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

by H. Leighton Dickson

  The crowd mumbled at his words. A few men laughed.

  “This senator will remember that your dragon was thin and bloody while his,” the man grinned, waved a ringed hand at me. “His sleek and fine. That’s what this senator will remember, even if the Prefect doesn’t.”

  “Forgive my impatience, Senator Aelianus.” Philius bowed his head, glowering under his brow. “But Ruminor does not smile on us all.”

  “In Bangarden,” said the senator. “It is enough for a senator to smile on you.”

  “A senator who will one day be Primar,” said Philius.

  “Perhaps,” said the man. “But today, Ruminor has other things to deal with.”

  “Like the terrible state of these streets,” grumbled a man from the crowd.

  “Like Lamos,” snapped another.

  “Like the plague, idiot,” growled another.

  The senator raised a gold-ringed hand.

  “Times are hard for Remus,” he said. “But the Remoan people are stronger than hard times. We will outlive this plague and rise to crush Lamos under our boot!”

  The crowd roared and some shouted. Others began to push and quickly, the senator was ushered from streets now grumbling and growling and roaring in the rain.

  In the midst of it all, Junias looked up at Philius.

  “Just care for your dragon,” he said and pushed his way back through the crowds to climb, soaked and muddy, into the driver’s seat. With a tug of the rein, he pulled me back onto the road. I did manage to throw a glance in Towndrell’s direction. I’m sure I saw the whip come down one last time across his back.

  ***

  The funeral was long so it was late when I was let into my pen that night. The mash was cold but still I ate. I was a working dragon. Little was left to my choosing anymore and food was the one thing I looked forward to after a long day in the traces.

  I crawled into my nest of straw and despite the hissing, hooting of the others, fell into a deep sleep almost immediately. I dreamed of Towndrell – his kind eye and docked tail. The whip painting patterns across the grey streets – painting, cracking, stinging, bleeding. Summerday, beautiful and proud, sinking under a pilentus of molten gold. The mud sucking wheels and wings and death dragons and cities and Rue and the Sleeping Eyes of my father, Draco Stellorum.

  There was an unusual scent in the aviary.

  I opened one eye.

  I was a night dragon, accustomed to seeing in the black and I lay quite still, waiting for the glint of movement in the court. There was the sound of dragons moaning in their sleep, the hiss of rain on the roof, the hum of crickards in the courtyard. And there, the crunch of straw as something moved across the floor outside my pen.

  “I’ll teach him,” muttered a voice in the dark. “Bloody prideful boy talking to me like that, showing me up in front of the senator.”

  And suddenly, a torch sprang to life beyond the bars, the face of Towndrell’s driver gleaming in the firelight. I raised my head, blinking at the brightness.

  “I’ll burn the pretty pelt off you, night dragon,” he said. “Then the market will be fair and I can earn back my business without Allum’s sons to taunt me.”

  A grumble from one of the death dragons far to my left. A hiss to my right. I narrowed my eyes, snarled. After Ruby and the indigo drake, I dreaded the thought of fire unleashed in such close quarters. Locked inside these pens of mesh and metal, we would sear as easily as fishing docks. We would burn as thoroughly as wood.

  Philius’ face flickered as he held the torch up to the bars of my dark pen. He was going to slip it through the bars and drop it onto the dry chaff on my floor. It would catch and burn like wildfire, and in such a small enclosure, I wasn’t convinced I’d survive. My heart slowed, my muscles tensed and coiled, ready to spring. I studied it, the angle of the stave, the rise and fall of the flames as they leapt and danced before me. I could almost feel the fire bite the roof my mouth and my throat stung as acid raced up from my belly.

  Slowly, as if under water, he slid the torch in through the bars.

  He never saw me coming, never imagined in all his years that a dragon might do what I did then, lunging from my nest like a cannonball and crashing into the bars with a clang. He never in his wildest dreams could have imagined my jaws coming down on his wrist, completely enveloping the torch in his hand.

  He screamed but I could not hear him. He tugged but I could not feel him. The world had shrunk, instantly condensed to the war between my teeth as acid met oil-soaked flame.

