Blood and Royalty: Dragoneer Saga Book Six (The Dragoneer Saga)

by M. R. Mathias

  She turned away from the trees below her to look back up the mountain and was stung on the cheek by some tiny insect. As she slapped the pest away, she spun herself back toward the valley and nearly cried out in amazement at what she saw. It was a dragon -- a small, red one. It wasn’t much bigger than her in body size, though it was longer. It was trying to catch the hopper, clumsily grabbing with its fore claws, while trying in vain to use its small, undeveloped wings to lift itself into flight. Clover felt sorry for the inexperienced hunter, and silently put an arrow to the string of her old bow. She watched until she had a clear shot at the hopper. The young dragon didn’t even notice the shaft as it struck his prey and pinned it to the ground. He was too busy pouncing to tear a piece of the long-awaited flesh from it. Clover watched in awe and amazement as the little red wyrm ate its meal.

  She wondered suddenly where its mother might be. The huge fire wyrm that sometimes ventured out of the peaks to badger the humans was notorious. She nearly dislocated her neck scanning the skies around her, but the wailing call she’d been hearing the last two days sounded out again from below. It told her on some completely feminine level that no dragon was going to answer the call.

  The little dragon’s mouth was pink and bloody from the meal, but it was still hungry. It filled the valley with the sound of pain and sorrow. Clover understood that this young dragon was alone -- either lost or abandoned -- left to fend for itself without the benefit of a mother’s nurturing guidance. The sound of the dragon’s screeching forced a tear from Clover’s eye. She knew in her heart that the little beast had no one in the world and it probably wouldn’t survive without help. Clover was careful not to spook the rare, magical young creature as she followed it back up the other side of the valley into a large cavern opening. As she eased into the eerie cave, the stink of death filled her nostrils. It took a while, but she held down her gorge and made her way deeper into the tunnel. Clover’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, but they were watering from the fog of rot that hung in the air. When the passage finally opened up into a cavern, she made out a huge mass that nearly filled the place. She had to cover her mouth to keep from screaming in utter terror. Even a weeklong-dead dragon looked horribly scary. Clover found herself trembling as she took in the massive corpse.

  Gray, milky eyes the size of wagon wheels, slitted with sword-like pupils, stared out lifelessly. A huge curl of pink tongue split a row of yellowed fangs as big around and as long as Clover’s legs. The dead dragon’s nostrils were big enough to crawl into and explore. They were like black holes in front of her. It didn’t take long for Clover to spot the cleanly-picked skeletal carcasses of the huge red dragon’s killers. They were probably all the little wailing hatchling had eaten before the hopper.

  Clover crept back out of the cavern and climbed up on a shelf of rock overlooking the valley below the entrance to the little red’s nest. There she set up a well-camouflaged camp. After overcoming her nausea, she ate a thin meal of dried beef and hard bread. Then she started out to hunt some more sustenance for herself and the little dragon.

  *** *** ***

  Throughout the spring, Clover secretly hunted for her ever hungry, continually growing friend. Each day, she took the time to make the meat harder to find, and if she could, a little larger portion than the day before. By midsummer, the dragon was easily twenty paces long from nose to tail. Though he still wasn’t able to lift his growing body with his wings, he could now unfurl them. The dragon could also follow a lengthy blood trail. He started using his hot, fiery breath to char his meat before he ate it, too.

  Each day Clover placed something of hers close to the dragon’s meals. Her hope was that the dragon would become familiar with her scent. Several times she wanted to approach the creature, but her fear got the better of her. Each day after the dragon would feed, it would sniff around her offering, then return to the now grotesquely pungent nest cave.

