by Marc Secchia
Dragon brained it with a talon and slid breakfast down his throat. Oh! Catching the tail with his fangs, he pulled the snake out and snipped off a chunk for his Riders. Humans needed to eat so frequently.
“Mmm, regurgitated snake meat?” Azania said drily. “Can’t wait.”
“I can pre-chew it for you if you’d prefer?”
“Don’t be lazy, Dragon. I prefer pre-digested at the very least.”
“Very good, Your Highness. Would you like your aloe juice masticated, too?” Extending a paw, he helped her slide Inzashu off his neck, asking, “Should we have waited at N’ginta to get her more treatment, do you think?”
“With or without a poisoned arrow in the back?”
“True.”
“Let me show you how to pulp and squeeze aloe juice. We need to get more into her and cover every inch of this rash as well, or it’ll burn and blister. Do we have any spare cloth?”
“I stole just the thing earlier.”
She admired the white silk sheet he had pinched. “Why, you wily reptilian reprobate!”
“You are talking to a Princess-stealing Dragon, Highness. I’m very talon-ted.”
His friend groaned on cue. “Ooh, terrible pun. Reminds me of that old joke, what did the cat drag-in?”
“I don’t know,” he said, playing along, “what did the cat drag in?”
“I don’t know either, but it gave me paws for thought.”
“Gnarr-harr-harr, that’s awful.”
Did she mean to cheer him up? Or to distract herself from the pain this poison was clearly putting her through? Dragon helped her treat her sister; when Inzashu half-woke from her stupor, they were able to urge her to deploy her magic with his help – strengthening her, he hoped. For the young girl to turn her sensory magic to healing was a perfectly natural process; for him, it was a struggle. After treating her skin and helping her to drink aloe juice diluted in water, they settled in the relative shadow of the boulder and rested through the heat of the day.
Dragon tested a couple of the green coldstones. Emeralds? Or perhaps, emeralds turned to a different use, he thought, sniffing pensively at the unfamiliar magic. The cooling effect was definitely noticeable within an area of approximately two feet. Under shade arranged to minimise heat transfer from the air, he estimated temperatures between eight and ten degrees cooler than outside. It must have been enough to allow the Skartun warriors to survive that first desert crossing; admittedly, nowhere near the hottest time of the year, when desert temperatures soared off the Fangheat scale.
Inzashu stirred in the early afternoon and declared that she felt somewhat better. They whiled away the hours swapping stories of a childhood spent on the run in Skartun, a cloistered royal upbringing in T’nagru and a Dragon’s hatchling and fledgling days in the Tamarine Mountains.
What vastly different experiences they had as youngsters.
In the evening, a blistering sunset of the white sun, Taramis, kept them under cover until later than Dragon had planned for. He also drank a little aloe juice to soothe his raw throat.
“Your fires?” Azania asked.
“Aye. I’m not sure if it’s getting better or worse.” Scratching his flank restlessly, he said, “Do you remember how Hammaria the Devastator told me that an egg never forgets its origins?”
The Princess nodded. “Was that what you used to find your fires, Dragon?”
“I was thinking about that, and how at Chakkix Camp, Yarimda said, Ocean always rises. That was what I experienced, but it wasn’t an easy or a natural process. I had to literally tear it free – squeeze, and strain and tear it loose, using the electrical power from their machine.”
“It did look agonising, but also glorious,” she said.
“Glorious?”
“Well, first of all your eyes started to bulge as if you’d sat on a cactus –”
Brraa-haa-haa! he laughed.
“And then I feared you were having an epileptic fit, and you were jerking all over the place and smoking from beneath your scales – almost as if that power burned off a coating of some kind. I can only imagine what it did to your insides, Dragon, yet you are still flying. I feared you would be fried to a crisp, especially when you made Jabiz Urdoo shoot you yet again – stop looking at me like that.” She shivered delicately. “I worry about you, alright?”
Abruptly, she stood, but had to brace herself against his cheek. “Ooh, that feels terrible.” The Princess touched the scales beneath his eye. “True strength, Dragon, comes from the heart.”
