The Pygmy Dragon

by Marc Secchia

  “Fine.”

  Her calm acceptance seemed to rattle him. The Prince must have expected the tiny object of his bullying to back down. Her three dorm-mates ran to intercept her as she marched over to the weapons rack.

  “What are you doing, Pip?” asked Yaethi, a tall, pale girl from the Northern Isles. She had been helping Pip work through all of the texts she would need to know for the upcoming examinations.

  “Ulldari’s a decent fighter,” said Kaiatha, worrying at her distinctive Fra’aniorian braid. She had eyes the dark blue of a shady lake, and hailed from a volcanic Island renowned for its dragonets, the tiny relatives of Dragons. “It isn’t too late to back out.”

  “Huh. You’ll carve up that stuffy old pair of trousers for ralti stew, Pip. Just keep your wits about you,” said Maylin, who had a knack for anything involving a blade.

  “Maylin,” protested Kaiatha, ever the pacifist. “We’re not allowed–”

  “Oh, go stuff it in a volcano!”

  As her friends bickered, Pip picked out two long daggers from the weapons rack, similar to the ones Master Balthion had given her for training purposes. “These will do.” They were blunt, but light and well-balanced.

  “No shield?” asked Yaethi, adjusting her modest Helyon headscarf nervously. She always wore a long headscarf in the famed Helyon blue silk, a colour which complimented her light blue eyes and hid her white-blond hair. A Northern Isles cultural artefact, she liked to call the headscarf, but she never wore her hair uncovered. Not even to bed.

  “Pygmy warriors fight with two blades,” she replied.

  As Pip and the Prince walked out onto the arena sands, the other students of their first year class, sensing tension in the air, stopped chattering to watch. Pip puffed out her cheeks. Please let Balthion’s training work, here. Otherwise she was about to make a stinking idiot of herself, and ‘monkey’ would not be the only nickname she’d earn.

  Prince Ulldari held up his sword and shield. “May the best Human win.”

  “Monkey,” said someone.

  “Shut your flapping trap,” snapped Maylin.

  Pip flexed her knees, testing the hard-packed arena sand with her toes. It was a good surface for combat. Her concentration homed in on Ulldari, bearing down on her with a sardonic grin twisting his otherwise handsome lips. She swayed aside from his first blow. A touch awkward, she thought. His fighting style was different to the Sylakian one. She should watch for surprises. Pip dodged again.

  “Stand still, you little runt,” snarled Ulldari.

  He attacked compactly, driving her back around the arena. Pip deflected with her two blades, learning, analysing, calculating. The Prince had enjoyed some instruction, but she knew she could take him. The question was not if, but how. A stone rapping the back of her head distracted her as she broke away from a clash. Ulldari drove in with a powerful blow, knocking her off balance. Pip rolled instinctively with her fall, twisting her torso to scissor-kick the Prince’s legs out from under him. He fell hard on his backside.

  Pip bounded to her feet. “Come on, Prince Ulldari. Losing to a girl?”

  With a snarl, he leaped to his feet. Ulldari attacked her with a huge overhand blow, but Pip spun inside of it. Blocking his shield with her left elbow, she used her anger-fuelled strength to punch him directly in the groin. He wore protection, but her blow was as Balthion had taught her, anchored by her legs and torso, with the full power of her shoulder behind it as her arm snapped straight. Every boy watching, and most of the girls, gasped reflexively, ‘Oooooh!’

  Someone said, “Brutal.”

  Prince Ulldari folded up on the ground, whimpering. He was finished.

  “Never underestimate your opponent,” said Pip. She bowed curtly. “Any other big person want a small lesson?”

  Her classmates were utterly silent.

  Maylin rolled her eyes at Pip. “Master,” she mouthed.

  Shutting her eyes, Pip dropped into the kneeling position at once. Not again! More trouble …

  Feet tapped on the arena stairs and padded across the sand toward her. When they stopped, the silence felt as thick as blood. “I am the Weapons Master,” said the man, at last. “No-one else presumes to teach my students, especially not a first year. Your name?”

  “Pip, Master.”

  “Perhaps you think you are better than a Master, Pip? That you can instruct my class?”

  “No, Master.”

