The Dragon Chronicles

by Ellen Campbell

  I can see some of you are a little nervous about my mention of angry villagers. Let me put your mind to rest about that once and for all. Yes, it's true that some Dragons have garnered bad reputations with the ignorant of our species. But you need not fear for your partner's life. It's a known fact that while we might be quite vulnerable as Riders, Dragons, on the other hand, are very hard to kill.

  * * *

  Dragons are nearly impossible to kill. Their scales are immune to fire, burning pitch, spears, arrows, knives, rain, snow, hail, and anything else I've ever seen in their presence. They lie atop one another in alternating rows, two layers thick, and they cannot be broken or even cracked by anything I've ever held in my hand. Believe me, I've tried. Not because I wanted to harm my Dragon, of course, but to test his strength. Plus, it amuses him and helps pass the time.

  The Dragon's hide underneath his scales is also quite tough, although I do know it's penetrable by a very sharp spear. This is how Othello's mother was killed — by a very misguided and spear-wielding so-called hero who was hired by a village that feared her nightly raids on their cattle. To be fair, she really shouldn't have been picking from their herds, but still... A conversation between the parties could have fixed the problem. There was no need for sharp weapons to be involved.

  Scales that slough off the Dragon once yearly, usually in spring, make handy shields for your own use. Leather straps attached to metal bands fastened around them make them easy to carry and load onto your Dragon-saddle or your own back.

  As you can see, my personal body armor has several scales incorporated. Quite lovely when they catch the light, aren't they? They maintain their properties on the Dragon and while on a Rider's body. You could shoot a flaming arrow at my chest right now and it would merely bounce off, leaving nothing but a spark behind. Not only is this convenient in the event an angry individual decides to start a fight, it's also quite helpful when a dragon is in a foul humor or has an upset stomach wherein fire-belches are a possibility. Being fire-proof is a real asset to the relationship.

  Dragons have two eyelids for each eye, one that comes from the top, and one that comes from the bottom, and part of one or both are always drawing towards the center. The entire eyeball itself is never exposed. This is for their protection, as the organ itself is quite sensitive to sharp objects. Their half-lidded gaze is what makes them seem so angry all the time, but it's really not the thing to be looking at when trying to determine a Dragon's mood. You're more apt to see the general state of his humor in his nostrils than anywhere else.

  Dragon nostrils are one of the magical mysteries of our world. They contain passages that can manage both fire and pitch-like mucus, yet they can also spout water after a swim with fire immediately after, creating steam. They flare when the Dragon is angry, wobble when he is sad, wiggle when he's happy, droop when he is tired, and flatten when he's about to let a large ball of flame shoot out and destroy something. If you want to know how your Dragon-partner feels, don't look him in the eyes; look him in the nostrils.

  I do encourage all Riders to spend the time it takes to get to this level of personal connection with their Dragon-partners. Othello and I have had ten years of nostril reading behind us, which has allowed us to communicate on a level not possible between humans. There is a certain magic involved in the relationship between a Dragon and his Rider, a Rider and his Dragon.

  Othello knows what I'm thinking and feeling the moment I'm thinking and feeling it. He's a master at reading my body language and moods. He's not uncaring or unfeeling, either. His practical jokes are often designed to cheer me up. I've fallen I don't know how many times from his back, but to date, he's always retrieved me before I've crashed to the earth. I will admit that he does like to wait until the very last second sometimes, but as I said, he does enjoy a good joke and he has that wicked sense of humor common to his species. I can hardly blame him for being who he is, living the life of a Dragon honestly and fully.

  So, my friends, it's almost time for us to part ways so that you can take the time you need to decide if this is the life for you, but before we do that, I just want to mention one more thing you must know about Dragons, in the event that what I've said so far has scared you away from the idea of becoming a Rider.

