Dragon of Ash & Stars: The Autobiography of a Night Dragon

by H. Leighton Dickson

  I hated the hard-faced man. I hated this village and my life in the cage of sticks, and I vowed to die here, defiant and free at least in spirit, dreaming of my life at the Anquar Cliffs. One day, the blue drake was gone, and I thought I saw him sitting once on the post next to the golden drakina. I didn’t care. It would be a year before they would be of breeding age and I would be dead before then.

  Many days later, when my belly had long-since quieted and my head was too weary to lift, another of the stick people entered the hut. It was the same one as that first day – the young one that had tossed the fish into the air and lured me into this trap. I supposed I should have hated him more than the hard-faced man, but I didn’t. I knew it was my own pride that rendered me here. No one was more to blame than I.

  He wore a belted tunic and sandals, with a satchel draped across his shoulder. From it, he naturally pulled a set of sticks. He put those strange sticks to his lips and blew. What came out was music, beautiful sad music like dragons weeping and I found it soothing to my ears. It was good music to die to, I reckoned, and closed my eyes to welcome my end.

  Then, he began to talk in a voice that sounded like the roll of waves on the shore. I didn’t even open one eye. He could slit my throat and take my hide as a prize, although with its bruises, I doubt it would be a worthy thing.

  “Stormfall.”

  He repeated that single word, over and over and I grew to understand the shape of it, if not the meaning.

  “Stormfall,” he said. “Stormfall. That’s what I would call you.”

  I ignored him, wishing in fact that he would slit my throat. At least the silver band would be gone.

  “Serkus calls you Snake, but you fell out of the storm, so Stormfall.”

  And then I felt something on my tail, a light something at first and I could smell a sharp tang above the odor of fish. I opened one eye to see him rubbing salve onto the wounds on my tail. I could have moved it if I wanted. I could have slid my tail into the cage and tucked it against my body but I didn’t care. It felt good and I felt bad. It made sense to do nothing.

  “You are a fine dragon,” I heard him say. I didn’t understand the words, but I understood the meaning, if only in the crooning tone of his voice. “A very fine young dragon indeed. I’m sorry I let them catch you but I can’t let you go now or Serkus will beat me the way he beats you.”

  He brought his face close to mine, studied me through the wooden bars. I opened both eyes now and blinked at him. He did look young, I thought, although I knew nothing of stick people. Dark curly hair like seaweed, dark eyes, dark skin like mine. If I had my fire, I think I could have burned it all off with one breath but I didn’t care to. At least, that’s what I told myself.

  The boy bolted upright as the hard-faced man entered the hut, the blue perched obediently on his arm. He moved his stony eyes from the boy to me, and back again, before sliding the drake into his cage on the floor beside me.

  “You think you are a match for this black snake, soul-boy?” he snapped in a tone that I understood all too well, despite my lack of verse in stick. “You want to try to make him a fisher?”

  “I did well enough with Skybeak,” the boy answered. “You said I did.”

  “Because I was teaching you.”

  “Then let me try. It’s no use killing him.”

  The hard-faced man nudged my cage with his boot.

  “A dragon not tamed is a dangerous thing,” he said. “Best to kill them before they eat your flocks or your village or your family.”

  Lies, I thought to myself. All I wanted was fish and sky.

  “Let me try,” said the boy. “If I don’t have him willing in harness and tether by the wide moons, I will take out his heart with a fishknife.”

  “By the Open Eyes?” The man shook his head. “That’s four days.”

  “I can do it in three.”

  When I think back on these things, I realize dragons aren’t the only creatures with an abundance of vanity and pride.

  “Three days it is.” The hard-faced man turned to leave the hut, looked back with a wicked grin. “If he eats any of the fish or damages the nets, it comes out of your pocket, Rue. Or your soul.”

  “He won’t,” said the boy.

  Rue, I told myself. He was called Rue.

  It was, I realized much later, my first introduction to names. It was to be a deep, twisted and profound relationship. But back to my story.

  “You have two seasons left, Rue,” said the hard-faced man, “To get both your freedom and your soul. Don’t risk it all for a wild dragon. A soul is a valuable thing.”