  “Then what was this? I do not allow sparring without a Journeyman or Master present.” The silence lengthened. Pip kept her eyes downcast. Suddenly, in her language, the voice said, “Rise, Pygmy warrior. Teach me, if you can.”

  Pip gasped, “Master, you speak …” Great Islands! Opposite her stood a Pygmy man of middle years, gnarled and muscled like a pocket rajal. His dark eyes seemed filled with thunderclouds.

  Now, she flung herself face-down in the manner of a Pygmy child before an elder. Speaking Ancient Southern, she said, “I abase myself, Master.”

  “I am Adak’ûlyà’araá’lúyon,” said he, before switching back to Standard. “Call me Master Adak. You must be my newest student? Rise, and attack me.”

  “No, Master. Never.”

  “Refuse my command, and you may leave this school and never return.”

  Her pulse hammered in her ears as Pip rose. Suddenly, her palms were sweaty. She moved into the ready stance. Adak raised his sword and shield.

  Did he not see her spirit was unwilling? But she had to obey. Pip’s bare feet darted across the sand to make her first attack, a feint, a concealed strike from the left with the hand sinister. Master Adak read her intentions effortlessly. She snaked clear of his sharp riposte. They closed, testing each other’s defences charily, the Master faster and smoother than any swordsman she had ever faced, a dark cobra on the strike, a rock in defence.

  He launched into a whirlwind of an attack.

  Pip drew deep, holding him off for almost a minute before the Master’s sword-point bruised her left collarbone. “Good,” he said. “Again.”

  Five seconds later, she was eating sand. Islands’ sakes, she hadn’t even seen his kick!

  “Teach me, Pygmy warrior,” he taunted her.

  So he would test her mettle, above and beyond her skills? Thankfully, Master Balthion’s instruction had extended far beyond the obvious, physical skills.

  Rising, Pip flung sand into his face. Master Adak raised his shield; she rolled beneath the blow and stabbed for his knee. He stiffened his leg to break the force of her blow. The dagger spun from her numbed fingers, but her second dagger-strike thumped down atop his boot, bruising the bone. A real blade would have skewered his foot like one of the rats Pip used to pierce with bamboo sticks.

  The Master’s eyes flashed with anger. Pip realised he had not meant to allow her to strike him. His pride was wounded; as any rajal might, he leaped into a furious attack, beating her around the arena until sweat ran into her eyes and her arm throbbed with pain. Twice, he crashed the edge of his metal shield into her ribs. Twice, she twisted adroitly, absorbing the impact as best she could. Pip scooped up her second blade in passing, collecting Adak’s boot in her backside for her troubles. She somersaulted mid-air and spun in place, ready once more.

  The Master stood at ease three paces away.

  “Pygmy in style, but Sylakian in the execution,” said Master Adak, seeming unruffled by their encounter, whereas Pip was blowing like a Dragon. “Where did you learn your swordplay, girl?”

  “In a zoo,” she retorted. His eyes widened.

  “Who was your weapons instructor?”

  “Master Balthion, Second War-Hammer of the Sylakian Army.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Then, defend against this.”

  And he changed his style utterly, leading with the shield, striking from behind it where least expected, twice toppling her, but Pip rolled with the bruising blows. He split her lip, but she did not flinch. He cracked her knuckles, but she kept fighting even though she knew her right
index finger might be broken. Finally, the shield smashed into her cheekbone. Pip saw blackness. The world faded.

  Dimly, she thought she heard a Dragon roaring at her, an explosion of fire that raced through her being. It galvanised her. She staggered to her feet, weaponless. Her brow drew down. The power gathered in her breast was a molten core of agony, so scorching that she could think of nothing else.

  Master Adak seemed incensed. “Oh, give it up, girl.” He drove in, trying to land a crushing finishing blow with his shield.

  Pip rotated in place, striking with every ounce of the anger roaring within her; powering her counter-strike with the product of every humiliation of the last seven years. She shouted a wordless cry to release the anguish before it consumed her. Her clenched fist smashed right through the metal boss of his shield, and into the arm behind it.

  The Master cried out in pain, but he still knocked her over with the force of his charge. Then, suddenly, the arena was still.