  Flames, hot and stinging, bit the roof of my mouth, danced over my tongue, savage and raging and caged. My eyes bulged from the pressure, my throat expanded painfully above the silver band until I thought I would burst. It was a furnace of scorching acid and I released it all in a massive fiery blast into Philius’ stunned face.

  He staggered backwards, tripping to the sandy floor before scrambling wildly to his feet. He fled into the courtyard like a madman, hair flaming, arms flailing as he went. Tongues of fire leapt to the poles and the oiled leathers lining the walls and the night filled with the shrieking of death dragons. Still, it was the rainy season. Water buckets sat filled outside every door so when Allum and his sons appeared, the fires were out within minutes with a minimum of damage to either poles, walls, roof or dragons.

  I’m not certain they ever knew what had happened. They certainly never knew how a spent torch and man’s hand ended up on the floor of my pen. I never saw either Philius or Towndrell again. Later that week, I did see a thin grey dragon being loaded on the back of a death cart. I can’t be certain but I believe Towndrell was flying with my father, Draco Stellorum, in the wild expanse of the skies, finally free of lash and leather and the dreaded silver band.

  Chapter 9

  THE LAST DEAD MAN IN BANGARDEN

  According to the legends of sticks, the high god and creator of the universe, Ruminor Deiustus, took two wives – Luna and Lara, the sister moons of the world. From them, he fathered two Celestine sons – Remus and Lamos. Remus was the clever one and beautiful and his father had gifted him with Selisanae, the Golden Dragon of the Sun. To his son Lamos, who worked in the underworld forging iron into swords, he gifted nothing but smoke and ash and iron and labour. Soon, the sons battled over Selisanae but Remus was victor, refusing to kill his brother in a regrettable show of mercy. Instead, he exiled Lamos to the harsh and fiery mountains across the Nameless Sea. His descendants have lived there ever since, forging cannons and trying to steal dragons from the prosperous people of Remus. At least, that’s how the legend is told in Remus. I imagined it would be much different when told in Lamos, if it was told at all.

  I often thought that Selisanae reminded me of Summerday. Given the chance, I’m certain I would have fought for her myself.

  There was strife in the city of Bangarden.

  The plague had worsened and the politicians had called priests from other cities to offer sacrifices, consecrate temples and call for fasting and prayer. Still, people were dying tenfold every day. Bodies piled up on the streets, impeding traffic and filling the wet air with the stench of rotting flesh. I imagine it was hard for the sticks and for the politicians that tended them, but for Allum and his sons, their business was thriving. Almost every day now I was sent out to the Banners and I enjoyed being able to stretch my wings, even if it was in the traces.

  One morning, I heard Junias’ sandals on the aviary floor and I looked up. He was unusually quiet as he slipped into my pen, offering me the goswyrm without his customary greeting. He rubbed my horns, scratched my chin and slipped on the bridle before leading me out to harness me in very fine leathers. As he fastened the draw-reins, I wondered at his silence. Like Rue, he wasn’t a talkative fellow, but there was something about him that filled me with unease. He led me into the walled courtyard where the funeral carriage waited, along with his father, brothers and to my surprise, his mother Avea.

  I had rarely seen Avea. She was a small woman and strong but today, she
wrung her hands as if to make them warm. She was wearing a palla cloak of dyed wool and gave me a wide berth as her husband fixed the draw-reins into place.

  “We will be home late,” he said. “There will be a large celebration to mourn his death. We don’t wish to offend by leaving early.”

  “Don’t offend,” said Avea. “It is an honour to have been chosen.”

  “No one is sad he’s dead,” said Kellus under his breath. He’d polished the last of the ebony wood so that it shone like silverstone.

  “Kellus!” snapped his mother. “Don’t say it.”

  “It’s true,” said her son. “None of us will mourn him. He was a terrible Prefect.”

  “They’re all terrible Prefects,” said Nonus as he oiled the wheels.

  Kellus laughed.

