The Pygmy Dragon

by Marc Secchia

  “Let’s go burn the heavens, Dragon.”

  Oyda’s cry fetched a low, eager rumble from the cavernous depths of Emblazon’s chest. His was the longest saddle-girth in recorded history, Oyda had told her. Oyda checked the hairnet holding her long, nut-brown tresses captive. No-one wanted a face full of hair when they were trying to dodge enemy fire–either the war crossbows and catapults of ground emplacements and Dragonships, or the Dragon fire of an unfriendly Dragon. Pip checked her own hairnet. Good. Despite the trim required after Blazon had inadvertently burned her trousers and frazzled her hair, her thick braid, teased out of her curls before they became unmanageable, still reached most of the way down her back. Pygmies never cut their hair. She buckled the chin-strap of her helmet.

  Emblazon launched out over the lake with a powerful flexion of his thighs. He swung to the south, accelerating smoothly, flicking his wings to ‘bounce’ them over the volcano’s rim before settling into a southerly sprint.

  “He loves to stretch his wings on patrol,” Oyda shouted over her shoulder to Pip. That was all she could manage against the roar of wind blasting into their faces. A large male Dragon could fly forty leagues an hour in short bursts. Air crowded into her mouth and nostrils. Emblazon’s body rippled as he poured power into his wing-strokes, a torrent of pure exultation that made Pip giddy with excitement. She was grateful to be buckled in. Zardon had never made the air roar past her like this.

  This was flying! This was what Kassik thought she could do.

  It was all rather premature. She had never transformed, as the Shapeshifters called it. However, the mere thought made her neck prickle. What if she allowed her imagination to run wild …

  The Master had warned her sternly. What could a Word of Command do, if she used it to trap herself? If she ‘stopped’ herself as she had done to Shimmerith, would anyone or anything else in the entire Island-World be able to free her? He was right. She had to learn more about her magic before taking that risk again–yet another aspect of her planned training.

  They blasted over a tangled wilderness of depthless blue gorges, smoking waterfalls and serried volcanic peaks. Emblazon searched with his fantastic Dragon sight for pirate Dragonships or feral Dragons, or any other sign of trouble.

  “Let’s take her above the clouds,” said Oyda.

  Pip thought he could not possibly have heard her soft command, but her stomach suddenly lurched as Emblazon pointed his tail to the mountainous Island and his nose to the heavens. A solid cloud-bank loomed above, perhaps a band of bad weather. She ducked as if she might strike her head on a roof, but instead, grey closed about them. Mercy. Her brain told her the grey had to have substance and thus should slap her cheeks, but rather, the sensation was like brushing against feathers very fast. She sniffed the moist air, jungle-senses alert …

  Pip stiffened at a tell-tale prickle of magic. At once, she called, Emblazon, danger. Left flank.

  “Danger, my Riders,” he echoed.

  Emblazon punched out into the dying rays of the suns-set above the clouds. Immediately, he jinked to his right, dodging a Dragon’s slashing claws. He found clear air–not much of it, just enough to give them a glimpse of a Red Dragon, beleaguered, limping through the air, under attack by two smaller Reds. A third, bigger Red swooped down on their tail. Two Orange Dragons homed in from high to the west.

  “Pirates,” cried Oyda.

  “Zardon,” Pip yelled at the same time, recognising the old Dragon. “We have to help him.”

  Oyda snapped, “Emblazon, we’ve Pip to think of.”

  “Forget about me!” she exploded. “Zardon’s in trouble. Oyda, how can you possibly–”

  You’re right, Emblazon said. “Oyda, our duty is to help Zardon. It’s five against one and he’s wounded.”

  “Go, Emblazon!” Oyda turned in her saddle. “Pip. Be careful. This is real battle and they’re going to try their best to kill us. Understood?”

  Pip nodded. “I’m ready.”

  For the first time, Pip heard the battle-roar of a Dragon. She was thankful for the helmet to muffle his thundering, even a little, for it rattled her from her toes to her teeth. Emblazon’s acceleration shoved her against the spine-spike at her back. He closed in on the two Red Dragons harrying Zardon at a fantastic rate. One side-slipped, falling away from Zardon, but the other chose to confront Emblazon, who spun in the air as his hind claws slashed a ten-foot rent in the other Dragon’s flank. Pip’s head spun as fast as Emblazon turned. Mercy. Much more of that and her head would fly off her shoulders like an overripe melon.

  The Red Dragons beat a retreat.