  The Pygmy Weapons Master had turned as white as a man of his natural colour could be. Pip gasped, “Master …”

  Adak grimaced. Drawing a short dagger from his belt, he severed the wrist and forearm straps of the shattered shield and let it fall to the ground. He raised his left arm, slowly, as though to salute the morning sky. His hand and wrist hung at a ghastly angle, broken as cleanly as could be.

  “Let this be a lesson to you all,” he grated. “This student speaks wisdom. Never, never underestimate your opponent.”

  * * * *

  Oyda punched Pip on the arm. “That’s for giving me extra work.”

  “Um, is the Master–”

  “He asked to see you. Demanded, actually. He was madder than a rajal stung by a hornet because we had to put him out to set the arm straight.”

  “Our sweet Pipsqueak is having an eventful first week,” said Nak, popping up to dangle his arm over Pip’s shoulders. “Burgled the Academy, tried to burgle it a second time, riled up the Dragons, broke a Master’s arm, and did you hear what she did to Prince Ulldari? Bruised his chances of continuing the royal succession, she did.”

  Oyda smiled archly at Nak. “Reminds me of a troublemaker I know.”

  “Ay,” said Nak, preening like a male parakeet displaying its shimmering feathers. “Learned from the best. Why, just yesterday, I was telling this feisty little warrior–”

  “Shimmerith needs you,” Oyda interrupted.

  “Oh, my Dragon-darling, my sweet little heap of scales …” Nak rushed off.

  Oyda rolled her eyes at his back. “Insufferable man. What my Emblazon sees in him, I’ve yet to fathom.”

  “Why haven’t I met Emblazon, yet?”

  “We, uh … had a fight.” The Dragon Rider tossed her ringlets, her pretty features drawn as if in pain. “The Dragon Elders decreed a month’s separation while Emblazon and I are supposed to reflect on the appropriate relationship between a Dragon and his Rider. I miss him, Pip.”

  “You love him?”

  “It’s not romantic love, Pip, if that’s what you’re asking. No? Nice blush, anyway.” Oyda gazed over at Shimmerith, who was talking animatedly to Nak. “With Shapeshifters, that’s possible. But I’m a Human and Emblazon’s a large male Dragon. I suspect he’s off courting a few females while I’m not watching. He’s been oddly broody, lately, more like a mother hen than the mighty male Dragon he likes to think he is.”

  “The girls say Emblazon’s a monster.”

  Oyda laughed happily. “The kind of monster with three good hearts, if you can see past the fangs, claws and Dragon fire. He’s good, Pip. Touchy, but good.”

  “You do love him.”

  “You precious parakeet, of course I do.” Oyda wagged her finger at Pip. “But Pip, a little fledgling tells me you won past Jalador by charming him. Jalador received the whole wrath of the Dragon Elders for that incident, yesterday. I’d keep clear of the Dragons for a few days until things simmer down–not to say they aren’t always bubbling on about something. Short tempers, those Dragons.”

  Oyda was right. How much more trouble could she cause in a week? There was one more day left, the day of rest for students. Pip dared not think about the ninth day.

  Instead, she moved on to Master Adak’s bedside.

  “Pip?” he mumbled, unable to focus on her face.

  “Master Adak? You summoned me?”

  “Pip.” He groaned softly. “They gave me too much fever-brew. I feel sick … Pip, tell me, how does a girl punch a hole in a metal shield?”

  “I … don’t know, Master.” Pip spied Mistress Mya’adara angling across the cave toward her, waving her hands. Here came trouble.

  He clutched her arm feverishly. “Do you have any idea–any idea, girl, how much force it takes to even dent a training shield boss?” The Weapons Master groaned again. “You. You pierced solid metal with your bare hand. Who are you?”

  “Pip. Pip!” The Western Isles warrior took hold of the scruff of Pip’s tunic. “No disturbing the patients. Off with yah.”

  Hanging her head, Pip shuffled off.

  “That was unfair, Mya’adara,” she heard Oyda say behind her.

  “Unfair? How does a first year break a Weapons Master’s arm, Oyda? There’s more to that girl than meets the eye. Ah’m right. Yah’ll see.”

  Pip stopped up her sobs with her fist. No tears, warrior girl!

  But when she arrived at her bed in the dormitory, someone had left their calling card. Go home, monkey, was scrawled in large letters on the wall above her bunk. There were fresh monkey droppings smeared all over her clothes, her blankets and even stuffed inside the bag Mistress Mya’adara had given her. They had smashed her bamboo flute for good measure.