  One day toward summer’s end, Clover came upon a doe elk that had stepped between two fallen logs and broken its foreleg. Clover decided that the dragon was ready to take its first prey for itself. She used a ragged coil of rope to lasso the wounded elk, and with much effort, she pulled the baying and bucking creature over the ridge down into the valley. She felt sad for the elk, knowing that she was leading it to a certain death. It was a wounded and defenseless creature and that weighed upon her. She steeled herself, though. She knew the elk was sure to die in its crippled condition, and she knew the dragon had to learn to hunt and kill on its own. Nature was like that, she reasoned. She told herself she was just helping the inevitable along. She ended up getting the elk well within scent range of the cave opening and then cut the old rope loose. If it could have, the elk would have bolted away in a heartbeat, but its leg was now mangled and useless from fighting Clover’s makeshift leash.

  Clover said a prayer to the Green Mother for the elk, asking for a quick death for it, as well as for its life to be taken for the good of another. Then she found a good vantage point to watch it all happen and got comfortable.

  The young dragon found the elk’s scent within minutes, which wasn’t easy over the smell of his mother’s rotting carcass. He cautiously approached the big elk, moving slowly and sinuously toward the terrified creature. The elk smelled the dragon now and its eyes were rolling and white, full of instinctive panic, yet it stood there like a statue, quivering as the dragon closed in. Then, like a flash, the dragon leapt from the undergrowth and split the elk’s neck with a swat of its razor-sharp foreclaw. The wyrm reared back his head and roared out deeply as the smell of fresh blood filled his nostrils and the rush of the kill began to course through his veins.

  Crimzathrion took his time cooking and consuming the elk, and more than once he stopped to glance up directly at Clover, but never for long. The fresh meat kept calling him back. Well into evening, the dragon finally finished devouring its first real prey. When he was done, he shook his shiny, red-scaled body, stretched his long, bony spine from neck to tail, then spread his leathery wings wide. After a short, prideful roar, he took a number of long, leaping strides across the clearing and stopped. Several times he did this, each time using his wings a little more effectively. Finally, as the sun was beginning to set, the dragon reared back his head and roared again, this time sending a blast of smoke and flame into the air. Crimzathrion took off running. After only four long strides, he leapt into the air and with a sharp thump of his wings, took his first flight.

  Watching this, Clover began to wonder if the dragon needed her anymore. Now that the dragon was able to fly, it would be able to swoop down on its prey like a hawk. The chore of hunting its own food would be easy. She had been yearning to approach the creature and maybe even touch its slick, shiny scales. She heard some dragons could even speak, but figured since this dragon didn’t have a mother to teach it, that it probably couldn’t. She cursed herself a fool for not approaching it early on while it was still small and timid. Now the dragon was big enough that it could easily kill her if it decided to.

  Regretfully, she decided she would make her way back to her camp and pack up so she could move on in the morning. Her friends and family down in town would be missing her, and all of the fools at the Golden Gargoyle Inn would want to drink themselves stupid and listen to her tales. They’d drink toast after toast to her unbelievable luck, and buy her rounds until the barkeep threw them out.

  She was lost in thought, staring aimlessly down into the now moonlit valley, when a loud Thrump…Thrump…Thrump from not so far behind and above her split the night. The sound sent her heart hammering through her chest. She spun around, reaching instinctively for her sword. It wasn’t there. She remembered she hadn’t been carrying it lately. The realization came far too late, for there before her was the dragon, raising his sizable, horned head slowly up to his full, erect height. A long period of dead silence followed. Clover was awed and terrified, but no more than the dragon was. Both were tentative, each taking in the other, until Clover remembered to
breathe. As she did, the dragon also sucked in a deep noisy breath of air. Clover held her breath again, half anticipating a blast of flame to shoot forth from the dragon’s maw and fry her in her boots, but it never came.

  The dragon was trying desperately to find the spell his mother cleverly instilled in his mind that would allow him to speak in the human tongue. He had sensed Clover’s presence often. After months of filling his belly on her kills, he knew the human was aiding him. For this he was grateful. He wanted very badly to express his gratitude.

  Clover eventually read the curious look in the dragon’s eyes and relaxed slightly. She tried to breathe normally but it was useless. Her body was trembling with exhilaration and she was more than just a little bit scared.

  “Thank you Green Mother,” Clover mouthed to the heavens, but her voice was loud enough for the dragon’s keen ears to hear.

