I am Dragon (Dragon Fires Rising Book 2)

by Marc Secchia

  He nodded. Not terribly well, but an outline in the darkness was enough.

  I’d like a nice big bonfire, please.

  Every Dragon around them measured the distance with palpable incredulity. Eighty feet? No Dragon could expel his fire that far.

  Glittering of eye, his brothers looked on as Dragon tried to remember how to breathe. So queasy. The incident with the stomach full of oil played in his memory. He had never been the best performer under pressure. Too dreadful to imagine if the fires chose this moment to disappear once more!

  A cane thwacked him in the knee. Dragon, pay attention. Imagine Jabiz Urdoo over there – now, paint him for me!

  He did not.

  What he painted, was that moment the Jabiz had lifted Princess Azania by her hair. He evoked the way the man’s lips twisted as he spat into her face. Then, he deliberately threw him against the electric machine. Man-toast. Ah, the sickly-sweet stench of flesh roasting upon a spit of his own making. The epitome of justice.

  A crackling akin to a bonfire spitting to its full height emanated from the depths of his chest. For want of a better description, everything tightened up – every muscle in his body scrunched up painfully, and his strange ignition stomach or organ spread white heat through his chest, causing his heart rate to double. Even his scraggly hide sucked against his body, perhaps drawn close by the electric potentials building inside? The sensation was uncomfortably close to the idea of wearing clothing. Pah!

  Dragon picked Yarimda up and placed her out of his firing line. Excuse me, honoured elder. It is safer for you over here.

  Cracking open his jaw, he willed the blaze forth. What joy! What incandescence! Like a wave rushing toward the shoreline, the power built inexorably to a peak that threatened to consume his being. Rumbling. Roaring. Frothing with turbulent abandon. Then, with the same force a wave carried to its apex before crashing to its end, it could no longer be denied.

  His throat reverberated. Stretched. Opened!

  GRRRAAAOOORRRGGGH!!

  White flame jetted out of his maw. So sharp and ready were the magical and physical processes, the muscular squeezing produced a fine, high-speed stream of brilliant fire that illuminated faces and scales as it raced down the channel Yarimda had cleared for him. Sixty feet from his body, the plume abruptly widened in a bloom of destruction that rolled toward the tree in a fiery, unstoppable embrace.

  The pristine light highlighted the gleam of fangs in many watching draconic faces as his flame streamed forth, endless, mesmeric and dazzling. Even the low, eager hissing sound it made was a statement of lethal beauty.

  Never had he imagined he would produce fire like this. How could it belong to him? A common, muddy brown Dragon had no business producing flame that seared the air like white-hot talons.

  With a muted whomp, the tree gave up the unequal battle. Flames gushed toward the heavens.

  Rage, o Dragon hearts! Rage!

  “Alright, Dragon,” the Princess breathed. “That was awesome.”

  Reluctantly, he clenched the flame between his fangs, cutting it off. Darkness washed over the Dragons; deprived of the brilliance, the night became that much deeper and darker.

  Nefarious deeds were at paw. A sire chose to save his son’s honour, at his own expense.

  Quietly, he noted, As I attested, I found my true flame.

  On another occasion, the stunned response might have been hilarious. Jaws sagged. Paws clenched. Wings flared in odd directions, eloquently describing the consternation of every Dragon, especially his precious brothers. Orange fires dribbled unheeded from many a jaw as they stared at him as if he had turned into a monster straight out of legend.

  He could not better have dropped a mountain upon their heads.

  Or, kicked his brothers square in the Dragon jewels. A severe temptation at the best of times.

  Pitching his voice to carry, Blaze said, Here in the gaps left by your wounds, Dragon, especially when you poured forth your flame, the new hide shows white. It is said no Dragon can change his colour – but look, you will do the impossible.

  A talon plucked at his flank. Sawed at the loose hide.

  Uh …

  That squawk was the limit of his speech at this juncture.

  With a wicked chuckle, Yarimda cried, Who would like to pluck a Dragon like a fresh fowl? Come help, Dragons!

  Me, Juggernaut rumbled. Tear him apart, Blaze?