  “We do not speak ill of politicians,” said their father. “We’re being well paid for this, so keep your tongues in your heads, all of you.”

  Avea wrung her hands again.

  “Cara says there are whispers in the streets.”

  “Bah,” grunted her husband. “This is a politician’s town. There are always whispers.”

  “Not like today,” she continued. “The senate has doubled the guard.”

  “And there’s a Dragon Flight in the city centre,” said Junias.

  A Dragon Flight! My heart thudded in my chest at the words but I was mindful not to react. A Bangarden dragon was known for his composure and restraint.

  “What’s a Dragon Flight going to do?” said Kellus. “Light the funeral pyre?”

  “Kellus!” snapped his mother again. “Ruminor forgive you!”

  “Ruminor thinks it’s funny.”

  And he blew her a kiss. All but Avea laughed at that.

  “Should I take out a death cart today?” asked Junias.

  “No,” said Allum. He and Kellus stepped up to the carriage seat while Nonus climbed into the back. “Let the dragons sleep. There is only one dead man in Bangarden today and that’s the Prefect. The rest of the city can die tomorrow.”

  And with that, Allum pulled the draw-reins so that my jaw was pulled down to my chest. My spines stood proudly against the arch of my neck and my back curved unnaturally.

  “Oh, he does look fine, Allum,” said Avea and to my surprise, she patted my shoulder. “Ruminor has blessed us with such a fine dragon.”

  For the very first time, I didn’t curse the strain of the draw-rein.

  The whip cracked in the air above me and with a deep breath, I pressed onto the brace, bringing my wings down in one great stroke. A second and then a third, and soon the carriage rolled forward, out and onto the streets of Bangarden.

  ***

  It was the end of the rainy season and already the days were brighter. Still, I spent most of the day standing outside in the warm mist, watching the streetwyrms land to scratch for seeds and my belly began rumbling for food. In Allum’s aviary, we were only fed at night, a practice I didn’t fully understand. The first light of morning seemed the best time to me but then again, I’m not a dragoneer. Perhaps they think they get a better day’s work from us when our bellies aren’t full, but by midday, it was difficult to think of anything other than your next plate of mash. As unappetizing as that sounds, that was my life and I prided myself to say I did it well, being a dragon of integrity and all.

  The Prefect was the magistrate of the city and from what I understood, he was not so terribly old. His house was very large, gated and at the center of the city. Black drapes hung from every window, black lanterns from every post. There was a mob gathered outside but all stood a respectable distance away from the carriage, a fact for which I was grateful. If I could have, I’d have blown fire in a great circle, forcing them back even farther but naturally, I was banded and the pleasure of fire was denied once again. There were centurions everywhere – soldiers with swords, spears and large scutan shields standing between the mob and the house. People gave them as much berth as they gave me.

  I heard a sound and held my breath as I looked to the sky. A Dragon Flight was wheeling above, flying in high perfect circles over the Prefect’s house. I marvelled at their skill as they passed each other, wingtip to wingtip, banking steeply and riding the air with a minimum of beats. They stayed high and I looked around at the crowds, wondering at the meaning of it all.

  Dragons don’t understand much of stick politics. Our world is about speed and skill, strength and longevity, so the older and larger a dragon is, the more power he or she has. And for dragons, power only means more nests and more breeding and more eggs and more cliffs in which to house more nests. If another dragon challenges us or interferes with our plans, we fight. But the fighting leads to swift resolution – either submission or death and life goes on. We are not a complicated people. So while I didn’t understand the mob that had gathered outside the magistrate’s house, I could easily feel the tension that simmered like a riptide beneath calm waters. It reminded me of how storms gather all the clouds into one dark place before the first crack of Hallow Fire.

  Because of the draw reins, my head was bound tight, so I cast my eye around the mob as sticks pushed towards the walled gate. I growled at them and they shrank back. When the soldiers hiked their weapons to threaten me, I snarled at them too. I admit to a certain satisfaction when they stepped back as well. Standing at my head, Kellus jerked the rein but I did not growl at him.

