The Birthday Dragon

by Lee Abrey

  Inside the tower, the Queen’s Men, Aunt Rose’s guards, were in possession of the lobby. They came out to see what the fuss was. Almost everyone seemed to be at the North Tower, and now we were too.

  Fenric wanted to know what in the name of Zol were Jobanese men doing inside the city limits? Playing cards, mostly, was the answer. The Joban guards looked innocent, said their queen was there under a flag of parley and their weapons were down at the town gate, then they’d been searched twice since entering the citadel grounds, which the Sendrenese guards confirmed, having done one of the searches.

  Aunt Kristen had tried to see the king, who was furious and told her to go away before she was arrested for being responsible for the death of her brother, Azrael’s father. So Kristen went looking for her mother, who was in the North Tower with Saraia, Kristen’s sister-in-law. There was the sound of shouting from upstairs.

  “That’s Queen Rose,” said Fenric, “she sounds angry.” There was another woman shouting. The Joban men said that was their Herself and Azrael said it reminded him of past summer holidays, except usually his father would be shouting drunkenly in the mix.

  “Shall we go up?” he said, and Fenric thought for a moment. “Please,” said Azrael, “after all, it’s king’s orders we’re here.” Fenric looked stern. Azrael intensified his pleading. “Even just up the stairs to eavesdrop would be good. Please Fenric?” I laughed.

  “Aye,” I said, “please Fenric?” He scowled.

  “You’ll do as I say, both of you?” he said.

  We put our hands on our hearts and swore to Galaia that we would, which was a solemn oath. Then there was disagreement as to which weapons Azrael’s guards could keep with them.

  “Two queens and a princess aren’t as important as one crown prince,” said Fenric, and the other guards thought about that. In the end we were divested of bladed weapons, so I gave up my pocket-knife, then we were all patted down to make sure. Four bodyguards would be allowed to keep their short clubs with them and to escort Azrael upstairs.

  “Three women, one of them over fifty,” said Fenric, smiling, “if four of us can’t protect you, we don’t deserve our jobs.”

  The other guards settled down outside, to play cards with the Joban men or to sit and drink coffee in the shade. It was the last day of spring.

  ****

  Despite the arguments downstairs, then how we tramped upstairs with Fenric insisting we make noise to give them a chance to hear us and stop fighting, the women were oblivious.

  “You had your brother killed!” That was the Queen of Sendren, Aunt Rose. I’d never heard her so angry, even when she was spitting in the king’s drink. It was clear, no matter what the coroner’s report said, the queen thought Kristen guilty of murder. She killed her brother Perry, Azrael’s father, if only from filling the assassin’s head with stories of how she should be Queen of Sendren.

  “I did not! How can you say that?” Sobbing, that was Azrael’s Aunt Kristen, Queen of Joban.

  “Let’s be fair, Rose,” said Azrael’s mother, Saraia, “the assassin did say Kristen didn’t know. Just before that unfortunate accident.”

  “Unfortunate accident?” Kristen shrieked the words. “They killed the man I loved! State-sanctioned murder!”

  “He killed your brother, you stupid girl!” the queen shouted back at her. “He admitted it, freely! Even then they only killed him without a trial because he was killing the king!” There was a pause. “You don’t get your lack of brains from me,” added Rose, “that’s your bloody father.”

  ****

  As we reached the first floor we could see straight through a vestibule into the room. The vestibule already contained two guards and two servants, all eavesdropping through the cracked-open door to the room itself, though they stepped back for us to pass. One of the guards was about to open the door wide and announce us but Azrael held up his hand.

  “Give them a chance to finish this,” he said softly. Words that nearly killed us. We peered in. Kristen was very red-faced, pacing up and down, crying, shouting and bewailing her fate generally, while the queen was rude to her. Saraia gave Kristen a fresh handkerchief.

  “Your brother was older,” said the queen, “that’s all. Primogeniture! No bloody conspiracy. However, you told that poor unbalanced man that your brother had stopped you from becoming queen. Honestly, Kristen, if you ever end up the heir I’ll assassinate you myself! Even better, I’ll pay someone to do it.” Kristen was hiccupping and hyperventilating, a handkerchief clutched to her face.