  “They’ll be back,” said Oyda. “Pip, alright?”

  She wiped her forehead, scanning the sky. “Dizzy. Fine. What’s next?”

  Oyda measured her response with a grim, approving smile. “Be strong, Pygmy warrior. Warm up that bow. If they attack again, aim for the Dragon Riders. Emblazon, check on Zardon.”

  Well met, mighty Elder, called Emblazon. Need a helping paw?

  I was saving you some of the glory, said Zardon, but he sounded as exhausted as he looked. He had been thoroughly chewed over by something. Pip saw the huge puncture marks of Dragon fangs in three places on his neck, weeping streamers of thick, golden Dragon blood, and a further wound on his haunches where a six-foot strip of hide flapped loosely, displaying the dense strands of muscle beneath. Blood dripped steadily from three rents in his right wing, his neck, and numerous wounds on his sooty, fire-blackened flanks.

  Can you make it the Academy, Zardon? Emblazon asked. We’ll watch your back.

  Pip called, Zardon, you have to keep going.

  Zardon’s eyes flashed crimson in realisation. His wingbeats gained strength as he stared across the hundred or so feet separating them in the air. In a voice congested with Dragon emotions she could only begin to guess at, he said, Little one … oh, can it be?

  Not yet. We think so. Kassik is confident, anyway. She smiled, hoping he could see that detail with his Dragon sight. Now fly, you old bag of bones. We’ll race you to the Academy.

  Fire blossomed from the old Dragon’s nostrils in response.

  Emblazon grunted, Perfect, Pip. His hearts soar.

  Oyda was right. The three Red Dragons attacked in concert, two trying to slash Emblazon’s wings while a third aimed a fireball at his belly. Emblazon countered with a snap of his jaws that sheared several spine-spikes off one of the Reds, while Oyda’s arrow shot plugged in a Rider’s armour. Pip missed her aim by the width of a Dragon.

  “Pip, watch those Oranges. They have Dragon body armour and lances,” said Oyda. “The Reds will distract while the Oranges go for the direct attack.”

  Pip had seen the thirty-foot metal lances at school. Seeing a pair strapped to a Dragon’s harness, ready to pierce a Dragon’s heart or lungs, earned them a new respect in her eyes–especially when she was sitting on their target.

  Emblazon shadowed Zardon as the massive Red Dragon swooped down into the clouds. As they entered the world of grey, Zardon warned them with a quiet word of a course change. Emblazon said, “Smart–learn from him, Pip. It’ll throw off a surprise attack through the clouds based on our previous heading.”

  True to Emblazon’s word, an Orange Dragon burst through the clouds off their right flank, lancing empty air. Zardon sniggered and sent a fireball his way, but the Dragon dodged adroitly, taking a glancing blow on the side of his tail. Now the other Dragons burst through, queuing up to attack Zardon. Emblazon bellowed another challenge. They clashed with two Reds, a snarling, biting, snapping brawl which Emblazon shook free of by dint of knocking one of the Reds half-senseless with a mighty blow of his tail. Oyda did an impossible upside-down contortion in harness, opening a slash on a passing wing-surface.

  Pip shot arrows this way and that, narrowly missing a Dragon’s eye and striking a Rider on his armoured arm. She muttered unhappily.

  “They’re pirates,” Zardon called, helping them with a fireball. The Orange Dragon’s Ride
r howled as flame engulfed his leg.

  Emblazon swirled in the air, latching onto one of the Reds. A champing bite of his massive jaws to the neck, and the Red Dragon squealed in mortal agony. And die! Emblazon released his claws, sending the enemy spinning down into the Cloudlands. The fury of his bloodlust washed across Pip in a tidal wave. She found herself snarling between her teeth.

  “Lance,” cried Oyda.

  Pip fired an arrow point-blank into the second Orange Dragon’s mouth as Emblazon dodged the blow, but the lance still pierced his side, low in the flank.

  “Can’t hit a single shot,” Pip shouted.

  “Flow with the Dragon’s flight,” Oyda returned at once. They circled back above Zardon, watching the four remaining enemy Dragons closely. “Learn to flow with him, Pip. That’s the best I can describe it. You’re thinking too hard. Feel the shot, as if you’re firing an arrow on the run.”

  “I suppose that’s something a Dragon Rider learns?”

  “Knowing your Dragon? Ay.”

