Rago: An Order Universe Short Story

by Kasia Bacon

  Rago

  An Order Universe Short Story

  Kasia Bacon

  Rago: An Order Universe Short Story

  Copyright © 2019 Kasia Bacon

  Published by The Order Universe

  Ebook Edition

  Written by: Kasia Bacon

  Edited by: No Stone Unturned Editing Services

  Cover photo: Shutterstock

  Cover Design by: Kate Sumner

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used, copied, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author except for the purpose of reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described in this book are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblances to actual people or incidents are entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Dear Reader

  Rago

  Glossary

  About Kasia Bacon

  The Order Universe Books

  The Poison Within

  R A G O

  An Order Universe Short Story

  KASIA BACON

  Lieutenant Ĉortez is about to sit down to his well-deserved supper when destiny hits—winged, scaled and more than a little tipsy.

  Rago is a fated mates/forced proximity short story from The Order Universe, featuring a puffing dragon shifter and a romp in the fencing hall.

  Dear Reader,

  I penned the bones of this story in October while travelling to Albuquerque, New Mexico, for the Gay Rom Lit convention. It came to me as a surprise, as I’m sure it does to you, and don’t you just love it when that happens?

  Rago is a light-hearted, hopeful tale that features a naughty romp on the side.

  You may not know this, but I’m a self-confessed lover of fated mates. The fact that I’ve been incorporating that very trope into three other stories I’m working on is proof enough. But what do we get when coupling that concept with forced proximity and a tipsy dragon shifter?

  If you’re curious… jump right ahead!

  —Kasia Bacon

  “Dragon shifters produce deep, loud sounds in a wide range of pitch thanks to their long, heavily muscled larynxes and unbroken, fleshy vocal cords. The roars of a dragon shifter in distress—and in particular when separated from their mate—travel up to several thousand paces and can be described as blood-curdling.

  Dragon shifters may be extremely dangerous when experiencing separation anxiety. Save for their mate, parents or a skilled Mage with a death wish, it is not advisable for anyone to approach them in such circumstances.”

  —The Great Lexicon of Elder Races

  Rago

  Deafening cries carried through the garrison, causing the tableware to vibrate. Scared for the fate of the tall pitcher in front of me, I grabbed it and drained its golden contents in four glugs, thus preventing any spillage. A waste of fresh-pressed pashija cider would have been an insult to the gods and common sense.

  Another long bellow filled the air. I jolted.

  The hell is that?

  My hair stood on end. At the same time, however, the obvious longing present in the tone of that growl prompted my heart to give a funny thump.

  A heavy hand clapped my back. The Quartermaster Dakoi, his cheeks flushed from exertion, bent forwards and wheezed out, “Lie-lieutenant Ĉortez. You must come to the fe-fencing hall at once!”

  “Must I?” I squinted at him over my untouched supper, miffed at the suggestion, to say the least. “Says who?”

  I’d only just come off a long-arsed shift. Knackered, thank you very much. As the evenings turned darker and cooler with the approach of winter, sentinel duty became more taxing. Starved and chilled to my bones, I didn’t fancy leaving the warmth of the canteen—and even less before shovelling any food down my gob.

  “Says Ca-captain Zheger,” Dakoi barked. “So make haste!” He unfolded himself to his full height—a technique tall men tended to try and intimidate me with.

  It never worked. From a young age, I’d heeded my mother’s advice: Small as you may be, son, do not allow anyone to spit in your porridge. Whatever I lacked in height and physical strength, I made up for in practice, discipline and technique. As a result, not many had sought the chance to mess with my shit when my sword—named Lil’Sting by my opponents—swung by my side. Not one to brag, but save for the Lord of Radvadur, I ranked as the top fencer in the Empire.

  Dakoi switched his approach. “Come on, Lieutenant,” he reasoned with me. “It’s u-urgent!”

  “It’d damn well better be,” I grumbled.

