. Save the fires for when we need them,” she cautioned, alert to the eager rumblings of his innards.
Did she not know how his very soul yearned to breathe fire once more?
“You’ll get your chance in a minute. Look beyond that next dune.”
“They camped for the night?”
“Stopped for the day. The accepted method of making a desert crossing is to halt during the daytime and try to keep as cool as possible, digging a hole to try to reach cooler sands beneath. Then, one travels from evening until a little after dawn.”
“Isn’t this season impossible?”
“Meant to be,” the Princess agreed. “I wonder if they aren’t trying to surprise one of the more easterly Citadels? L’baru or V’naruk would be my best guesses.”
There they were! Six more Dragons, rather than the four they had expected. Four reds, an orange and a brown. Each had a handler seated upon his or her back. The rest of the army had been trying to dig down as the Princess had suggested, laying their cloaks over shallow holes dug in the sand. How could this strategy possibly work according to the laws of physics – if not by magic?
Azania patted his neck. “Let’s do this.”
Unhooking the additional claws that gripped his scales, Dragon passed his novel spectacles back to the Princess. “Thanks.”
She stowed them efficiently. “Roar?”
“Raw meat?”
“A raw roar, if you please.”
Cracking open his jaw, he thundered with roar-some power, I – AAMM – DRRAAGOONN!!
Cloth and sand ripped up before them, hurling a windstorm across the encampment. Perhaps seven hundred soldiers had camped here with the Dragons; the rest must have marched further on, he concluded.
Dragon swooped sharply, searching for that familiar pain behind the massive keel bone of his chest that anchored his flight muscles. Skartunese warriors scrambled before them, crying out and trying to shield their eyes as the blast of his wings added to the mayhem.
For a second, all was fear. His fires had vanished. It had been a one-off; his familiar penchant for failure must of course take over – and then, with a detonation that jolted him to the core, white lightning skittered across his scales and forked off his tail, his wingtips, even his fangs.
Weird enough?
“Princess!”
“I’m –”
GRRRAAAOOORRRGGGH!!
A firestorm billowed out of his agape jaw. He had no control. No idea of what he was actually doing, only that the geyser of flame pouring out of this throat had to go somewhere other than back inside his body. Great waves of pearlescent white flame gushed over the soldiers arrayed around the Dragon thralls, a devastating sweep of destruction.
“Circle!” cried the voice from his back.
Her bowstring twanged at the same time. One of the Dragon handlers slumped in his saddle, a shaft jutting from his stomach. Orange fire billowed toward them. Immediately, he jinked in flight, whisking his Princess safely away from the blast. Most Dragon fire was limited in range to about twenty feet. His own – he had no idea. Nor the slightest yearning to help his pernickety brain develop an accurate estimate just now.
You’re in a battle, Dragon!
Following the plan, he swirled around the captive Dragons, clearing as wide a sweep as he could. Isolate the handlers. Pick them off.
Azania cursed unhappily as she missed her next shot. The handlers responded by urging their Dragons to scatter. The Princess shot another handler in the neck; he followed that up with a cunning tail strike, smashing one of the men off the orange Dragoness’ back.
“Stall,” she rapped.
Flaring his wings, he braked hard. His Rider steadied herself and then placed an arrow square in another handler’s back.
The problem was that the captive Dragons kept obeying their last command. Several tried to track his flight with their flame. All the years they had spent in captivity, however, made them slow to react. He shot over a red Dragon’s head before he could swing his fire onto target, performing another stall-and-shoot manoeuver with the Princess. The red clearly had no clue where his aerial foe had vanished to, for his eyes were further hampered by metal blinkers affixed to his head cage.
One handler left. Arrows spat around them as the Skartunese troops responded to the attack. Several men ran for the Dragons they had already cleared, while others sidled forward in groups, hefting their javelins.
“We’ll be picking them off all day like this,” he growled. “Let’s collect ourselves a few Dragons. Ready to give the orders, Princess?”
“Remember, my leg’s still in a cast –”
“Noted.”
Picking a red Dragon who faced entirely the wrong direction, he shot over and helped his Princess land on its back. Grabbing the silver inductor handles which were attached to the head harnesses by cords, she squeezed them to burn the Dragon’s ear canals. Brutal, but this was the only reliable method they had found so far. These lifelong slaves to the Skartun regime understood nothing but pain.
She said, “Dragon, the men in armour are your enemy. Protect your brother Dragons from them, including this flying one and his Rider. You will respond only to our verbal commands from now on.”
The Dragon lumbered off to attack the Skartunese troops with their black-feathered helmets, careless of any arrows they directed his way.
“Next,” he called, snaffling her back into his paw.
Two more successful raids later, and the tide began to turn in their favour. The Dragons blindly followed orders, attacking any Skartunese warriors who came into their line of sight. The enemy warriors viewed this betrayal in the dimmest of light, but many of them carried injuries and a massed Dragon attack was no laughing matter.
Together, Dragon and Rider hunted down the next two Dragons. Azania collapsed on the back of the second, clutching her leg. “Aah! That’s –” with a low scream, she pulled a dagger out of that same thigh. “What is this?”
What were the chances of another hit in the same place? Rounding upon the soldier who had struck with a chance throw, Dragon barbecued him in a stream of white flame.
