A Dragon and Her Girl

by Max Florschutz

  Phaedra waved one clawed hand. “Citizens, behold your new Sultan and his Sultana.”

  “What about your brother?” Achmineedees whispered.

  “Leave him to me,” Phaedra answered. She blew a long stream of fire up the walls to set the blue and yellow flags ablaze. “For my third and final wish—”

  “Yes?” Jadwiga tore herself away from the loving gaze of Achmineedees, but only for a moment.

  “I wish you a long and happy life,” Phaedra said, “as a human.”

  “Done. Wait!”

  “Too late.”

  The lamp shattered. The fuchsia cloud of smoke disappeared with a loud pop. Jadwiga staggered on two legs. Achmineedees caught her in his arms. She blushed. They both smiled. The guards cheered hesitantly.

  “Brother!” Phaedra stamped forward. “You are no longer Sultan here. Quit cowering in your palace and face your sister. You’ve got a lot of payback coming.” She turned to look at the couple. “Rule well and wisely. And never meddle in the affairs of dragons.”

  She gave them one last toothy grin before snatching her brother from his balcony perch and flapping off into the sky. Her voice echoed behind her.

  “A unicorn? Seriously? You are going to pay for years for that insult.”

  The Sultan’s screams faded into the distance as the dragon disappeared into the maze of red rock and sand dunes.

  The Wild Ride

  Christopher Baxter

  The dragon, a lumpy Redspine, shot out of its enclosure into the canyon. It swerved, barreled, and bucked, trying to throw off the rider that clung to its back. The audience cheered as it belched gouts of flame and oily smoke. Its rider held himself too stiff, fighting against the dragon’s movement instead of letting it lead, and was quickly flung free of his saddle. He crashed into the canyon wall just beneath the spectator galleries. From her spot at the edge of a stone platform on the lip of the canyon, Niketa winced and shook her head.

  “How’d that fella even manage to qualify for the Dragon Ride?” Creyne muttered beside her, tugging his hat down over his eyes.

  Niketa elbowed him, aiming for his ribs but only reaching his gut. “Be nice,” she said. “You wasn’t any better when you started.”

  “I heal quicker ’n most. Kid’s gonna get hisself killed. Shoulda stuck to the Gryphon Ride for a few more years.”

  The rider, now unconscious, slid from the canyon wall and plummeted toward the enchanted white safety nets thousands of feet below. When he hit, an iron rod glowing with a faint blue light tumbled from his jacket to the red rocks and squat dry shrubs along the canyon floor. Niketa felt Creyna tense beside her.

  “Oh, here we go,” Creyne muttered. “Fella had a dragon prod on him.” He crossed his arms with a glance down at Niketa.

  She raised an eyebrow and watched the scene below. The two of them had been arguing about this for almost a month now—somehow, her fool husband had got it in his head that just carrying a dragon prod was enough to get someone disqualified from a rodeo. Niketa had told him time and again that it was only a disqualifying offence if you had to use the prod during a ride.

  Down in the canyon, the rodeo imps darted around the Redspine, distracting it from turning on the unconscious rider below. One imp caught the dragon in the eyes with a soaked sponge, sending up a gout of steam. The dragon swerved, snarling, and snapped at the imp.

  A glowing golden lasso arced out into the canyon and snapped around the Redspine’s neck, reeling it toward the edge of the cliffs. The rodeo imps slipped away to fish the rider out of the safety net and onto a waiting flying carpet. One of them swooped down to the canyon floor, retrieved the iron rod, and returned it to the rider’s jacket.

  “See there?” Niketa said. “They don’t care none. Only a flamin’ idjit rides dragons without a prod. Just in case.”

  Creyne tugged his hat even lower over his eyes. His hair was dark and shaggy and his skin was deeply tanned, though still several shades lighter than hers. He worked his jaw like he was chewing on something unpleasant, which made his small tusks jut out over his upper lip—he had a spot of troll blood somewhere back in his family tree. Niketa usually thought it was cute when he was stubborn, but the man could draw things out too far.