  The life of a Dragon Rider is not all doom and gloom and last-minute rescues from body-splattering falls, or singed facial hair, or the disgusting odor of dragon mess. There is something very special about Dragons that most people will never find in the human world, no matter how long and dutifully they might seek it. I'm going to tell you what that is before we leave one another, because I want to be sure you get a very clear picture of this beast: the good, the bad, and the ugly. You've seen the bad, you've heard of the ugly, and now it's time you learn the good, the very best thing a Dragon has to offer his Rider.

  * * *

  Dragons are the most loyal creatures you will ever know. Yes, they might get a little argy bargy when they can't find a mate after five years of looking; and yes, they might like to play jokes on you that end up with you missing some body hair or covered in grime. But when push comes to shove, and someone other than him is threatening your life or good health, all games are over. Your Dragon will be there, standing between you and whoever threatens you, fighting until the death to ensure you remain safe and alive.

  I'm going to share a personal story, something I've never even told my cousin Dalys before, so you can truly appreciate what I mean when I say a Dragon is loyal.

  One year ago, when I was coming home from a visit to my aunt's village, I encountered a band of men who had come from a distant land for the purpose of raiding whatever villages they came across and taking what wasn't theirs without compensation. Yes. I'm talking about thieves. War mongers. Men who have very bad things on their minds and darkness in their hearts.

  I knew they were headed to my family's village, and if they arrived there, all would be lost. There were twelve of them and one of me. Othello had not accompanied me to the village, because of course people flee when they see him coming and I prefer to visit my aunt and cousins in their homes and not running through the countryside at break-neck speed while they scream in fear. My Dragon-partner had agreed to remain at our mountain home while I spent the day with my family.

  And so I found myself without my Dragon armor and without my Dragon-partner, facing down the points of twelve angry men's spears and arrows. I had only a small knife I keep in my belt, which was no match for the weapons I saw that night. I admit to being more afraid than I'd ever been in my entire life, and that includes the times I'd flown upside-down over active volcanoes.

  As they advanced, I began counting all the things I hadn't yet had time to accomplish, frustrated that my life would end at the age of fifteen. I didn't realize it, but I was saying those things aloud, yelling them out into the night.

  "I haven't learned to do a back flip yet!" I'd been trying for months, but always ended up on my rear end. It can get boring hanging around while a Dragon sleeps sometimes.

  "I'm only an amateur swordsman!" Dragons are horrible teachers. A flick of a claw and you're bowled over backwards in the dust.

  "My last meal was a squirrel! I can't have squirrel as my last meal!" I'd always pictured a nice, juicy steak or a fresh trout with pickled beets on the side.

  And then I thought of my partner. The Dragon who I spent my formative years with, the creature I thought I'd grow old with, soaring the skies of our world as I grew gray hair and he singed it off my head.

  "Othello hasn't yet found his mate! Neither have I!"

  "Who's Othello?" one of the savages said. It was the first and last word uttered by those men.

  Othello appeared out of the night sky above me and swooped down, letting out a stream of blue fire that obliterated them, turning them into dust. And not a single hair on my head was harmed.

  Othello had used the one weapon I'd never seen him use before and had never known existed before that night: Blue Fire. It touch
es only the things he wants it to touch and leaves the rest alone. It was magic. Dark and dangerous, yes, but magic nonetheless.

  I climbed onto Othello's back that night without harness, without ropes, without any safety equipment of any kind. I knew then that he'd protect me for as long as I needed protecting and that I had nothing to fear from him.

  And with that, I will leave you to your thoughts and decisions ... unless there are any questions?

  A Word from Elle Casey

  In the 3-book continuation of the War of the Fae series (currently a 7-book Urban Fantasy series, which will soon be a 10 book series with these new releases), you will find reference to this short-story “Ten Things You Should Know About Dragons” that you just read. If you enjoyed it, and you like reading Contemporary Urban Fantasy, I recommend you give this series a try. War of the Fae, Book 1 (The Changelings) is free at most online retailers.