  The enemy Dragon Riders were well armoured, Pip observed, and carried bows and swords apart from the huge Dragon lances. They shadowed Emblazon and Zardon, just a little ways off. What were they waiting for? Her eyes flicked forward. The volcano was still several leagues off. But if they could hold these Dragons at bay for a few more minutes, they might come within range of the Academy’s Dragon sentries.

  Then, a dark Dragon descended from the clouds. He was a sooty red-black in colour, almost as large as Emblazon or Zardon, and heavily scarred from countless battles. He wore a harness which housed two war crossbows either side of his spine-spikes, weapons which could fire a six-foot bolt several hundred yards with great accuracy. Four Dragon Riders rode upon his back, two of whom manned the catapults. Pip sensed Emblazon’s hesitation in the air. So did Zardon.

  Rambastion, Zardon called. Let us pass. This is not your battle.

  Emblazon said, “He’s a Dragon pirate from the south. A mercenary, if you will. Rumour has it he came across the Rift, from Herimor.”

  “How does a Dragon cross the Rift, Emblazon?” asked Oyda.

  “I don’t know. It’s meant to be seven days’ flying. Impossible.”

  Rambastion laughed, a low, unpleasant blast of sound. Zardon, you woolly ralti sheep. You’re looking unwell, old friend.

  I have already dispatched three of your mercenaries to their doom in the Cloudlands, and two will never fly again. Do you send hatchlings against me? Why don’t you fight me, you snaggletoothed mongrel?

  Rambastion’s eyes glittered like jewels in a darkened room. Strange tidings arise from your Academy, Zardon. My Master seeks word of an Ancient Power. Give it up, and I might make your death a merciful one.

  You have a Master, Rambastion? Zardon’s scorn seared the air. How low you have fallen, that you crawl and fawn at the foot of another. Who is this Master you serve?

  You don’t know, Zardon?

  I have seen, Zardon retorted. We know your plans; we know of your Shadow Dragon …

  Then you must die! A vast, roiling fireball shot toward them. Emblazon and Zardon peeled away at once, allowing the fireball to scorch the air between them. Pip smelled smoke and sulphur as she coughed at the fireball’s aftermath.

  “Beware molten rock,” Zardon called over to Oyda and Pip, wheeling on his wingtip as one of the Reds snatched at him. “And those crossbow bolts.”

  “He has a lava attack?” Pip panted. She had read about the Dragon ability to chew down rock and melt it in one of the stomachs–mostly a fairly rare Orange and Yellow Dragon ability, according to the scrolls.

  Oyda said, “Ay, Rambastion is–”

  Their enemy thundered, I have the power. Now die, you miserable excrement of worms!

  Pip bit her lip. Oh, for the strength to down their enemies. Instead, here she sat on Emblazon’s back with a tiny bow, stuck in the midst of a life-and-death clash between Dragons. She had to make her shots count. She had to feel Emblazon’s course and adjust, to time her shots even as he spiralled now into an attack, punching his claws into the Red Dragon which had suddenly dropped toward Zardon’s back.

  Dragons thundered at each other, sounding like a storm gathering on a sultry afternoon. Claws scratched and scraped across Dragon hide, seeking a chink in the armour or a disembowelling blow. Fire raced across the evening sky, as golden as the suns setting in the west. Emblazon scrapped with three Dragons while Zardon threw off the remaining Red and homed in on Rambastion. Clearly, there was no love between them. But Pip was afraid. Zardon was already wounded and weak. Rambastion was fresh and cunning, the survivor of a great many battles.

  Emblazon threw his Red opponent directly into the face of his next attacker, one of the Orange Dragons. Pip sensed his movement now, the moment his wings would flap to raise them above the entangled pair, the second Red Dragon turning sharply to bring his claws to bear from above, and anticipated the clear shot she knew would arrive. Her arrow feathered between the Orange Rider’s eyes.

  “Shot!” shouted Oyda, making her own target blink with a dagger hurled directly into the Dragon’s eye. The scaled eyelid stopped the blow, but the Dragon jerked reflexively, distracted for a vital instant. Emblazon reached out and ripped his belly open.

  Behind you! Pip cried. They shuddered in the air as the Orange Dragon struck Emblazon. Fangs sunk into the base of his tail. Emblazon bellowed in pain, clawing madly with his hind legs before folding himself in half and bringing his long neck around. Pip found herself hanging upside-down above the Island-World. She saw Zardon, a Red Dragon clawing trenches in his back. Rambastion smashed into his side, slashing with his hind legs, the Riders and weapons on his back all but forgotten in his snarling, snapping blood-madness.