  “I didn’t know R-Robbie would kill P-Perry!” she said, indistinctly. “How can you think that, M-Mother?”

  “Brandy?” said Saraia, travelling across my field of vision with a decanter under one arm, a brace of glasses in the other. “Brandy for shocks, champagne for fever, isn’t it?” She handed one to the queen, who tossed it back. She nodded to her daughter-in-law.

  “Th-thank you, Saraia,” said Kristen, and took hers down in a fast mouthful too.

  “This is so cathartic,” said Saraia, “I hope you’re all feeling love with all the anger. Or are we still in denial, eh, Kristen?” I tried not to laugh, which I guessed Saraia was doing too. She took a swig from the bottle before pouring Kristen more, then seemed to remember her own glass, sank that, and took another swig from the bottle before refilling the queen. Distracted, I was starting to get a little bored, thinking how erotic it was to be one of the silent voyeurs, all of us pressed together, and wishing there was something better to watch, amusing though Saraia’s performance was.

  Queen Rose tipped her second brandy back, and then in especially nasty terms proceeded to tell Kristen what a waste of space she was, as a daughter, sister and aunt. Kristen tried to protest but Rose stood up and slapped her across the face. As Kristen cried out in pain, losing her glass and her footing, I was suddenly paying complete attention. The glass hit the thick carpet and stopped. Kristen was on her knees on the rug. I was thinking it was lucky that the glass didn’t break or bounce to a stone area. Then it happened.

  Kristen turned into a dragon. As it started we all stopped breathing with a little gasp then,

  “Told you,” said Azrael, sounding triumphant, “it’s possible!” Everyone breathed out. We were all gaping, and nobody stopped Azrael when he pulled the door open wider. Two cats who’d been visiting inside shot out the door, past me, and down the stairs.

  Aunt Kristen, who was now most definitely dragon-shaped, was floundering in her dress and, it turned out, green silk underthings. Kristen was small, chunky, and black. Tiny, really, her body only a foot long. “Though I expected a dragon would be bigger,” said Azrael, keeping his voice lower this time. I thought we’d need to shout before anyone noticed us.

  Aunt Rose had dropped to her knees and was almost nose-to-nose with her transformed daughter. The dragon, all tubby and shiny, was cute like baby animal cute. It lashed its tail. We were all subconsciously smiling, at least I was, and when I glanced at the others, they were too. You wanted to pick her up. Kristen sat up on her hindquarters and everyone breathed out at how sweet she looked. Without the shouting, we all heard the susurrant out-breaths, people saying oh, and I realised how many were eavesdropping on the scene.

  The frozen tableau, of two women in shock and one dragon, miniature, shattered suddenly as the dragon became exasperated with being trapped by clothes and slashed her way to freedom, shredding the wool dress and silk scanties and spreading her wings. The queen went backwards at speed and was on her feet in a very sprightly manner. Wings, I was thinking, it has wings!

  “Galaia preserve us,” said Nanny Black, who was peering into the room from the other side. Aunt Kristen turned her head to look at herself. She squeaked, loudly, then made an ‘ow’ sound like a dog howling, and flapped the wings. That was some wingspan.

  “Cheers,” said Saraia, and downed more brandy. She tucked her feet up off the floor. “Um, Kristen?” she said, and the little dragon looked around, “not sure if you still
hear language, dear, but if you do, are you feeling alright? You don’t quite look like yourself.” I managed not to laugh aloud.

  “That’s it,” Fenric said suddenly, “we’re out of here. Downstairs, now!” He pulled Azrael back and went shoulder-to-shoulder to me, blocking Azrael from seeing, which he was miffed over, but Fenric jerked his head and started moving everyone backwards. I’d promised to do what Fenric said so I went too. The other guards closed in around Azrael and we beat a hasty retreat.

  Halfway down, Azrael begged Fenric to stop and let him listen, but Fenric told him to shut up and keep moving. There was screaming from upstairs.

  Aunt Kristen was learning to fly.

