Dragon Nemesis

by B.J. Whittington

  The lower wings of the Volastoque are ablaze. As Mucal and the red turn to face the oncoming pair, the green—Zethral—and Rejack center their efforts on the leading creature. The green’s battle flames shoot harmlessly by as the beast, screaming in agony, folds his lower wings and clamps them against his sides. His upper wings keep him aloft as the flames choke out.

  Rejack closes in and manages to get off a blast of flames that reignite the Volastoque’s lower wings. The membranes between the beast’s wing phalanges curl into ash, leaving bones starkly exposed as naked tree limbs. Rejack powers closer, flips at the last moment to sink all four talons into the beast’s underside, clenching to sink his claws through the scales and into flesh. He yanks, jerking chunks of flesh free as powerful wing thrusts take him clear of the beast’s teeth and battering upper wings.

  His second eyelids snap closed as the creature’s flailing tail whips across Rejack’s face. Pain stabs his left eye and he reels from the impact. He tries to open his left eye against the swelling; it is no use; he is blind on that side. He executes a tight turn, bringing his right eye toward the creature.

  Zethral power dives from above. His back talons grab the upper edges of the Volastoque’s functioning wings as his fore-talons lock on the beast’s neck. A sharp crack rents the air as Zethral tightens his grasp and one of the wings flails weakly beneath him. The pair plunges groundward as Zethral’s wings entangle with that of the beast.

  Helplessly, Rejack watches, sending a prayer to the Lady that the green will survive. A fraction before they strike the treetops, the green breaks free. His wing strokes are slow, but he rises with slow, steady beats.

  Exhaling in relief, Rejack turns his attention to the other two beasts.

  Their fight has taken the battling dragons and Volastoque farther south. Mucal dives and blasts battle flames across his adversary beneath the dark, boiling clouds of the storm. The creature he attacks seems to weaken, so Rejack turns his wings to aid the red. A quick sweep of his head shows him two more dragons, mere orange and yellow specks in the distance, making their way from the lairs to the battle zone.

  Keeping his good eye on the side of the struggle, he rushes to aid the red dragon. The tan creature flits around the red like a moth over a flame, his Killer Frost surging from his extended maw. Drawing closer, Rejack recognizes Megrath; she is a young dragon, only this moon entered into the battles. Her carnation-red scales already show several patches of white from Killer Frost and her evasions slow further from her damage and exhaustion.

  Bugling a challenge, he draws the beast’s attention to himself. The beast’s head jerks toward him and a feral gleam flickers in the Volastoque’s eyes. Megrath’s battle flames flash, surging harmlessly past the beast as he effortlessly dodges and turns his back on her in contempt. The huge tan creature focuses his complete attention on Rejack as the dim twilight is shattered by the first lightning strike.

  As the thunder crack fades, Rejack can hear the sound of wings behind him. He risks a quick glance back. Zethral. The green dragon lurches in his flight but makes his way inexorably toward them.

  “While Zethral and I keep him busy, come in from low and behind him, Megrath. Aim thy flames at his underside, where his body scales are thinnest.”

  The Volastoque hovers, his body plates reflecting sparks the color of honey in the pulsing light from the crackling clouds. A second lightning bolt sheers across the heavens as the clouds dump a torrent of rain.

  “Zethral, come in from his left.” Rejack risks a glance at the oncoming green. Zethral’s flight seems steadier and his golden eyes glow with hate as he rushes toward them.

  Rejack darts forward, feinting an attack.

  The Volastoque never breaks his hover; the beast almost smirks as his thick neck swivels to keep Rejack and Megrath within sight. Banking, Rejack sees Zethral almost directly behind him. “No, Zethral, thou must take his right side, as I am blinded on my left.”

  Zethral angles to the right and Rejack returns his attention to the Volastoque. The beast emits a blast of Killer Frost. Rejack dodges right, folding his wings to drop altitude. Flames surge over his body and he writhes in pain.

  Incredulous, he jerks his head to stare at Zethral. Through the downpour, the green stares back, his eyes filled with horror as he inhales in preparation to send another bout of flames toward Rejack.