  Fuck Captain Zheger and his fleas. I rose from my seat, already mourning the venison and wild mushroom stew I’d only managed to sniff.

  Taking cues from Dakoi, I sprinted out of the canteen and across the courtyard.

  A vast crowd of soldiers had gathered around the fencing hall’s entrance. The door, usually wide open, remained latched with an iron bar in an attempt to keep something in. Something mighty strong that had been the source of the anguished roars. It rammed the gate from the other side, clearly wanting out.

  Judging by the way the entire construction rattled, I realised the creaking hinges wouldn’t take much more of such treatment before snapping off.

  “Shit! He’s getting frantic!” someone warned.

  The men appeared anxious as hell. A few had backed up a step.

  Intrigued to see what had elicited such a reaction from the seasoned servicemen, I elbowed my passage through to the front.

  “Has anyone found Ĉortez?” I recognised the booming voice of Captain Zheger. “Where the fuck is he?”

  “Here, sir,” I said, more and more perplexed. “What’s this, then?”

  “Thank the gods!” Zheger grabbed me by the lapels and pulled me towards him, exerting enough force for our chests to bump. “Lieutenant, you need to go in there. Now.”

  I glanced around with suspicion. There must’ve been three dozen men standing about idly, and Zheger expected me to deal with the issue—whatever it involved—solo? I didn’t rush to criticise, but it seemed a tad unreasonable.

  “Whatever’s in there, sir?” I asked with caution.

  “Sergeant Eerik. You know him?”

  “Sergeant Eerik?” I gaped and shook my head, fighting off a ridiculous feeling of being caught red-handed upon hearing that name.

  Well, I didn’t know the Sergeant, as such. He’d enlisted recently and served in another regiment. Which didn’t mean I hadn’t noticed the gorgeous green-eyed man on the compound or spent a fair amount of time gawking at his lean, clean-cut muscles. It would have been hard to miss someone built like a martial god, who moved in the smooth manner of a predator, emanating a brooding air. But the very fact that I’d been fantasising about the Sergeant at all—and pretty much constantly, too—was unlike me. The more vivid and explicit my thoughts had turned, the more out of the ordinary it’d become.

  Matters of attraction and intimacy weren’t as simple for me as for other men. I didn’t go round shagging people on a whim. Neither did I have a habit of leering at strangers or lusting over them. Appearance alone, no matter how striking, had never been enough to stir my interest or my cock. Sure, I had eyes and appreciated a looker when I saw one. But to consider physical contact of any kind, I needed a connection first. A sense of trust. Familiarity. Friendship. Romance. Anything. And I’d been this way ever since I could remember.

  Only not anymore, it appeared. Because there I went, dreaming up a headful of filth and hosting a village fair in my trousers every time I’d caught a glimpse of Sergeant Eerik bending down or flexing his arms.


  In any event, admitting to the Capitan that I’d enjoyed a good few wanks imagining the lower-ranked soldier fucking me up against the wall until I screamed myself hoarse didn’t strike me as a wise idea.

  “I’m confused, sir,” I confessed instead. “Why is Sergeant Eerik locked up in the fencing hall? Growling away like—”

  “A dragon shifter?” The Capitan’s tone gained an impatient edge. “Because he is one, that’s why.”

  No shit?

  I hurried to pick up my jaw from the ground.

  According to the Emperor Xenedor’s last census, a mere handful of dragon shifters resided in the mainland Empire. Known as a race of islanders, they populated a few of the South Isles but mostly kept to the remote wild archipelagos under Elven or Barbarian rule.

  Excitement fluttered through my stomach. Unable to think of anything to say, I settled for a sharp-witted Oh.

  In the silence, I made out the scrape of claws splintering the wood to chips.

  “Ĉortez, there’s no time for chit-chat.” The Captain thrust his finger towards the gate, which once again juddered, having been subjected to a powerful bang. “Commander Mehji is due from Ysêmyr any time. If he finds out we’ve got a drunk, unauthorised shifter in his true form causing havoc on the grounds, we’re fucked.”