  Want to get an email when my next book is released? Sign up here: http://eepurl.com/h3aYM

  If you enjoyed this book, please take a moment to leave a review on the site where you bought this book, Amazon, Goodreads, or any book blogs you participate in, and tell your friends! I love interacting with my readers, so if you feel like shooting the breeze or talking about books or your family or pets, please visit me. You can find me at…

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  Elle Casey is a prolific American writer who lives in Southern France with her husband, three kids, and several furry friends. She writes in several genres and publishes an average of one full-length novel per month.

  Of Sand and Starlight

  by Daniel Arenson

  "YOU SHITE-GUZZLING, pig-shagging stains of codpiece juice!" Erry swung her stick, eyes burning with tears. "Get the Abyss off my beach, or I'll slice off your lying heads and shove 'em up your fat, flea-infested arses!"

  The women stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. A cruel laughter. A taunting laughter. The laughter Erry had been hearing all her life.

  "Get outta here!" she shouted. The tears were now flowing down her cheeks, and she snarled like a wild animal. Perhaps that's all she was now. A wild animal roaming the beaches, feral and hungry. "I'm gonna crack open your skulls and piss in 'em!"

  Clouds hid the moon. Only the candles burning inside the rotting houses on the boardwalk lit the beach. Driftwood littered the sand, and when Erry took a step forward, a dead fish squished beneath her bare foot. This whole city was a corpse washed onto the shore. This whole damn place was a maggoty hive of filth, a wart on the backside of a wretched empire.

  The women laughed again, surrounding Erry. All but one. This one stood a couple paces back, eyes simmering with hatred. This one's teeth were bared, and her hand clutched a rusty knife. A heavyset, dark-haired woman with scabby knuckles. Getya. The baker's wife.

  "Move aside." Getya stepped forward between her companions, raising her blade. "I'm going to gut this whore myself."

  Erry growled, spinning from side to side, brandishing her branch. They said she looked like a boy, her body small, her dark hair cropped short, but Erry was an adult already, if you counted the years. For eighteen winters, she had scavenged upon this beach, rummaging in the trash, eating dead fish, fighting off her enemies with sticks and stones. An adult, yes, yet still so small, standing five feet only on tiptoes, her limbs no thicker than the stick she wielded. Years of hunger had left her small, but they had given her strength, kept the fire inside her burning.

  These women around her—jackals, all of them—were a dozen years older, a dozen inches taller. But Erry knew she could face them, kill them if she had to. And if they beat her bloody? Well, she had been beaten bloody too many times to count and survived. And if they killed her? Well, perhaps that would be even sweeter than cracking their skulls.

  "I'm no whore." She spat on Getya's feet. "Take that back or the next time I spit, it'll be onto your maggoty corpse."

  Getya pointed her blade. "You are one! You are! You… you bedded him. My husband. For money. You're nothing but a dock rat whore! Just like your mother."

  Erry sucked in breath through clenched teeth.

  Dock rat.

  Whore.

  The rage, the pain, the nightmares flared through her. Whore? No. Her mother had been a whore. Her mother had been a goddamn whore who slit her goddamn wrists, leaving Erry alone on this beach.

  I'll bed men for food. For shelter in a storm. For companionship on a dark, moonless night when the nightmares fill me. But never for money. Never.

  She stepped even closer to Getya, arms shaking, branch raised, teeth grinding. She stood only an inch away from the taller, older woman. Erry barely reached Getya's shoulders, and her branch was no match for the woman's blade, but she refused to back down. She tilted back her head and glared into Getya's eyes.

  "Yes," Erry hissed. "Yes, Getya. Your husband took me into his bed. He took off my clothes. And I bedded him. But not for money. You know what he gave me?" A chaotic smile twisted her lips. "Honey cakes. The same honey cakes you baked him. And oh… they were delicious, Getya." Erry licked her lips. "Nice and warm and puffy. You baked them for him, and I ate them all up while he thrust into me."

  Getya's eyes flooded, and for a moment Erry thought the woman would collapse into sobs. But then Getya roared and lashed her knife.

  Erry leaped back, swinging her stick.

  The blade blazed across Erry's arm, ripping through her stained rags, cutting her skin. Blood sprayed. Before Erry could even register the pain, her branch slammed into Getya's head with a crack.