  “Zethral has taken a barb.” Rejack blasts the Mindspeak warning as he folds his wings and plummets groundward. Rain pounds across him, extinguishing the flames before he can take much damage. He jerks his wings open and, muscles burning in effort, darts under the Volastoque. He blasts battle fire as he surges past the creature, but in the rain it has little effect.

  Where is Zethral?

  His neck swinging continuously, he searches for the green.

  He spies him as the green dragon closes from below. Zethral blasts him with flame. Pain washes across his talons and legs, but again, the rain retards any real damage. Twisting, he whips his tail toward the green as he passes, trying to knock him back. His tail lashes across the dragon’s back, doing little.

  “Rejack, hold on, we are almost there.” The Mindspeak comes from the orange dragon as he and the yellow draw closer to the embattled dragons.

  “Find the Volastoque downed in the trees behind us and kill it. It holds Zethral entranced. Thou must kill it or we face killing Zethral.” Rejack grunts in satisfaction as the orange shears off to head toward the downed Volastoque. The yellow pelts toward Megrath; she is locked in battle with the entranced green dragon.

  The red darts in, feinting attacks then drawing back further under the boiling black clouds of the storm. Keeping the green busy so he cannot attack Rejack.

  Rejack’s neck sweeps in a three hundred sixty degree circle, seeking the Volastoque. Quite a distance away, Mucal still battles the one. But… Where is his?

  A swoosh from above and to his left answers his question as the beast drops onto him. The creature’s claws latch onto his spinal ridges as its jaws grab his neck at the base of his skull. Rejack wrenches his neck with all his strength and the serrated teeth of the beast cut furrows down each side of his neck as its jaws slide. He struggles to maintain flight as the weight of the beast presses down.

  Curling his spine, he bucks and lurches beneath the beast, struggling to break free. His flailing tail ensnares the creature’s hind legs and he sweeps them from his spinal ridges. They scramble ineffectively at his side. Twisting, he spins, his serpentine neck arcing back and he manages to latch onto the Volastoque’s cheek.

  The beast’s golden eye glares at him as he clamps down and jerks his head from side to side. Rejack’s wing strokes weaken under their combined weight as he forces his jaws to clamp shut. The beast’s cheek shatters in his mouth and the foul taste of its blood coats his tongue.

  The Volastoque’s jaw releases Rejack’s neck and reaches for his jaw.

  Instantly Rejack releases, bucking his spine and with powerful wing thrusts scrambles out from beneath the beast. Killer Frost washes across his right wing tip as he rolls away. Lightning splits the sky and Rejack can see the beast as clear as if it were midday. Thick plates of deep tan protect the mature beast, in his battle prime. The busted cheek is his only recent injury. Long, old scars rake his belly and old tatters at the edges of his wings are mute testimony to his survival of other battles. For a moment, they both are frozen in time, then the beast nods and shrieks to its companion.

  Rejack glides into a spiral as the two break off the battle and flee north.

  “Let them go, Mucal. We must secure Zethral.” His Mindspeak is gravelly with his pain and he turns his wings toward where the third Volastoque went down. Megrath, he can see, has already taken injury as she and the yellow attempt to keep the green busy without hurting him.

  The lightning strikes increase; barely more than a few moments pass without them streaking across the sky. They must land, or nature may complete what the Volastoque were unable to finish.


  His tired wings take him over the gulch in the mountain where the third Volastoque fell.

  The beast is wedged in a crevasse, the orange unable to get in a killing blow as the beast has withdrawn too deeply into the crack. Mucal arrives beside him, panting while his pheromones reek of battle rage.

  The rain has defeated the orange’s attempts to use his battle flames. Rejack hovers with his good eye turned toward the crevasse. “Together, our flames may prevail against the downpour.”

  The three dragons converge on the opening; one by one they ignite their battle flames and send them scorching into the crack’s depths. The orange glow of the flames and the near constant barrage of lightning lights the area. Ear-splitting screeches fill the air as the beast within cooks beneath the flames. Rejack is exhausted by the time silence indicates the beast is dead.