  He paused.

  “Worth at least six months of fish.”

  And then he laughed.

  The boy called Rue lowered his eyes but I saw his fingers curl.

  Still laughing, the hard-faced man left the hut.

  We were alone, the boy, Skybeak and me. From his little cage, the drake trilled and I watched as Rue reached in to rub the blue head, running his hand down to the chin, to the itchy spot between the spines. Skybeak gave a contented sigh, closed his eyes in pleasure.

  Oddly enough, I didn’t hate this blue drake. He was a captive just like me. He had made choices to live and not die and even though he spent his nights in the lair made of sticks, he spent his days serving at the side of the beautiful drakina. He seemed content but I wondered if he had ever flown the open skies. I wondered if he had ever caught his own lemonwhites or burned the tail of a sea snake or had seen the Dragon Flight soaring across the open waters. I could never accept this as my home, could never live off the mashed remains of rotten fish instead of hunting for myself.

  Rue moved back to my cage, slid a wooden panel down from the top to pin my head and neck to the bottom. I didn’t fight it. I didn’t care. He fastened it with twine and carefully, opened the latch, reaching his hand in toward my face. I knew I should have bitten him then. My life would have been much different. Instead, I growled (which in dragon sounds much like music) but it did not deter him and before I knew it, his fingers brushed my jaw. I growled again as he traced the long, elegant lines of my beak, from my chin to the bony ridge circling my eye. I blinked slowly as his hand traced down my angular cheek and through the spines to the soft spot of my throat, all the while repeating the same word.

  Stormfall.

  He applied the sharp-smelling salve as I closed my eyes. I would growl more tomorrow, I told myself. I would burn his face off once I had regained the strength to do so. I had no idea what the next three days would bring, nor how my life would change by the wide moons. For now, I desperately wanted sleep and so I did. But the moons are like the tide – there is no stopping them once they are on their course to rise.

  ***

  Rue carried the cage out of the markets to a remote part of the shore, where sand and stone met weeds and waves. Tiny sink-lizards darted along the beach, hunting insects that flittered above the surf. The wind was strong and cold and I found myself wondering how he was going to attempt to do this when the wind was a dragon’s ally. Regardless, I didn’t care overmuch. Once I could, I would be free.

  He laid the cage down onto the sand and knelt beside it, sliding the wooden panel down across my neck again before opening the latch. I hissed at him, baring my teeth and wishing I had the flame to scorch his skin off. Within two moves, he had affixed a harness to my face, tightening leather straps around my jaws and fastening them behind my head. I had no horns at this point so I was effectively muzzled, prevented from biting, snapping or even spitting a wad of acid. He raised the panel and sat back, tugging on a cord that was attached to the muzzle. I didn’t budge. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He would have to drag me out onto the sand to begin his lessons. Which is exactly what he did.

  I braced myself against the wood but he was so much stronger, and soon I was beak-first in the sand. My wings sprang out from my back, free for the first time in days. Yesterday I was wishing for death. Today, however, was another day an
d I leapt into the air, bringing my wings down in frantic strokes as they caught the wind and pushed me higher. Soon, I was far above the boy and the beach and I was free until a yank on the muzzle jerked my head earthward.

  I cursed my foolishness. Of course there was a method. He had trained dragons before and I was new to this game. I twisted my neck and tucked my wings, racing down towards him with talons extended but he ducked and flicked my legs with a reed as I swept by. Not harsh, but a reminder that they were stick people for a reason. I growled and flew high, reaching the end of the rope once more. I began to fly in circles, dizzying circles above his head, around and around and around, keeping the tension on the rope and searching for a weakness. But as I looked down, I saw him wrap the rope around his waist. He dropped to sit in the sand, pulled a small package out of the satchel across his chest. Immediately, I smelled salted silverfin and I slowed my circles, my belly waking up to the idea of food once again.