  With pleasure!

  “I’ve just the tool for the job,” Azania chortled, drawing her talon dagger with a bright zing of metal. He decided he loathed the fact that she understood enough Draconian to know what was going on – and that fervent expression? Deadly Princess!

  Hold on! Dragon heard himself bleat.

  “Do tell us if something hurts,” his Princess added, with a roguish grin. “Oh, I’ve been wanting to do this for the longest time.”

  “It’s soft under there, and – ooh!”

  “Rrrrrriiipp it up!” she sang out. “Come on, Juggernaut, flex those muscles!”

  Something was totally wrong about this picture. Dragon hide was not supposed to rip like tough cloth. Nor was it supposed to tear off in long strips that left him looking like one of those slatted fences he had seen in Aluxon, capital of the Kingdom of Alaxarmis. Dragons did not bother to skin their prey before consuming it. Waste of good nutrients. Now, his friends mobbed him to gleefully strip his hide like a troop of Human cooks preparing meat for the pot.

  Dreadfully unhappy.

  How humiliating was this?

  Especially since the whisper about his white fires began to make the rounds of the Dragons, until it reached the ear canals of his brothers and managed to meld with something resembling sensible thought in there. Impossible as he felt it might be for their jaws to dangle further, they actually slapped down upon their forepaws, giving new meaning to the phrase, ‘slack-jawed idiots.’

  Enjoyable, in a terrifying sort of way.

  “BY MY WINGS!” he roared as Juggernaut ripped right up to his row of spine spikes, where the old hide finally stuck.

  “Princess, you could start chopping along here,” the warrior suggested.

  “Stuck?” she asked. “With pleasure.”

  “Gently with my new scales,” he protested, trying to twizzle his neck around to see what was going on.

  Odd colours? The major part of most of his white scales was the same reflective sheen of his fires, but there was a strong underlying brown pattern too, highlighting the edges and undersides of some but not all scales. Not his old brown. This was a deep, lustrous gold-infused brown which nonetheless displayed the same pearlescent sheen of the white. Highlights? Background and edging colouration? As an artist, he imagined the effect might be quite striking, if for the life of him he could work out what the patterning meant.

  Brawl staggered toward them, gasping, Sire, it cannot be … what is this? Who …

  Blaze snarled, You share a sire, but not the same dam. Clear enough?

  Distracted by the fact that Azania was working her way along his back, chortling charming, Princess-like things such as, ‘Dragon kebabs,’ ‘slice and dice,’ and ‘I’m sure I have a glittering future as a butcher,’ he bellowed in shock as Juggernaut ripped his way down his tail. A whole cone of dilapidated hide came off in his paws, along with a few scraps of new. Several patches began to bleed.

  “Sensitive!” he protested.

  “Poor, sweet little Draggy need kissy better? Mweh! Mweh!”

  “Princess, I am not a forgiving creature!”

  “Just trimming off a few of the crustier bits. Hold still. You are still my favourite Dragon, after all. Consider this a demonstration of friendship.”

  “Don’t you know how Dragons carry grudges? Inzashu, don’t you dare – GRAARRRGGHH!”

  Thankfully, he aimed at the sky this time. The entire sinkhole lit up as if lightning had struck from clear skies.

  * * * *

  Very late, a soft tread alerted Dragon where he dozed besi
de the entrance to Juggernaut’s lair. He thought it might be Brand or Blitz come to exact a misguided revenge, but it was neither of them.

  Sire, he whispered.

  Are you alright, son?

  I am not your son, remember? More bitter than he had intended. Biting his lip to quell his emotions, he raised his muzzle to regard Blaze.

  Can I explain? I was young, ambitious and enamoured of Indigofire –

  Stop. Please, enough. Dragon heaved a sigh worth the weight of ten hearts rather than five. Just now, I cannot … hear what you have to say. Maybe one day, I will be ready to receive your word.

  Is there no forgiveness left –

  Twenty years! Twenty years you let me suffer and now you beg forgiveness? Sucking back his fires, he considered how close he had come to flaming his own father. Perhaps Blaze expected it; even wanted a sign of punishment. I cannot go there, not yet. This betrayal is far too raw.