  Mucal bugles, his red eyes whirling with victory. Rejack glances behind him to see the green jerk in mid-flight as he is freed from the Volastoque’s influence. His relief is short-lived, for a bolt of lightning shears from the clouds. The green glows as the bolt strikes him, then collapses, hurtling in a crumpled form downward.

  The red and yellow follow his descent, landing out of Rejack’s view.

  “Come, we must land before we too are struck.” Rejack makes a weary descent as he sends a prayer to the Lady that the green will recover.

  ~!~

  Trella fumes. By the Lady, only two sunrises into the trip, the child disappears. She knew better than to leave that portion of the convoy to another dragon to watch. Of course, Pearlitta slipped way at the first opportunity given.

  Trella’s eyes rake the countryside beneath her. The ground is churned up in a wide path along each side of the road. The vast herds the humans move have left the ground stripped clean of green and churned by many hooves until the land is more brown than green.

  She glances at the horizon and sees it is not long until the sun will set, rendering her search impossible to continue till nextday.

  As her gaze drops back to the landscape a flicker of movement near a small cluster of trees catches her attention. She tilts her wings and heads that direction. Yes, there it is again.

  Amongst the leaf-naked trees, a flash of red, Trella coasts lower. Soon she can make out the red-cloaked form of Pearlitta, huddled close to the low branches of a fig tree.

  “I see thee.” Trella lands. “Thou may as well come out, as I know thou is there.”

  Pearlitta stands, but does not leave the shelter of the trees. The girl’s face twists with anger. “Why do you continue to put your nose in my business?”

  “If thou would stop resisting our help, I would not need to.” Trella clenches and unclenches her claws, digging furrows in the ground.

  “It is only help if it is accepted. It is control when enforced.” Pearlitta’s blue eyes blaze with resentment. “I do not need you, or anyone else, to tell me what to do or where to go. I told my sire I would wait for him and so I shall.”

  Trella reins in her frustration and forces her talons to sheath. “Let me ask thee a question, Pearlitta. If thou placed a puppy in a pen, to keep it safe, and a flood was encroaching on that pen, would thou want the pup to remain, or escape to avoid the flood?”

  “Of course I would not want it to drown, but that is not the same thing at all.”

  She holds the child’s gaze as she responds. “Oh yes, my young friend, it is. The Volastoque will descend on Miramax and the surrounding area like a flood. They leave nothing but destruction in their wake.” Trella pauses a moment, her mind’s eye seeing villages and towns where the Volastoque have already laid the countryside to waste. Her Mindspeak is racked with emotion when she continues. “I would not want thee to witness the destruction I have seen. I certainly do not want thee in the middle of it, and neither would thy sire. He would want thee to escape the incoming flood.”

  Pearlitta drops her eyes. The girl’s hands twist in front of her as she stares at the ground for a long moment. “I gave my word.”

  “When thy sire and dama mated, they did so to secure a future for their offspring. He would want thee to survive. Thou would not be breaking thy word; thou would be doing what he will expect of thee.”

  “My parents were not mated.” A faint blush touches the child’s cheeks. “I am a bastard of their union outside the mating bond.”

  Trella successfully suppresses an external reaction. “That does not change the fact thy sire would have thee flee with the other humans to safety.”

  “Maybe not, but it sure does make those you ask me to leave with less happy with my accompanying them.”

  “They agreed to care for thee for thy sire. I am sure it is no different.”

  Pearlitta shakes her head. “He is a Shaman; they only agreed to not anger him.”

  “The cavern we take thee to has many Shaman; I am certain we can get word to thy sire where thou has been relocated.” Trella responds, not certain it is so, but certain she, herself, will make every effort to locate the man. “Come, Pearlitta, let me take thee back to the convoy.”

  The girl makes her way grudgingly across the space separating them. “I suppose I really have no choice. If I do not, you will simply come after me again.”

  Trella chuckles. “True.”

  Pearlitta moves to a short distance in front of her. “So, what are you going to do, carry me?”

  “Yes, raise thy arms above thy head, I will grasp thee in my front talons.”

  The girl’s eyes grow wide as she follows Trella’s instruction. “Do not crush me.”