His turn to shiver, all over, as if the stultifying desert heat had turned to ice.
She said, Then you cried, I am Dragon! I am fire!
His tongue flicked out to catch a salty droplet falling from her cheek.
“The ocean rose, and you became fire – beautiful, gleaming white fire– and you see, Dragon, it was never the crimson sunshine of Ignis that you should have been meditating upon! It was Taramis all along. You are kin of Taramis, the white of ocean spume, the purity and cleansing power of water.”
His jaw creaked agape, and stayed that way.
Where had this come from?
With a self-conscious giggle, she said, “Dabbling in deep Dragon lore not exactly being my forte …”
“No, it makes perfect sense!” Enveloping her shoulders in his paw, he said, “You are something else, do you know that? Clearly, the tiniest brains have the greatest ideas.”
“Tiniest brains?”
“Vanishingly miniscule,” said he, illustrating with his talons. “How did the Dragon thank the Princess?”
“By wiping out her enemies in billows of gorgeous white flame?”
“Aye, and then he said, ‘Fangs you very much.’ ”
“Aargh.”
“Could not have expressed it better myself. So, who’s keen on a long, long night flight?”
Considering what the Princesses had been through, actual keenness was far from the mark, but after slathering themselves liberally in tart aloe juice and drinking a little more, they made ready to fly north once more.
As the largest male Dragon he knew of in the Tamarine Mountains, Dragon had always been able to fly with great stamina. This night, he pushed on steadily, filled with thoughts about how air and water were not all that different, after all, and if he could learn to keep a pace that combined efficiency and conservation of energy with speed, he might be able to sustain flight far enough to risk the crossing to the Vaylarn Archipelago. Aria’s notes warned that the weather could be unpredictable and for part of the year, the winds were likely to be strongly opposed to a northerly crossing. Right now was the worst possible time.
Perfect planning.
Therefore, when he came down for a landing an hour before dawn, having sustained no less than ten hours in the air, it was with a sense of quiet satisfaction. Good flight. They had turned more easterly, headed directly for the ‘foot’ of the Tamarine Mountains. They might spy those from a height on the morrow.
Azania patted his neck. “Nice moves, Dragon. Fire check?”
Worried, Princess? Narked and grateful at the same time, he concentrated. Nothing … sss! He jumped in surprise. “Alright, that snuck up on me.”
Rubbing her eyes, Inzashu unbuckled. “You’re such a bright spark, Dragon.”
“No, don’t tell me you’re starting with the terrible puns, too?” he groaned, prodding her ribs with a talon.
“Oh – unintentional.”
“A flare of inspiration, perhaps?” he purred.
“Another day, another boulder,” said Azania. “More storytelling to pass the day, Dragon?”
“Of course. Dragons love a good, long tail.”
“Oh dear,” the Princess chortled, “I don’t know which is worse, poison itch or your jokes.”
On that note, they dozed another day away in the brilliant sunshine, and in the evening, repeated the night flight. It was early morning when Dragon realised he had dozed on the wing once more, and not only were the
familiar white-capped peaks of the Tamarine Range spreading across the farthest horizon, but the landscape had changed once more. Cactus forests. This should have been Prince Floric’s landing place, he chortled nastily to himself. All shapes and sizes of spiky cacti predominated in this region, from beds of tiny barrel cacti no bigger than the ball of a Human thumb, to multi-branched monsters standing sixty feet tall.
Wing-weary, he landed in an open area yet again, scenting the air. Changing to the badlands, if he was not mistaken, and soon, that clean zing of the mountains would greet his swelling lungs. They must not only purchase armour and clothing for his Riders, but warm clothing as well.
Chakkix Camp awaited.
Chapter 4: Ocean Always Rises
“TARANGIS LIONBAITER!” AZANIA CALLED fondly.
“Princess Azania!” said he, wheeling into Yardi the Armourer’s cavern with a delighted smile. His eyebrows shot up immediately. “And in another development, Princesses hunt in packs? Who is this?”