  The branch shattered.

  Getya howled, blood gushing from her head.

  The other women leaped forward.

  And Erry fought them. Her branch was shattered, and she weighed barely ninety pounds soaking wet, but she fought them. With teeth. With nails. With the desperation inside her, the pain of a dock rat, her sailor father gone across the sea, her whore of a mother dead, her belly aching with hunger, her heart burning with her rage. As the fists slammed into her head, she kept standing. Kept fighting. As the kicks drove into her belly, she refused to fall. She kicked them back. She roared with her pain as they beat her. Roared for her father leaving them, leaving Erry's mother to slit her wrists in the alley, leaving Erry to a slow death of starvation and beatings and sand and blood in a rotten carcass of a town.

  "I'm no whore!" she shouted, hoarse, blood in her mouth. She kept shouting as they knocked her onto the sand, as they kicked her, spat on her, then turned to leave. They walked away, still laughing, blood on their knuckles.

  The beach spun around her.

  The clouds wept, the rain stinging Erry, washing her blood away.

  She lay in the darkness, trembling, wheezing, coughing out blood.

  Another fight lost, she thought, and a smile rose on her bruised lips. She tasted fresh blood. Another pack of jackals I survived.

  She could not walk, not even after eating the cakes last night—not after so many days of hunger, with these bruises and cuts across her, with her head that would not stop spinning. But she could crawl.

  I should crawl into the sea, she thought. She turned and stared at the black waves, and again they called to her, beckoning, their whisper a siren's song.

  Come rest in our depths. Come join our darkness.

  A black demon. A dark mother. Always waiting. Always there for a last, cold embrace.

  She crawled away.

  Not yet. Maybe some night I will join you. But not this night.

  She dragged herself through the sand and onto the cobblestones of the boardwalk, her home. She pulled herself to her feet, then doubled over and gagged, losing whatever honey cakes that still filled her belly. Her head reeled. Her blood dripped. She thought one of her ribs might be broken. She stumbled forward, limping, falling, crawling, pulling herself back up.

  She made her way across the wretched boardwalk. This place h
ad once been called the Jewel of the South, they said. But that had been a long time ago. Back before the Cadigus family had slaughtered the old king, taking over this land called Requiem. Back when magic had still filled these people. Back when dragons had flown.

  A land of magic crushed. Of dragons lost.

  Perhaps once this boardwalk had been a place of plenty, but no longer. The old shops had mostly closed. Their wooden beams now rotted away, and holes filled their tiled roofs. A handful of buildings still housed a few last tradesmen—a baker, a roper, a potter—but they too were hungry. After the long wars, trade had died, and now even the living rotted away, withering, fading… all fading to nothing, to bones, then ash. Like her.

  "Dock rat, get away!" cried a portly man from the window of a chandlery. "Go! Shoo! Shoo!"

  He tilted a slop bucket over the window, and the filth rained down, staining Erry's feet, splashing against her rags, filling her wounds. She coughed. She gagged again. She limped on.

  Finally she reached the place. The closest thing she had to a house. The abandoned windmill rose in the shadows, weeds growing around it. Its wooden sails had rotted and fallen years ago, long before Erry had been born. Now it was just an empty shell, a skeleton of stone, like the rest of this city.

  Erry fell onto the cobblestones, bloodying her knees. She crawled into the windmill.

  A few stray cats greeted her with hisses, bristling. The place stank. The cats shit and pissed over the rags Erry had placed on the floor, and the carcass of a kitten rotted in the corner. Just another piece of filth. Just like the rest of Cadport. Just like her.

  Erry stumbled to the corner. She lay on the soiled rags. She had no food. Nothing unless she wanted to eat the dead mice the cats sometimes brought in. But she had a bottle. She reached for it now, lifting it with a shaky, sandy hand. Moonshine. Real booze. She had let a man bed her for three nights for this bottle. She drank, letting the spirits wash away the pain, letting herself drown in the warm, stinging embrace of the bottle.