  She screamed at the four walls of the empty dormitory.

  Chapter 14: Dragons and Apes

  How she wished she could disappear. In the jungle, a Pygmy warrior could vanish utterly. But in a school, it was not so easy, especially for someone who fit in so well she might as well have been wearing a sign on her back saying, ‘Kick the little person’. Pip tried to visit Hunagu again, but a blast of Dragon fire bathed the tunnel ahead of her.

  “I am Emblazon,” snarled the Dragon. All she could see of him in the darkness was a flash of fangs. “Nobody sneaks past me. Go back before I report you.”

  Pip fled.

  But the exams arrived all too quickly. Kaiatha, Yaethi and Maylin, her new friends, had helped her clean up after the monkey dung incident. They helped her study. But they could not stop all of the bullying.

  The day before the exams, Telisia appeared at Pip’s dinner table to drop a dead rat on her plate. “Special treat,” she said. “I heard you used to eat these in the zoo.”

  For a moment, Pip froze on her seat. Mocking laughter from the first and second year students surrounded her. Then, she picked up the rodent, bit off its head, and spat the severed head onto Telisia’s robes. She had aimed for her face, but missed.

  Telisia screamed.

  Journeyman Gelka, who took the first years for geography, hauled them both outside the dining hall and gave them an ear-singeing lecture at the height of his considerable volume.

  The following day, the school went deathly quiet as the first year students sat for examinations eight hours a day, over a thousand students lined up at desks in the great meeting hall, which dwarfed even their number.

  Pip’s second examination, after lunch that first day, was Dragon lore. She pored over the questions, finding them rather easier than she would have expected. Her quill pen scratched rapidly over the leaf as she concentrated fiercely, knowing she had to give a good account of herself in order to repay Master Kassik’s faith in her. The quill-tip received a good chewing along the way.

  Oh. She should write to Master Balthion to let her know she was alive. What an idiot she had been!

  Scowling at her paper as though she wished she could burn the questions away by the force of her anger, she was utterly unprepared for a scroll smacking down on her small ta
ble and being lifted out of her chair by a handful of her curls. “You cheat!”

  In a room of a thousand students in which the only sound was the scratching of quills on scroll-leaf, that was the equivalent of dropping a bomb.

  Journeyman Gelka was purple with rage. “Turn out your pockets, girl. What are you hiding? Where is it? Where?”

  Pip was so shocked that she stood stock-still as he pawed at her clothes. Then she shoved him away. “Hands off me, you disgusting–”

  “You’re cheating. I know you are.”

  “I’m not a cheat.”

  The Journeyman picked up the scroll he had dropped on her desk and tried to whack her with it. Pip blocked the blow with her elbow. “This,” he snarled. “Your paper from this morning. It’s perfect. Every single word.”

  Master Shambithion arrived, breathless, from where he had been walking between the desks. “What’s the meaning of this, Journeyman? Accusing a student? Isn’t there a better place for this?”

  “She’s copying the texts, exactly. Look here. And here.”

  “I don’t cheat.” Pip began to shake as Shambithion rapidly scanned her answers from earlier that day.

  “Word for word,” Journeyman Gelka insisted. “Every question. Look. She’s quoted perfectly from Rallix on the legend of Gemmiss the Azure Dragon.”

  “I d-don’t understand,” said Pip, aghast. “It’s the right answer.”

  “Of course it is, if you copy it. Turn out your pockets, you wretched–”

  “It’s a serious accusation, student Pip,” said the Master, pursing his lips. “These answers do look as if they’ve been copied.”

  Heat rose in her body. Her pulse pounded in her ears. Pip was gasping, fishing for words, when a chair crashed nearby. Gentle Kaiatha leaped to her feet, crying, “Pip doesn’t cheat. I can prove–”

  “Sit down!” roared Gelka.

  “No, wait,” said Master Shambithion, scratching his extraordinary beak of a nose. “Kaiatha, I’ve seen you two studying together in the library. What are you saying? You can prove something?” And then, evidently aware of a thousand pairs of eyes watching the altercation, some with malicious interest, he rapped, “Stop the timers! Since you insist on a public airing, Journeyman, we shall proceed. Kaiatha? Your word, please.”