  The words brought the spell that the dragon was searching for instantly to mind and without thinking he spoke.

  “Iss couldss eatss youss,” he hissed awkwardly. “Butss yourss kindss tastess bitterss to myss tounge.” The dragon then reared his head back, belched out a roiling puff of gray smoke, and made a growling, hacking sound that Clover hoped was some form of laughter.

  “Would you bite the hand that feeds you?” Clover asked nervously.

  Again the dragon growled and hacked and blew forth smoke. Clover was relieved. This time the corners of the dragon’s toothy mouth curled upward and Clover was sure that the expression was one of mirth, not malice.

  “I amss owings you humanss.” The dragon hissed, his countenance becoming more serious. The hiss in his voice lessened with each word he spoke. “You helpsed me to survives. A gifts I haves for yous, but the gifts must waits.”

  Clover stood there in awe as the dragon lowered his long neck and body close to the ground, then opened one of his folded wings slightly to give Clover access to his back.

  The dragon twisted his long sinuous neck to look back at Clover. “Itss times for uss to flyss, my friends.”

  Clover’s expression was leery. “You said us?”

  She really did want to fly on the dragon’s back. She had daydreamed of it often while hunting up her scaly friend’s meals, but she hadn’t forgotten that the dragon had only just flown for the first time, not to mention that it was still fairly small for its kind.

  Clover’s expression must have revealed her hesitance, for the dragon reared back its head again and roared out his growling, hacking laugh, sending a huge cloud swirling up into the moonlit night. After it recovered from the humor, it turned back to look at Clover.

  The dragon chuckled again at the fidgety look on his human friend’s face. “It isss ssafe, my friends, I’lls letss no harms comes to youss.”

  Reluctantly, Clover climbed up onto the dragon. She found that she fit comfortably and snugly between two of the bony spinal plates that protruded down the center of his back. Once she was situated, Clover took a long, deep breath. “My name is Clover. What should I call you?”

  “ Clo-va,” the dragon carefully sounded her name.

  “Yes, Clover. What should I call you?”

  The dragon thought about this momentarily. “My true name is Crimzathrion. I think it isss to complex for your tonguess to ssspeaks. What woulds you like to calls me?”

  Clover patted the dragon’s scaly back and smiled as it came to her. “Crimzon is the color of your scales. It’s close to Crimz-arthia-rone.”

  Crimzon chuckled again. “Crimzzzon.” The dragon sounded, a hint of satisfaction in his slithery voice. “Yesss… Crimzon iss the color of blood.”

  Crimzon shifted and raised his body, forcing Clover to grab hold of the bony spinal plate in front of her. The plate’s rough, grooved ripples made a perfect handhold for her, and she gripped them just in time. Crimzon was already lunging forward with tremendous force. One … two … three … leaping strides that jarred Clover’s teeth together, then there was only weightlessness as smooth as silk. There was a slight lurching sensation for Clover each time Crimzon’s huge wings thumped the air, but she didn’t even notice. She was too busy holding on for dear life as they nearly clipped the tops of the trees the dragon was struggling to rise above.

  The cool, night air rushed over them as they circled slowly upward on Crimzon’s strong, steady thrusts. In the dragon’s head his mother’s soft voice whispered both instruction and encouragement, and the feeling of Clover on his back gave him the confidence and reassurance he needed to avoid falter.

  They climbed so high into the sky that Clover thought she just might be able to touch the stars twinkling above them. Her blood was electric with sensation. Her skin was chilled by the rushing air and her stomach was tingling as if full of wiggling snakes. She drew in a deep breath to calm herself, but it was no use. Just as soon as she exhaled Crimzon rolled to the right and then dove sharply, leaving the wiggling snakes from Clover’s belly lumped in the back of her throat. Her mind was spinning like a whirlpool.