“You’ve been warned,” Dragon agreed.
Azania shot him her patented glare.
One and a half days’ further travel had brought them up to Chakkix Camp. Old friends, old haunts and the same old smells. Delightful place. It remained the unimproved version of a Human cesspit of vice, iniquity and thriving business, at the shadier end of every imaginable spectrum.
“This is my sister, Inzashu-N’shula. Inzashu, this is our friend Tarangis Lionbaiter, a long-time business partner of our father’s.”
The younger princess smiled bashfully. “Azania told me how much you helped them.”
“Helped? Making me decent money, they are,” he guffawed. “Of course, it’s all about the money – but Princess, please put me out of my curiosity here. King N’gala has but one daughter that I knew of, the famous Black Rose of the Desert, unless by some hitherto unknown process, beauty has duplicated itself?”
As he spoke, he wheeled forward on the hard floor to first kiss Azania’s hand, then Inzashu’s. Dragon eyed him with a malevolent glare that suggested should any kisses be ventured in his vicinity, volcanoes would erupt. Sensitive soul that he was, Tarangis picked up on the vibe immediately. As the Princess filled him in on recent events, however, his jovial mood evaporated and he expressed his condolences to both girls and sober congratulations to Dragon on his feat of fire breathing.
At this point, Yarimda tottered through into the cavern, saying that her old ears thrilled to the voices of friends. Everything had to be repeated in greater detail than before. She insisted.
Dragon breathed fire into Yardi’s forge by way of demonstration.
Had they not all expressed their undying wonder, he would have been severely ticked off. Slice of the old ego there, Dragon?
How quickly one winged from despair at no fires to annoyance if one’s fires did not provoke an awed reaction. Was he truly this shallow a beast? Or more straightforwardly, one beset by fears and weaknesses common to any intelligent creature?
Once the need for suitable clothing surfaced, Yarimda took Inzashu under her wing. “Used to be an excellent seamstress back in the day, my dear child!” she opined. “Needle and thread defeat me due to advancing years, but I can design clothing suitable for the most delightful of Dragon-riding Princesses.”
Gnrrr – Dragon began.
Yarimda sent a zinger of a scowl his way. “Now, don’t you misbehave in my cavern, young Dragon. Go warm yourself by the forge. Go on!”
Yardi gave an exasperated gasp at her grandmother’s tone. Her eyes pleaded for understanding.
He made a token shuffle toward the forge. Not a great deal of space in this cave for a Dragon of his dimensions, and due to the open-mouthed forge, it was as warm as the deep desert anyways – warm enough that the Princesses had immediately removed the outer layers of their desert robes. Meantime, chalk and spare scroll in hand, Yarimda set about her designs. He peeked over her shoulder. Not just a decent hand, lady – slightly unsteady due to her advanced age, yet from her fingers flowed elegant robes, flattering lines and even secret storage pockets, he observed with a tail-wriggle of pleasure.
Artist!
“Dragon, why are you breathing over my shoulder?” she probed.
“Appreciating your work, ma’am.”
“Is that so?”
“With that talent, you could design scales for Dragons,” he returned, satisfied when her neck visibly heated up. He scented her delight.
“You are too kind to an old woman, Dragon.”
“Is that so?”
She laughed openly at his riposte. “Dragon, would you and your Princesses be open to the suggestion of flying an old woman back to Hamirythe Kingdom, to the shores of the ocean?”
“Grandmother!” Yardi protested.
“Now, child, I’ve been talking about this for at least a decade. You know my heart.”
It had been on the tips of his forked tongue to chuckle indulgently at her request, but now, Dragon stilled to a different realisation. She meant to die there. He had read that at the end of their days beneath the suns, old Dragons might sometimes be struck by an overwhelming desire to return to the lair of their birth. People shared this gift? How curious. Perhaps it was a commonality of a soul’s knowing?
This lore was deeper than most Dragons would allow of the Humankind in their worldview, but her desire could hardly be mistaken.