  Literally. His hide bled in a few places where the vigorous act of being stripped by large, energetic helpers had torn at the far softer new hide beneath. No battles for a few months, Juggernaut had advised balefully, until his hide hardened again.

  Just like a hatchling.

  Inside of him was a youngling who had always yearned for his father’s love. How did one ever, ever restore such a rift?

  Examining his hearts, he discovered a surprising truth. Slowly and thoughtfully, he said, When the three years and three days have passed, I promise upon my oath that I will come to speak with you about this, Blaze the Devastator. Until then, I cast you out of my life. You are not my sire. I have no sire, for that Dragon is a despicable thief and one who stood by and let abuse endure for far too long – and for what? To satisfy his pride and selfish ambition?

  The other heaved a huge sigh.

  Dragon said, I would know one thing –

  Anything.

  What was her name?

  Sirensong.

  So many questions. Had he loved her? Was it but a dalliance? Was she alluring? Had he treated her well, or decimated her very Dragoness hearts – he must have? What mother would have given up her egg? Or could there be more tragedy waiting for him somewhere out there in the Lumis Ocean?

  At length, Blaze said, For what it is worth, I have never been prouder of you, Dragon.

  Now, after twenty years?

  Hatred? Bitterness? Relief? He had no idea what he felt – most of all, an all-pervading sense of numbness. He wished nothing more than that his sire would leave him alone. Forever.

  Very soon, the heavy tread departed.

  Perhaps his sire fled.

  Sirensong. One more reason for him to fly up to the Vaylarn Archipelago. If he was not mistaken, the annual migration should arrive in five to six weeks’ time, if anything they had learned and surmised was correct. Would she be swimming with the Sea Dragons? Might he see her …

  “You alright?”

  He nearly shed his new scales in fright. “Princess. No.”

  “Would you like company?”

  “Not really.” How much had she overheard? Everything? “Only if …”

  “I understand.”

  Stepping over his crossed forepaws, she slipped into her usual place in the crook of his neck. Said nothing. Asked no questions. Did not act like anything but a perfect friend cosying up for the night. Irrationally, that was exactly what broke him.

  Covering his Princess with his wing for warmth, his shoulders shook. He tried to clamp his muzzle shut with his paws. Vain hope. The first lament was not long in coming. Moans wrenched from the depths of his soul.

  What fool had first uttered the phrase, ‘big Dragons don’t cry?’

  What a heaviness of grief. He could only release it as best he knew how, or face being crushed.

  * * * *

  His kin flew on just as Dragon stirred to the awareness of a Taramis-first sunrise. He hoped that Blaze flew to make things right with Indigofire. To warn her of what must surely come; the price that must be paid for what they had surely plotted together. What had broken his sire’s resolve to keep the secret buried deep? Could it be that such secrets carried a dreadful weight of their own? Or had his hearts burned for the fate of his son? He wanted to believe it.

  Some Dragons had already flown on the previous evening. They agreed that Juggernaut’s lair would be the base of operations. A small mixed group planned to travel south within a day or two to speak with King N’chala and to bring reports back to their respective Clans. The Obliterators, who had a blood feud with the Terror Clan, departed muttering about plans to ‘see to those Terrors once and for all.’

  He approved.

  The previous evening felt like a dream – or nightmare – until he spied the still-smoking tree on the other side of the training ground.

  Gnarr. With extra gnarliness.

  How to annoy oneself with one’s own puns.

  Naturally, Azania slept the sleep of the innocent, one of the greatest lies under the suns. Inveterate rascal. He muttered, “ ‘Dragon steaks. Oh, I’ve been wanting to carve a little of the male ego out of you for months, Dragon.’ Right, Princess. The feeling happens to be mutual …”

  His crackpot monologue ended at the sight of white paws peeking out from beneath a wing that was definitely turning white, with those rich brown tones tracing the veins and struts, like the veins of an autumnal leaf.

  Not too many half-air half-water Dragons about, were there?