  I could hear the great doors open behind the gate and I breathed deeply the smell of death. This was not the sickly sweet smell of plague, nor the rancid, musky odor of disease. No, this had a powdery sharpness to it and I wondered if he had been poisoned. Nobody had liked the Prefect, according to Allum’s family. The mob shifted and murmured, growing blacker like those stormy clouds as the gates opened now on six men carrying a body wrapped in black. A crowd of mourners followed, wailing and posturing and flowing like a black tide. At the sight of the body, the crowd rippled like the waves on a dark ocean and I knew the Hallow Down was set to strike.

  The lurch as the body was laid into the back of the carriage and I Nonus closed the rear hatch and spring up into the back. Allum climbed onto the driver’s seat and Kellus followed. Immediately, the carriage was surrounded by mourners and mob. I saw one man push another, only to be struck with the hilt of a centurion’s short sword. The crowd roared and pressed forward but the centurions held them back.

  A clay jar shattered at the wheel of the carriage and the soldiers fell upon the thrower. I snapped at another man who staggered too close but the head-harness was tight and Allum yanked on the rein. The crowd swarmed the carriage and the mourners swarmed the crowd. There were sticks everywhere, rushing and fighting and preventing me from moving forward.

  I smelled oil and arcstone moments before a second jar shattered onto the carriage’s roof. It erupted and once again, my world burst into flame.

  Flames raced down the buckboard and I bellowed as tongues of fire licked my tail. Allum sprang down from his seat but the crowds pressed in on him so he couldn’t reach my harness. Steel met steel and swords clanged against the ebony of the carriage, chipping splinters of wood from the frame. One of the Dragon Flight swooped down, blasting fire into the air above the crowd. Another Flight dragon snatched a man from the ground, depositing him safely on the other side of the street, only to have him bolt back into the fray. The sticks scattered at the approach of the dragons but did not disperse and I snarled as a pair of them fell into me, their swords striking metal and wood and dragonbone.

  And so, I have mentioned those coals.

  The carriage was burning; my owners desperate to salvage something of their finest cart, and both mob and guards were absorbed in a sea of hand-to-hand combat. I was in the midst of it all and no one was looking to protect me, a fine and useful dragon. The flames stung my wings and I could smell the smoke of dragon flesh, my dragon flesh and I remembered Ruby and Summerday and Towndrell and suddenly, those coals roared to life inside of me.

  I reared high on m
y back legs, bellowing as my wings snapped open their full width. I beat down, knocking many sticks off their feet and sending even more scrambling out of my path. I shook my head, the reins swinging wildly and Kellus tried to catch them. He looked so small beneath me and I brought my wings down with another powerful stroke, knocking him to his knees. Another stroke and the wind was my captive. Another and another and suddenly, I was above the street, anchored by the flaming cart. Another and another and it began to rise with me, tipping so that the body of the Prefect slid out and into the mud.

  The crowd fell upon it like sea snakes.

  “No, Hallowdown!” cried Allum and he gestured wildly up to the Dragon Flight. “He will shatter the carriage! It’s the best I have! Stop him!”

  A rider astride a large brown drakina swept down to hover at my head. She bellowed at me but I bellowed right back. I was furious at the fact that I was still attached to a flaming carriage and no one seemed to care, not even this noble Dragon Flight. I brought my wings down again and again until the wheels finally left the ground and the cart was airborne. We rose higher and higher until I could see the walls and the gates and the streets and the flames beneath. Above me and all around was the Flight, seven mature dragons blocking my path, their wings buffeting as flames now raced up the poles, catching the fine oils that were used in the polishes and I felt my sides sear with heat.

  “Do we kill him?” I heard a rider shout and on the back of a blue drake, another pulled his bow.

  Before I knew it, the brown drakina’s rider sprang from her back, soaring like a dragon himself through the space in between. Suddenly, he was on my flank, holding on by the harness and bracing himself on the carriage poles. His weight tipped me to one side and I began to sink like a stone.

  “Rufus!” cried another rider. “Are you crazy?”

  I thrashed my head to dislodge him, for the strain in my neck and wings was too great.