  Queen Rose shouted for her guards, which was where things began to go badly wrong. We stopped and flattened against the wall as the guards ran up past us, some of them stopping to put us under arrest, so holding us on the stairs before being called upstairs by the men up there, when they let us go.

  Though we couldn’t see upstairs, thanks to hearing the story told and retold by those who were there, I see it unfolding in my memory.

  Nanny Black and several other servants had armed themselves with brooms and came running in to the room. Aunt Kristen landed and ran into the crowd. Those watching lost sight of the dragon, too busy ducking as the servants attacked. Some of the more highly-strung soldiers thought the servants were bent on insurrection, attacking the royal women.

  Fortunately nobody was seriously hurt in the ensuing melee, as the outraged servants, better armed and assisted by Saraia and the queen, drove the soldiers back. Order was restored. One of the soldiers ran to the stairs and called for the Queen of Joban’s guards, thinking they might be able to talk their monarch down from the light fitting she was swinging from, some twenty feet above the ground.

  “For Galaia’s sake,” said Nanny Black, “we can get her down like this!” and undid the rope holding the light up. As the light, some six feet across, came crashing down, everyone scattered. The dragon was seen briefly on the floor then leapt back into the air. Everyone ducked, somehow sure she was going to get tangled in their hair.

  Meanwhile, there was confusion on the stairs. Azrael was a step below me. I was flattened against the wall again, as we all were, letting a couple of the Joban guards past. They went up the stairs cautiously after Fenric told them their mistress had turned into a dragon, and we began moving down again.

  Aunt Kristen flew unnoticed out of the sitting room and was heading down. I did see and feel her as she swooped over my head, knocking me off-balance into Fenric, who managed to stay standing. The little dragon kept going, and grabbed Azrael by the hair with all four feet. Struggling with his weight, she managed to half-glide, half-fly down the stairs.

  A suddenly-airborne Azrael knocked several of the guards over, cannoning into them from behind. After about twenty feet, Kristen let go and Azrael landed, stumbling, at the bottom of the stairs, dropping to his knees. I saw him jerk his head around to see where she was, then roll sideways as the dragon shot after him.

  It was all so fast. Fenric was moving downstairs in leaps and I was sucked down in his wake, at least that’s how it felt. At the bottom of the stairs a guard was screaming, clutching a badly-broken arm, another slumped unconscious near him, blood running from his nose. Another was looking slightly addled, having hit his head on the side wall, but was still on his feet trying to block the dragon from Azrael, who was on the ground twisting and rolling. He did his best to evade the little dragon, but she dodged the guard and cannoned into him.

  Next thing I saw, she was sitting on Azrael’s chest, holding him down somehow, teeth in his wrist, growling and biting down whenever anyone got close, which meant he was screaming to stay back. We all stopped as he tapped her across the nose with his free hand, like you would to a dog to get its attention. It worked, in a way.

  Flapping her wings for balance, she let go with her teeth but lashed out with a forefoot. Thanks to all the wing-flapping, Kristen shot forward. Azrael got his good arm up-flung in front of his face in time, so she didn’t quite take his cheek off, but she did catch him there and in the upper arm. He tried to roll away and she sat on him again, holding him down with her feet and tail before biting back into his wounded wrist.

  For a moment we others danced from one foot to the other, not knowing what to do. I had a brainwave, grabbed a big vase of flowers from a niche and hurled the contents at the dragon. Azrael was hit in the face by several long-stemmed gladioli, but the water did the trick. Shaking herself and sneezing, Aunt Kristen let go and leapt away from him towards me.

  I dropped the vase. It thudded on the carpet and didn’t break. With a strange sensation of deja vu I remember thinking that was lucky. Time slowed. She was only small and there was that long-sleeved mail tunic under my clothes. I didn’t understand how she bested Azrael, thinking he was a bit concussed from being dragged by his hair down the stairs. I pretended she was a chicken. I could deal with chickens.

  Kristen realised I was trying to get her and dodged suddenly. As I grabbed, the little dragon turned in my hands, very unlike a chicken. More like a cat or maybe an otter. An armoured otter made of lead. With big claws. Steel-tipped ones.