“Die! Princess, are you –”
“I’m good.”
“Right, and I’m a bushy-tailed –”
“Shut up, Dragon. One more and the job’s done. Let’s do this.”
Snatching her up in his right paw, they chased the final handler who was goading a red Dragon into running away. Azania growled something unintelligible as she had to duck behind his paw to avoid a flurry of arrows and javelins, and dropped her bow by accident. She drew her Dragon talon dagger instead.
“Upside-down!” came the cry.
Chortling in realisation, Dragon allowed the tiny Princess to upend herself between his knuckles. She backstabbed the Dragon handler from her head-down position, caught one of the inductors in her hand, and issued new orders. Meantime, Dragon cleaned the last cockroach off his kin’s back. Now it was seven Dragons against the scattered Skartunese soldiers.
He swung Princess Azania back up into his paw. “Sure you’re alright?”
“Just a spot of blood.”
Surely he was the one who pretended bravado with the worst possible timing? Reaching over with his free paw, he carefully put pressure on the puncture wound with a pinch of his talons.
“Thanks, Dragon.”
“Contrary to popular belief, I do prefer my captive Princesses alive.”
“You’re never going to let that one go, are you?”
“No, I’m never letting you go,” he blustered, making her chuckle at the blatant misinterpretation. Dragon kin! Brothers and sisters! Help me clean up these Skartun scum! Target any men on the ground and wipe them out!
The carrion birds would feast this day.
* * * *
Slipping down her trousers, the Princess cleaned her new wound with water from her gourd and then bound it firmly using strips of material provided by Dragon. Skartun cloaks. Given his Princess-sharpened talons, creating bandages these days posed no problem at all.
Halfway through, he said, “Well, at least that Skartunese warrior over there got his dying wish.”
“What? Who?” she muttered, yanking a knot tight.
“He saw the Black Rose of the Desert in her underclothes.”
“Dragon, he’s dead.”
“Almost,” groaned the man. He was only four feet away, and in bad shape.
“See? Although, how anyone can be attracted to these twigs you call legs, is quite beyond this Dragon. Is this attractive, man?” He waved a paw illustratively.
Either it was the heat or the pain of his burn wounds, but the warrior’s eyes glazed over as he peered at the Princess.
She sniffed, “Oh, if I must. O warrior of Skartun, how do you keep cool during the desert crossing?”
“Not … telling.”
Azania primped her hair and did some sort of wriggle with her hips that he assumed must be suggestive. Now, if Ariamyrielle Seaspray had done that with her haunches …
“I’d really like to know,” she cooed.
The dusky Princess had turned a whole slew of knights, men-at-arms and rapscallions into her slaves with just such a glance. Not for nought was she said to be the most beautiful woman in the seventeen realms. True to form – and to the watching Dragon’s disgust – the man’s brains promptly evaporated, or some effect close enough to be indistinguishable.
“We carry coldstones,” he groaned, “green gems imbued with the power to – ahk!”
With a ghastly splutter, he passed into the afterlife. Azania glared at the man as if he had personally disappointed her.
Dragon said, “He’s dead, you can stop teasing him.”
Squirming back into her
tight leather trousers, the Princess patted her good thigh and said, “Ever seen more powerful twigs than these?”
He shook his head. “Male Humans are idiots.”
“And male Dragons are not?”
“Obviously.”
“Doth mine ears hearken to the intellect-stealing, musical strains of sea spray?”
“Be quiet, woman.”
She pressed, “Sing you an aria?”
Gnarrr-Princess-kebabs!
“Just repeat after me, ‘Women are always right.’ ”
“Don’t push your luck, titch. Are you sure that leg’s alright?”
She eyed the blood already seeping through the pad of bandages. “No, not really. Want to cut up a few more cloaks for me?”
While his back was turned, his brave Rider face-planted in the desert sand of her native kingdom. Dragon rushed to her side with an aggrieved bellow. Aye, check one for the bravado. Gently, he tried to wipe her face clean of sand. He bathed her eyes and lips as best he could from her water gourd, alert to the fact that he should keep plenty aside for the trek back to N’ginta Citadel.
Humans. So frail.
What did that matter? He knew about being different. Why could he not simply apply that to a species most Dragons regarded as fleas, lice and cockroaches?
Because it was true of some? He could point to a few rather unsavoury Dragons, his own dam and two brothers being foremost among them. By his wings, such were the complications of family – as Azania knew all too well for herself.
If they walked fast enough, they would return in time for her eldest brother’s coronation at noon. King N’gala had not survived the treachery of a woman of Skartun, the enchantress Nahritu-N’shula, who had brought him low through her unusual magical gifts. She was also the mother of Princess Azania’s younger half-sister, Inzashu-N’shula.
The Psyromantic Mage had vanished into the desert, or within the citadel. No-one knew where she was, although the search was on.
Marshalling the Dragon thralls with a bellowed command, Dragon had them quickly hunt for as many of the green stones as had survived his fires. If a creature were honest, he would admit to being a touch shocked by the power at his command. His throat hurt worse than ever, and he wore six javelins and more arrows than he could count in various places around his body, but – oh, why not a little swaggering? He was a victorious Dragon once more. His legend grew!