  How was he even supposed to think of this colour as him? Although, warming up his ego a tad, one must admit it was a far more fetching colouration than his old ability to blend in with swamps, mud flats and sundry roof tiles. He refused to miss that gift. Now, he could hide amongst melting snow. Perfect disguise for the Obsidian Desert, right? Would not stick out like a sore talon everywhere he flew, oh no.

  Pah. Enough of the jaundiced thoughts already. Chalice the Grinder, peering out of the mouth of the cavern where she must have rested, was giving him the kind of fiery eyeball he was most definitely not used to receiving from any Dragonesses.

  Not that he should be complaining.

  “Dragon, where’s Azania?” Inzashu asked, stepping out of Juggernaut’s lair.

  “Curled up with me last night,” said he, tilting his wing so that she could see. “You know what your sister’s like.”

  “I’m like what?” Azania yawned, stretching. Her eyelashes fluttered. Human males were supposed to fall for tricks like that, similar to how Dragonesses flicked their eyelids, he supposed.

  “Ah, I’ll think of something. Best friend in all of Solixambria.”

  A slow grin lit up her face. “Scale check?”

  “Call me snow white.”

  “Huh, and here I thought you’d be a nice creature of colour, like me. You’ve gone over to the dark side – uh, alright, that failed rather miserably. The lighter and brighter side, right?”

  “I still have one paw in the brownish gold camp,” he sniped, “and what’s all this silliness about colour anyways? Have you ever met a person who is of no colour? It’s completely illogical. Everyone has colour! It’s like saying, ‘A Dragon of scales.’ ”

  “Really?” she said.

  One sarcastic warning shot. He refused to listen.

  “Let me warm you up to the facts, Princess. White people are not white, they are a pale pink with nasty hairy bits. You can’t hide them in a snowfield with the best will in the world. Black people are not black, or they’d blend in with the average lump of charcoal. They are various shades of brown, again with the socially unacceptable hairy bits. You Humans are completely unreasonable when it comes to colour. And hair.”

  “Connotations, Dragon. ‘Black’ means much more than –”

  “Lunacy. Don’t tell me to see what isn’t there. You are not a black Princess, you are a shade of brown – a very pleasing shade, may I add? At least, seventeen kingdoms’ worth of Human males agree with me on the subject.”

  “Dragon, it’s far too early for you to be s
o feisty. Go work off some energy. Flirt with whatshername over there.”

  “Look, brownness of skin does not equate to fitness for slavery.”

  Princess Azania rose, stretched once more, and promptly kicked him beneath the jaw!

  “What was that for?”

  “I like kicking white things.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Oh, whiteness doesn’t equate to fitness to being kicked when I please?”

  He glowered at her. “Very clever lesson, Princess.”

  “Aye. Anyone would think that with a lifetime’s being the wondrous Black Rose of the Desert, I might have had a chance to reflect upon a few of the issues. While I value your perspective on the subject, Dragon, I …” she chuckled softly. “I guess, what with you having literally just changed your hide, you will enjoy a number of insights all too soon. One such insight is skulking over there hoping you’ll go give her polite greeting. Go on, Dragon.”

  “Azania, I –”

  “Shoo!”

  “I don’t wear shoes,” he groused.

  Reaching up, she touched his jaw where she had kicked him. “Much as I wish you could sometimes live within my skin for but a day, I imagine the reverse is also true. Are you really alright this morning, Dragon?”

  “Far, far better for having a friend like you.”

  Turning, he waggled a talon at Princess the younger, standing wide-eyed in Juggernaut’s entryway. “No, I am absolutely not sweet, nor sappy, nor anything else you were just thinking! In a male world, you now pretend I said nothing at all.”

  The girl giggled, “Men are so weird. Males, even.”

  Linking arms with her sister, Azania said, “You don’t know the half of it. Come on, Inzashu. Let’s go do mysterious, inexplicable female things that completely bamboozle the macho mind.”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” Inzashu agreed at once. “Dragon –”

  GNARR-OFF WITH YOU!!

  Chapter 11: Rushing On

  JUGGERNAUT THUMPED DRAGON UPON the shoulder. Fly with me.

  Busy times at the lair, Master Juggernaut?