  “Zardon! Oh …”

  Somehow, Emblazon ripped himself free. He snapped reflexively at the Orange Dragon’s left wing, near the shoulder joint. The Orange squealed as the Amber Dragon’s jaws champed upon his primary wing-bone. Emblazon bore down with all of his enormous strength, shaking his head to snap the bone and sever the wing. Dragon and Rider fell from the sky. The disembowelled Red had ribbons and loops of intestines dangling fifty feet long from his belly, but he still shot a weak fireball at them.

  Emblazon’s laughter was full of fierce joy. I gutted you like a deer.

  The speed of his turn made Pip dizzy. They smacked into the remaining Orange Dragon. He and Emblazon traded monstrous blows. Somehow Oyda was in the middle of it, swinging her sword at the other Rider, his face a mask of surprise, his helmet dislodged by one of her strikes. Raising her bow, Pip fired an arrow point-blank into his throat.

  Eat this, snarled Emblazon, and rotated the other Dragon in the air.

  Pip’s ears nearly popped at the scream the Orange Dragon made. A crossbow bolt stood upright as if nailed into its skull. How had Emblazon even seen that coming? Now! Her heart stopped in her throat as Pip saw her opportunity, her fingers releasing the bowstring before she had time to think, the arrow diving into the depths of the Orange Dragon’s eye. He went limp. Her heart wept as she saw, from just ten feet away, the light fade from the Dragon’s eyes. He would never fly the skies again. The Dragon tumbled helplessly toward the mountains of Jeradia Island.

  “Ready for Rambastion?” Emblazon checked his Riders. Pip was startled to find that her side was bleeding, but she was otherwise fine. Oyda sported a deep sword cut in her arm.

  Oyda said, “Fly strong and true, my beauty.”

  “We’ll send this pirate to his doom,” agreed Emblazon, trimming his wings with a low, bloodthirsty gurgle of passion.

  As they blazed toward Zardon and his two attackers, the huge Red clawed a hole in Rambastion’s wing. Zardon engulfed the other Red Dragon in a blast of fire. The flames were still blazing as he bit the Dragon’s wingtip, dragging him through the air. Zardon threw his body into a spin. Crack! Pip winced as the sound of snapping bones carried across to them. With one wing dangling uselessly, the Red Dragon spiralled to his doom.


  Zardon flapped weakly, trying to gain height. Golden blood pumped from his wounds. He could barely keep aloft.

  Go to the Academy, Zardon! Emblazon thundered, closing with Rambastion. I’ll hold this ralti sheep off.

  Rambastion swiped a parting chunk out of Zardon’s hide with his claws, but then he discovered he had a bigger problem to deal with. Emblazon shot three fireballs at him, setting one of the catapults on his back ablaze. Arrows whipped across the space between them. The Dragons circled each other, searching for an advantage, snarling their mutual hatred. The remaining war crossbow twanged.

  Pip glanced ahead. Was that another Dragon rising from the volcano? Had they been seen? They were perhaps half a league short of the Academy. Where were the patrols? Hadn’t Master Kassik trebled their protection?

  Emblazon shouted in pain as a crossbow bolt smashed into his left wing, mid-wing, just inside what would be his elbow in Human terms. A surge of rage blossomed within his body. Pip sensed the crimson fires of madness. Their Dragon shot toward Rambastion, despite Oyda’s shouting at him. Had he gone feral? Was this what happened to a Dragon in battle? Pip braced herself as the two massive Dragons smashed together with a resounding smack. They snapped and growled and lunged at each other, all tangled up, falling from the sky, tearing brutally at each other’s scales and bellies and wings. Emblazon bit the paw in his mouth. Rambastion sank his fangs into the younger Dragon’s muzzle and shook him as if he were a luckless ralti sheep. Oyda howled as molten rock splattered across her leg. Pip parried a half-seen thrown dagger with her bow.

  Black claws pierced Emblazon’s back, just aft of her seat. Then Pip saw Rambastion’s muzzle rise above Emblazon’s neck, seeking the deadly bite into the huge jugular veins near the first heart. Tumbling, they turned upside-down in the air. She felt the terrible claws brush her foot as Rambastion deliberately raked Emblazon’s side, opening a gash fifteen feet long. For a moment, she did not grasp his intent. Then, their double Dragon Rider saddle separated from Emblazon’s spine-spikes.