  “‘Unauthorised’?” I felt my eyebrows slide upwards, but given the Captain’s agitation, I chose not to elaborate.

  “I meant to take care of Eerik’s status ages ago, but it slipped my mind!” The Captain rubbed at his stubble, shifting from foot to foot. “What? Like I don’t have enough to do with you lot going off the rails half the time! I can’t see the ceiling for the mountain of scrolls on my desk.”

  Zheger wasn’t the type to twiddle his thumbs. If he’d neglected a task, his plate must’ve become too full. Alas, the matter was no small oversight. While the Imperial Forces encouraged non-humans to enlist and welcomed them amongst the ranks, their contracts were complicated legal documents that required countless checks and approvals granted at the highest level of military authority.

  “Long story short, the Sergeant hasn’t been cleared,” the Captain continued. “Once the Commander sees Eerik fight—because gods merciful, that’s a sight to behold—he’ll jump for joy we’ve bagged a shifter. But for now, he’s bound to hit the roof sideways. What if he ends up giving us one of his purges?”

  I shivered at the thought. Honest to gods, we hadn’t had it bad with Mehji when it came down to it. He left us to our own devices as long as training ran smoothly, the compound presented sparkling, no disturbances occurred and—most importantly—the paperwork was flawless. A stickler for formalities, health and safety regulations included, Mehji tolerated no administrative fuckups. The smallest disorder in this regard invariably drove him to declare the place a complete and utter cesspool in need of cleaning. A subsequent earth-turning inspection that would follow saved no one and nothing. Hardly surprising that the soldiers around me fidgeted, looking uneasy as hell. We all had contraband in the barracks, be it illegal hexes, charms or magically enhanced substances banned by the army. Some kept pets. Others grew various plants, guaranteed to provide fun times when dried, powdered and snorted. The prospect of Mehji losing his everlasting shit and going through the garrison with a fine-tooth comb injected panic into every soul.

  I scratched the top of my head. “Is Sergeant Eerik upset about the cock-up? Is that why he’s shifted?”

  “No.” The Captain considered me in a way that made me nervous. “He was off duty, drinking with his unit when he went berserk. He’s recognised his mate, they said. And kicked off over the said mate’s absence like you wouldn’t believe.”

  The collar of my jacket tightened around my neck. I jerked the top button open. “That’s, err, different, sir. But what does it have to do with me?”

  Even though I stared at the Capitan, I could tell that every soldier’s eyes were pinned on me. Heat spread over my cheeks and ears. I swallowed a curse.

  “Take a guess, Ĉortez.” The Captain squinted at me, his face split in a grin. “Any idea who Eerik’s mate might be?”

  I’d lost the ability to speak, which was a rare event in itself.

  “Listen, it ain’t complicated. All you need to do is go in there and calm him the fuck down. Best get him to shift back, I’d say.”

  “Course. Anything else?” I sneered, but the Captain chose to ignore my sarcasm.

  “Keep him nice and quiet through the night. The Commander will be off again tomorrow to inspect the Sadaryn fortress, gods help the poor sods. Better them than us, though, am I right?” The men hummed their vigorous agreement. “Anyway, before Mehji returns on Freeday, I’ll have Eerik’s shit all straightened out. You follow?”

  No. I did not follow. Not even a little.

  During this exchange, the Capitan’s steely arm continued to nudge and steer me closer and closer towards the gate, until the tip of my nose nearly brushed the boards.

  It’d become quiet, then. The thumping and roaring had ceased.

  Zheger spotted the opportunity. “Lively now, damn it!” he called out.

  My comrades-in-arms had the latch unfastened in a tick. A small crack did the job. Before I could blink, the fucking traitors expedited me over to the other side with a firm shove between my shoulder blades. The gate behind me smacked my arse when it closed.

  Lovely.