  He sat quietly, this stick boy, chewing the silverfin and ignoring the dragon flying at the end of the rope. He was clever too, I had to give him that. It didn’t take long before I swept in and dropped to the sand in front of him, folded my wings across my back. He didn’t look at me, just continued to munch on the silverfin until it was all gone down his odd flat hole of a mouth. I suspected they had teeth, the stick people. Not true teeth like dragons. No fangs or tusks of a mature male, that much was true, and I wondered how they could eat anything as chewy as a silverfin. Lemonwhites, however, were a different story. They would fall apart with the slightest pressure.

  “Six months worth of fish,” he said softly. “That’s all my soul was worth.”

  I narrowed my eyes, watched him eat the silverfins and thread the leather straps.

  “My father sold it to Ruminor when I was born, before he sold me to Serkus. With all this buying and selling, you’d think I was valuable.”

  My mouth watered watching him.

  “A dragon is worth far more than a soul-boy…”

  I wondered if they were also meant for me, these new leather straps. It didn’t matter. I would soon be rid of this muzzle. No bindings could keep me contained. I was a wild drake. I racked the straps with my talons but the leather was strong and I was weak. Chewing, he looked up at me, reached into the pouch for another fish. Held it by the tail and waggled it like he had that first day in the village, causing the scent to waft in my direction. If I could have, I would have snapped my beak but I could barely open my mouth and I felt the juices well up between my teeth. I feared I would drool because of this cursed muzzle and that, for a dragon, is a terrible degradation.

  Rue tossed the fish to the sand at my feet and I grabbed it in my talons, tried desperately to put the flesh to my mouth but the muzzle prevented it. I thrashed furiously and battered it with my beak but to no avail. I launched into the air, wishing I could just leave this prison of torment or die trying. I flew in dizzying circles once again but this time to the music of the wooden pipes. It was sad and lonely and beautiful, like me. I flew for hours and hours until the sun was high in the sky and I could fly no more and finally, I plummeted to the sand, welcoming the warmth on my belly and tail. If I couldn’t have the fish, at least I would take this one pleasure before I died.

  After a long while, Rue rose to his feet and crossed the space between us. I lifted my head and hissed at him. The muzzle was tight and there was sand on my tongue but I didn’t move. I didn’t retreat. I merely watched him, knowing that at any moment, I could leap into the air and be out of his reach. If only for a time, though, because I was tethered and he was strong.

  He crouched in front of me, held out the leathers.

  “Stormfall,” he said. “This is a body harness. It will free your head and allow you to eat.”

  I hissed again, although perhaps less vehemently.

  He reached out his hand, stroked my neck, ran his hand along my shoulder, still raw from the hard-faced man’s lashes. He gently laced the leathers around my wings and under my chest like the blue drake. I let him, knowing that ultimately, without teeth or fire I couldn’t win. For some reason, I forgot my talons. I could have shredded his face and throat but I never thought about it. I tell myself I was exhausted but I suspect there was something more in the forgetting.

  He cinched the second harness tight and I growled at him. He stroked my head, the spines that would one day mature into a mane of spikes, untied the muzzle and slid it off my face. I debated biting his nose off but it was then that he held up the fish.

  It was a lemonwhite.

  I hated him.

  He pulled out a short fish knife and slid the blade into the fish’s mouth, slicing it into long, ribbon-like strips. He held one out to me and I growled again.

  “Eat, Stormfall,” he said, his voice rolling like the waves on the shore. “It’s small enough for you to swallow, even with the fisher collar. I won’t mash it for you. You are a wild dragon and deserve respect.”

  My belly growled this time and I snapped the slice from his hand, throwing it back into my mouth but it caught the wrong way in my throat. I shook my head and it went aright, sliding down like water. It felt like nothing, and I looked back at him, angry and proud and demanding.

  Smiling, he held up another slice.

  Chapter 4

  WARSHIPS & CANNONFIRE

  It was amazing how fast I could fly when the sky was clear and the waters calm. I learned how to release thought and focus solely on breathing in time to my beating wings. It was a furious rhythm, allowing no room for distraction and I found I could push myself so that even my second eyelid would burn from the wind. But while it was furious, my spirit soared in those times and I skimmed the surface of the waters in search of a target. In those days, my target was fish.