  Trella carefully encloses the small form in two digits. “I would never harm thee, child.” She raises the child up to eye level. “Is thou comfortable?”

  Pearlitta nods. “It is not too bad; just make sure you do not drop me.”

  Trella clasps her to her breast and launches. She can hear the child’s sharp intake of breath as they leave the ground. “So, what is thy sire’s name? I shall begin inquires.”

  Pearlitta shouts, her voice a bit shaky. “Belnarth, his name is Belnarth.”

  Trella turns her wings toward the convoy. She can see the evening campfires are already well started. “Stay with this convoy, Pearlitta, and I will see thee safely to thy sire.”

  ~!~

  Geramn leans back against the smooth sides of the cavern. The rock face is slightly warm on his back. He continues to sing to the hatchling, his gaze wandering the large chamber. The slightly oval chamber is large enough to hold seven or eight adult dragons comfortably. The area by the entrance is flat. Half-way across the expanse there is a shallow depression in the stone floor that must be the nest. The bottom is matted with a thick pad of dried grass.

  Toward the back of the cavern, the ledge he sits upon is just below his hip in height. It is narrow where he sits, not more than a couple of strides wide, but it widens to fully forty strides wide at its thickest point.

  Several crevices mark the back wall, but none as wide or deep as the one concealing the hatchling. When he pauses for a moment to rest his voice, he can hear the trickle of water. The sound comes from a second exit on the right side of the cavern. There must be another chamber with a water source.

  Scratching on the stone draws his attention back to the crevice. A bright-green snout, followed by a sharply triangular-shaped head, peeks out of the shadows. The golden eyes of the hatchling hold curiosity.

  “Wondering if I finally died after all that caterwauling?” Geramn grins, then casting his gaze across the remaining corpses, he sobers. “Probably afraid you were alone again, huh?”

  The hatchling edges out far enough that his long, serpentine neck exits the shadows. His scales are the color of new clover, but lie dull against his skin.

  “It is all right. I will not hurt you. Come on out and we will get you a drink, you look as if you could use one.” Geramn remains absolutely still and begins to hum the song softly.

  The head bobs up and down in rhythm with his song and the hatchling steps forward f
ar enough so his shoulders and frontal wing edges are in the light.

  Geramn continues to hum and begins to sway along with the tune.

  The green hatchling stares at him, its golden eyes wide, soft brown specks whirling in their depths. It takes another faltering step.

  Geramn smiles, trying to convey praise, at the hatchling’s progress. He keeps his voice soft when he says, “There you go. One step at a time, we are in no hurry.”

  Three more steps and the hatchling’s body is in full view. Geramn breathes a sigh of relief when he sees no injury on its body. The youngster is tall and spindly, its body thin, and scales are missing in a few small patches. Geramn glances at the remaining corpses. They too were underfed. Sorrow washes through him as he realizes that Maru’s absence in the battles has caused his family to go without. He cannot imagine how hard that must be. At least he knows his mate and children are well cared for in his absence.

  The rapid movement of the hatchling jerks his gaze back to the green. It stands with its head thrust high, staring at its slaughtered siblings. Its eyes whirl with terror mixed with remorse.

  “I am so sorry.” Geramn rises, the urge to give physical comfort prompting his action.

  The hatchling flings his head back toward Geramn, its neck lowering and extending flat out from its body. A hiss cuts across the space between them.

  The hatchling is over ten strides away, but Geramn flinches at its size and the menace it projects. Even though it is immature, it could rip him to shreds in a heartbeat. Remembering Kilita lying down when she spoke to the hatchling, Geramn presses his back against the ledge and slides down the stone to sit on the floor of the cavern. “Easy, fella, I am not a threat.” Making a conscious effort to calm his reaction to the aggression, he starts to hum, forcing the melody past his tight throat.

  He has reached the third repetition of the song when the hatchling becomes less tense. The muscles in its haunches and shoulders relax, becoming less evident beneath the layer of scales, and its head rises.

  Its head jerks toward the entrance and Geramn can hear the scuffle of talons on the stone. Kilita emerges from the tunnel, a fresh-slain deer in her mouth.