  Far below, the majesty of the moonlit valleys and the hue of colors reflecting from the rocky, snow-capped ridges unfolded before them. Clover marveled at the dozens of rivers and streams that glittered like strands and pools of molten gold. The force of the air pressed hard against her as Crimzon dove. She began to feel dizzy and distant, but before she slipped into unconsciousness, the dragon leveled out and sped across the treetops at such speed that all Clover could see below was a shadowy blur. Soon their momentum died away and Crimzon began to circle and rise again, but now at a more relaxed pace. Clover was glad. She felt rubbery and nauseated. Sick or not, she had to admit that it was the most exhilarating experience she ever experienced.

  Before long, Clover spotted her camp. She then felt Crimzon slowing to prepare for landing. As Crimzon glided softly down into the clearing below, Clover saw something out of the corner of her tear-blurred eyes that alarmed her. She was sure it was a trick of the light or caused by the misting in her vision. No way could she have seen a party of men just on the other side of the valley’s ridge. At least she hoped not. The sudden loss of inertia and the hard, rough thumping of Crimzon’s hind claws slapping and stepping across the valley floor jarred her entire body, pulling her from the troubled thought. She was drenched with an instant feeling of relief that made her forget completely what he might have seen. When they finally came to a halt, she wobbled clumsily from Crimzon’s back. On legs as sturdy as water, she crumpled to the ground. Then she howled out in laughter at the wonder she’d just experienced.

  Crimzon hacked and growled, and blew smoke from his snout as well. Later, after they finally settled down from the thrill of the flight, Crimzon ventured down into the putrid lair. The smell of his mother’s rotting body was far too strong for Clover to handle, so she was forced to wait outside and wonder curiously what the gift was that the young dragon planned to give her. She didn’t feel that the dragon owed her anything; the flight alone had been payment enough.

  The dragon returned shortly, carrying something gingerly in his foreclaw. It appeared to be a large, fist-sized jewel. Crimzon explained that it was a dragon’s tear -- his mother’s tear -- and he presented it to Clover with much emotion.

  For a moment, when it was first in her hands, Clover didn’t understand. But then it hit her like a bolt of lightning. The powerful magic held inside the tear exploded inside of her, filling her with rush after surging rush of energy and heat. It took her breath and filled her head with colorful collages of incomprehensible visions, each having a distinct meaning, one blurring into another. Due to the intensity of the tear’s magic, Clover nearly let it fall from her hands, but somehow she managed to hold on. When the electric sizzling in her blood finally settled, she was something and someone else altogether. Not physically -- no, she was still Clover on the outside -- but inside her head, spell after spell swirled and danced, as did eons of knowledge and understanding, not only of the race of Dracus, but of all the races of the world. She was just about to say the a
ncient words of acceptance, words that she had never read or heard anywhere before in her life, when a thick flight of arrows came raining down on them from above.

  The shouts and excited calls of human warriors filled the air, and more arrows came raining down. Whether it was her luck or the protective magic of the tear, Clover was miraculously missed. It might have been that she wasn’t the target that the men were aiming for.

  Crimzon howled in pain. He was hit nearly a dozen times, but only one or two of the steel-tipped wooden shafts managed to penetrate his thick, scaly hide. He wasted no time taking back to the air where he could quickly fly beyond the archers’ range. Still he was pelted and pierced several more times before he got very far.

  Clover charged relentlessly toward the cover of the cavern. The air inside the shaft hit her like a blanket of rot. She felt she should do something, but wasn’t sure what or how. It was a chore just to draw a breath. By the time an idea came to her, she was pinned in the cavern by a pair of archers, who were loosing arrow after arrow into the entrance. At a glance she counted at least half a dozen chainmail-clad swordsmen coming swiftly behind them.

  “We don’t want you, fool”, an angry voice called out. “All we want is the old dragon’s hoard.”

  Hoard, Clover thought. There was no hoard here. This was Crimzon’s mother’s nest, not her lair. Her hoard could be anywhere. She shook her head in confusion. Until she had held the tear she had known nothing of such things. “There’s no hoard here, man!” She yelled back at them. “This was a nest!” She was answered with a pair of arrows that came so close to her head that she heard them whoosh by her ears.