  During the last weeks of the dry season, I became the best fishing drake in all the village. Rue was a good trainer and I learned how to snatch two silverfins at once from the surface with my talons. I learned that the red flash in the water meant bloodbass and I would soar up high, arcing and diving deep to catch as many as seven in my mouth at the same time. I knew how to spit acid at the sea snakes and how to pull the heads off sink-lizards with claw and beak. I knew the school patterns of lemonwhites and the feeding habits of blue mollies and I knew which fish to avoid because of venom in their spines. I found that out the hard way.

  I learned how to drink the waters of the ocean. I far preferred the fresh water that Rue gave me from amphora back in the fishing hut, but I realized that I could, in fact, swallow mouthfuls of ocean when necessary and strain out the salt through tiny slits in my beak. The salt often crystalized, looked like stars glittering along my face.

  Best was that I learned to taunt the big scaly things called Black Monitors – the same creature that had tried to eat me on the night of the storm. I led them a merry chase, my tail dragging atop the ocean waves until they swam into rocks or reefs or sandbars that I had spied from above. They never died but still, I was proud of my new skills and thrived under Rue’s patient hand.

  I would have been happier if they died, but then again, I was young and proud and male.

  Because of Rue, I learned about life in the village. The Udan Shore was part of Venitus, a larger city of water canals and glass blowing and many, many boats. Everyone in Venitus seemed to hate the hard-faced man, whose name I learned was Master Fisher Brazza Serkus. I refused to acknowledge that he in fact had a name, preferring to think of him as simply the hard-faced man. I was still as proud as ever and wild, even though I wore the silver band.

  I learned that Venitus itself was in the nation of Remus and that the stick people of Remus bought and sold everything, including each other. As a child, Rue had been bought by the hard-faced man for peeling the shells off tiny beaked shrimp. He had proved good at his job and worked his way up to his current position of apprentice fisher dragoneer. Once his apprenticeship was complete, he would be free to leave the village and find work elsewhere and then, perhaps a life.
He was young but not so young, and I would catch him glancing from time to time at the girls who sold hemp along the docks. They would smile and wave but wouldn’t approach. I never thought that it might have been me, perched on his shoulder with my wings wide and teeth bared, although perhaps I suspected, just a little.

  I also learned that fishing dragons didn’t last long in the village, for within a year they would outgrow any of the skiffs that the stick people used. In fact, the best I could expect from my life here was to breed the golden drakina (whose name I learned was Summerday) and then be sold as a barge dragon along the canals or as a cart dragon to an inland farm. I tried my best not to think of this, believing in my bones that Rue would free me before selling me as a cart dragon, but I didn’t know this for fact. While he was kind, Rue was a stick and I was a dragon. Life meant very different things to both of us.

  And so one evening, I returned to Rue’s skiff. He was alone in the little boat, the shoreline barely a slash across the western horizon. I landed on his knee, releasing the fish in my talons and bringing up the others from my crop. The baskets were full after a good day and as I settled onto my perch at the prow, he pulled several strips of silky lemonwhite and fed me by hand. Because of the band, I could never swallow the fish I caught so Rue always fed me strips. I felt very lucky. Skybeak, Summerday and the others were always fed mash. I couldn’t imagine eating mash from a bowl. It was an affront to my wild, proud and vainglorious nature.

  And so we sat one evening, Rue playing the pipes and I warbling along in my beautiful dragon voice, both of us enjoying the sun set over the water. Soon, it was twilight and the sky filled with streaky clouds and stars and my father, Draco Stellorum, and we just sat, the boat rising and falling on the quiet breathing of the water. The village was a long way off and we would frequently go back after dark. I think he was lonely, this stick boy, and a dreamer for he would often gaze for hours at the horizon of empty sky. We would venture further than any other fisher team and I wondered if he had ever thought to escape, to flee his master and begin a life somewhere he had never been. Every night we returned home, however, to the hut and the dragons and the docks and Master Fisher Serkus. Fortunately, the beatings were few now that Rue was growing and I was trained.