  For a time, I froze there as if glued to the wood, listening to the sound of my choppy breathing and watching it steam in front of me.

  A gentle gust of air warmed my chest, neck and face, sending my hair every which way. I detected a whiff of fruit and spirit, distinctive enough to indicate a few good tankards’ worth of cider. Evidently, Sergeant Eerik shared my drinking tastes.

  Keeping my movements slow, I craned my neck upwards.

  Aglow above me in the dim light of the wall-mounted torches were a pair of angular eyes the colour of moss featuring vertically slit pupils.

  The dragon tilted his head and swished his slim tail to the opposite side, continuing to study me from less than three paces away.

  Needless to say, I gawked right back. A sharp gasp escaped me. Not out of fear. I didn’t feel afraid in the slightest—just elated. Bizarre giddiness flooded my senses. Never in my life had I seen a being so stunning and magnificent.

  Graceful and slender, the dragon wasn’t a great deal taller than his human form. Even motionless, he radiated powerful energy like heat from a fire. His shiny scales resembled prime quality Elven mail armour. I thought them black at first, only to realise they shimmered in an iridescent sheen of green, blue and purple.

  I could tell that my silent admiration pleased the dragon. Determined to dazzle me completely, it appeared, he unfolded the luminescent membranes of his wings and spread them to their full glorious stretch. Snapping them a few times for greater effect, he lifted himself several thumb’ lengths off the ground and hovered, impersonating a humongous butterfly. All the while, he observed my reaction closely, as if crowing, ‘Aren’t they pretty? Don’t you like them?’

  I grinned and applauded the show-off’s efforts, both charmed and amused by this curious behaviour which—I had no doubts—served as a courtship ritual designed to woo me.

  And that, it accomplished.

  Once the dragon alighted on the floor again, light-footed and cautious, he approached me, one unhurried step after another. Allowing me time and opportunity to disengage if I so decided.

  Such a thing never occurred to me.

  Guided by instinct, my hand extended towards his flank. I paused on meeting the unexpectedly warm and smooth texture and let out a delighted Aww when the black underneath my touch flashed in a glitter of polychrome.

  The dragon purred, leaning into my palm ever so slightly and lowering his eyelids, an explicit request for more.

  So what else was I to do, if not put my back into it?

  If someone had told me I’d end up petting a dragon that day, I would�
��ve wasted no time in sending the nutter straight to the garrison healer to have their head examined.

  Hic! Hic! Hiiic!

  The sharp staccato of hissing, gulping sounds that came from within the dragon’s diaphragm, interrupted the cosy moment.

  He took a step back, clapping his paw on his muzzle in a bid to smother the sudden onset of hiccups. Two spikes on his forehead glistened a vivid shade of scarlet, lending him an adorably embarrassed appearance.

  I chuckled and rushed to put him at ease. “Now, now, Sergeant. We’ve all been there. To the land of One-Too-Many. I’m quite familiar with the topography, believe me.”

  Addressing him by his rank when he presented in front of me in his winged and scaled glory, sounded out of place. I regretted not knowing his given name.

  At that moment, the dragon began producing white wisps of a smoke-like substance from his… nostrils. I blinked, as it billowed around for a time and then drifted up, forming a string of fuzzy, clumsy letters above his head.

  Mouth agape, I considered the message, which spelt Rago before it dissipated.

  My countenance must’ve displayed robust features of dumbness because Rago reiterated his point by indicating his chest with his clawed digit.

  I got my voice back after a while. “Seriously? You’re a dragon called Rago? Your parents have a quirky sense of humour, eh?”

  He shrugged, his foot tracing little circles on the floor. He stole a glance at me from beneath his long lashes.

  “Rago,” I whispered to myself, enjoying the sound. “I like it,” I declared firmly. “Concise and majestic. It suits you.”

  His nose scrunched up in a way that read as a smile. Another plume of smoke spiralled up, the letters even more unsteady than on the previous occasion. Calligraphy and inebriation didn’t go well together.