Glancing at Azania, who nodded slightly, he said, “Honoured Yarimda, we would most certainly be amenable, but you should know our flight path is no easy one – from here, we intend to swing around the mountains and fly up through the Blood Desert to the Umber Steppes, from where it is a steep climb to the lair of Juggernaut the Grinder. We would then fly over the high passes to the Kingdom of Amboraine and straight north to Mornine.”
“North until Mornine?” she jested lightly. “That could work.”
“Grandmother, that is a gruelling flight over the very roof of the world!” Yardi protested. “You are no longer a spring chicken of eighty, may I remind you? Ninety-four this autumn!”
“Child, neither of us have been happy in Chakkix Camp for many a year. Let’s talk about this. You’ve wanted to travel and find yourself a man –”
“Grandmother!”
Yardi flushed so violently, the colour moved down her tan throat and into her muscular arms. Intriguing response!
Dragon narrowed his eyes. “Is there a man?”
“No!”
“May I threaten to eat him if he does not treat you honourably?”
“Er … sounds good to me,” the armourer grumbled.
Her grandmother said blithely, “None in this camp anyways. Yardi, fly with us. Come see the ocean with me – come fly Dragonback, as I used to fly on Wavewhisperer’s back. I warn you, once you start …”
Tarangis Lionbaiter said, “Well, educational as all this is, I must ask, Princess Azania, if the new King might be amenable to continuing our arrangement?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
Dragon put in testily, “What do Roving Ambassadors of T’nagru do, then – wander about the kingdoms looking vacuously pretty? Use your authority, woman!”
“Ambassador?” Tarangis chortled. “Old N’gala must be turning in his – ahem. Terribly sorry.”
Wince. Tasteless joke.
Azania clearly did not know where to look nor what to say.
The Lionbaiter rubbed his temples. “I apologise. It’s been a very long day. Princess, I will have my accountant turn in a statement of our business to you by morning. Suffice it to say, you and Dragon have enough credit to buy half of the clothing in this camp, not that you’d want it, mind. I can recommend an excellent tailor who will have you back in those lethal leather trousers in no time at all … grief, what is the matter with my tongue? I meant to say, he will have you suitably attired in a timescale of your choosing.”
Inzashu dared a little wink at Dragon. “Timescale?”
“Don’t encourage him,” Azania advised.
“I’ll send her right over so that you can ratify the Ambassador’s derriere – I mean, your new, upscaled agreement, Tarangis,” Dragon put in.
He smacked his thighs in delight. “I could not possibly comment.”
“I’m glad you know what’s healthy for you,” Azania warned, “unlike my Dragon, who has just dug himself a hole through which one can see the other side of Solixambria!”
Glare, glare.
After a moment, he chuckled smokily, for the first time in his life. So startled was he, he chuckled a second time.
Plainly angered by what she took for a snarky response, the Princess snapped her fingers. “Dragon! Heel.”
By tone, he knew she meant to tug his wings, he was just not sure how. “What does that mean?”
“It doesn’t help if you don’t know Human culture,” she complained. “To call to heel means, well – perhaps I shouldn’t … exactly …”
Yarimda pointed at the open forge. “Dragon, aim that way.”
“Oh, it’s that bad, is it?” said he, pointing his new fire-squirter anywhere but in the proposed direction.
Azania marched out of the cavern in a fake huff, calling back, “Dragon, we’re going to the tailor. Will you come along to protect us, please?”
He prowled along after, nursing the unfamiliar feeling of a stomach boiling with fiery fury. By his sire’s egg, he would need to be careful with these volatile white fires. Either that, or learn to keep his fangs firmly clamped shut. That idea would not be shared with the Princess. It would be used against him most unfairly, with a coy female smile.
Ten minutes later, he asked a perfectly innocent tailor’s assistant what ‘call to heel’ meant.
GRRAAA – BOOM!!
The entire side of the tailor’s tent, plus the next two over, went up in flames.
Sigh.
Turning to Azania, he said, “Do you want to pay for all this destroyed merchandise, or shall I?”