  It was also as though I was compressing a full-size woman between my hands. I fell forward with the weight. Before I even hit the ground Kristen laid my right arm open from elbow to wrist, peeling the fine bioplas mail apart like it was a cornhusk. I sensibly dropped her, grabbing my forearm and holding it together with my good hand. Still falling, I was by then on my knees on the ground.

  I threw myself backwards, falling to my right as I tried to get away. She ran over me and leapt into the air, hinds lashing backward, laying open my left hip. I had no more hands to hold my flesh together. There seemed to be a lot of blood.

  Lying quietly, I was very calm considering, though perhaps the sensation was stunned. I watched as Kristen snap-rolled sideways away from Fenric and headed for an open window. He reached into the back of his collar, pulled out a small knife and threw it. For a moment Kristen screamed, pinned by one wing to the window frame, then she reached over and pulled the knife out, diving again for the open air.

  She disappeared and I looked at my arm. It was bleeding so much. I was still trying to hold the shredded mess together. The mail shirt was hanging off, the links cut through. I marvelled at the idea of having claws like Kristen was sporting. Imagine, I thought, being able to change into something like that.

  I recognised another of Azrael’s guards, Ross, smiling, telling me I’d be fine, tearing his shirt off, ripping it into pieces, winding twisted fabric tight round my right arm above the elbow, prising my fingers off, binding the arm up firmly and someone, Fenric, shouting orders. Someone else, one of Saraia’s guards, held a wadded towel tightly against my hip. I could hear a man sobbing.

  “Hey Polo, you’re going to be alright,” said Ross. “Fenric, Polo’s bleeding’s under control.”

  Several stretchers came, we and the injured guards were loaded on, and the bearers ran, guards everywhere, all of them glancing up, nervous of the sky. We were on the open ground in front of the tower then in the main building, which we crossed at speed. I could hear Azrael, sounding more excited than in pain.

  “Fenric,” he said, “Aunt Kristen turned into a dragon!” I laughed.

  “Aye,” Fenric said, running beside us, “I saw, lad, I saw. You lie steady there, don’t get excited. Let’s move!” I was sure I was going to die. There was so much blood. Everything was wet with it.

  Isn’t this interesting? said my ghost.

  “I’m dying,” I said, “I’m only sixteen.” I wasn’t sure if I said it aloud. Nobody seemed to have heard me, only Cree the ghost.

  You’re going to live, he said, though I’ll be honest with you, it won’t be easy.

  ****

  Chapter 21- Out of Body

  Lying as if crucified, I was on a hard table, arms out along extensions, held there by straps and pinned by cann
ulae and needles, men standing round me, sticking me with more needles and did I know my blood type? Did anyone? Fenric’s voice,

  “Lucky bastards, there’s a surgeons’ conference this week in Peterhaven. Going to have the best care in the kingdoms.”

  “Did she get my fingers?” That was Azrael. “Someone tell me!”

  “No, she didn’t get your bloody fingers,” said Fenric, “she bit your wrist, and these fine doctors are going to put it back together for you. Can we get this lad something to calm him down?” I was starting to float out of my body, which for some reason didn’t faze me at all. By thinking that way up, I rolled over in the air. It was much easier to see what was going on.

  Feeling better? said a voice.

  “Hello Cree,” I said, looking at him carefully. “What are you?”

  A friend, lad. Now, look down. I saw my body, ghostly pale, smeared with blood, the makeshift dressings, ruined mail shirt and clothes being cut off me. The former with bolt-cutters, and again I marvelled at the strength of dragon claws that had sliced through the mail so easily. The initial blood loss was stopped, the surgeons frowning as wounds were flushed, discussing the injuries as if they existed without any connection to me.

  “Ulnar artery intact,” said a surgeon, “could be worse. Dragon wounds? Is there a specific antibiotic? Someone shift it to the library, find us some information.”

  “I’ll go,” a man said, another surgeon I was guessing, “we need someone with medical knowledge. And can I have a man to help me carry any books back?” Fenric sent a soldier with him, and they left.

  “They’re both O positive,” said a nurse, hurrying up, “that’s O for Oliver. I’ve sent a messenger to the barracks for donors.” A bag of blood was rigged above my body.