  “Just ’cause they didn’t steal the man’s property don’t mean he ain’t disqualified,” he finally muttered. “You’ll see—they won’t post a time.”

  Niketa growled slightly and shook her head. Stubborn mule.

  The sorcerers coaxed the Redspine into its enclosure, where it was given a haunch of beef to gnaw on while its caretakers removed its harness and checked it for injuries. The imps flew the unconscious rider up to the edge of the canyon, where healers rushed to revive him and tend to his wounds—it looked to Niketa like the kid’s leg was twisted in a bad direction, and he almost certainly had a few broken ribs after hitting the canyon wall that hard. She knew just what the kid would feel like when he woke up.

  A clacking sounded from the huge wooden scoreboards on the canyon walls; the gleaming numbers there spun over until they showed the kid’s time. He’d stayed in the saddle for six-and-a-half seconds—one-and-a-half short of earning a score. Tough luck.

  But it was a time, not a disqualification. “What did I tell you?” Niketa said, pointing at the scoreboard.

  Creyne hunched his shoulders and shook his head. “He’d a gotten run off from a backcountry rodeo for that,” he muttered, turning away.

  Below the scoreboards were the galleries, carved into the walls of the canyon and shielded by ensorcelled netting. The crowd clapped politely for the rider, some with sympathetic awws and some with mocking whoops and jeers. Peddlers took advantage of the lull between rides to move through the galleries, offering spyglasses, fans, and a range of food from roasted bloodflower seeds to flaming salamander. Hucksters moved through the crowd as well, taking bets and hawking good luck charms of dubious quality. A few goblins climbed up onto the netting for a better view, only to be pelted with shouts and rocks by the portion of the audience whose line of sight they’d blocked.

  The crowds cheered as the countdown began for the next rider. In the center gallery, the rodeo master stepped forward and blew a quick, high-pitched blast on his dragon-spine horn. A grey Deuschalin Cragger burst from an opening below the galleries, carrying another young buck as new as the last one.

  Niketa didn’t pay the show any more mind, though; her attention was focused on her husband. “Well?” she said. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

  Creyne turned and spat into the canyon. Then he shrugged. “Suppose you were. What of it?”

  Niketa reached up under her coat and pulled her own dragon prod from the sheath on her back. “They’re legal,” she said, pointing the glowing rod at her husband, “and we’re gettin’ you one.”

  Creyne batted the rod away. “Put that away,” he growled, glancing around the canyon at the other riders’ platforms.

  “What . . . you think they don’t all have prods, too?” Niketa said, poking him with the rod. “We may not flaunt ’em, but you’re the only one here fool enough not to carry one.”

  Creyne shook his head and squared his shoulders, looking out over the rodeo again. “Never needed one before, don’t need one now.”

  Niketa clenched her teeth, glaring up at the man, but he didn’t meet her eyes. She opened her mouth to say something that she already knew wasn’t well thought out. But a deep, rumbling horn blast cut her off, shaking rocks and dust from the wall of the canyon. The audience’s cheers doubled in volume.

  The Northwestern Migration was nearly here. It was time to prepare for the Wild Ride.

  Creyne watched the imps and sorcerers hurry to ensure that all of the rodeo’s dragons were secure in their enclosures. On dozens of stone platforms along the lip of the canyon, the men and women who would compete in the Wild Ride hurried to make last-minute equipment checks and to hurl a few extra insults or bets back and forth.

  He simply tipped his hat back and turn
ed to face his wife. Their preparations were a little different from the other riders’.

  “We’re gettin’ close,” he said, smiling at her. “We do well enough this ride, and the next few . . . we could be buyin’ our ranch by the time the season closes.”

  Niketa nodded, but she didn’t smile. She didn’t seem angry; just disappointed. She wasn’t cursing and she hadn’t even tried to hit him. That meant that this whole dragon prod thing was well and truly bothering her.

  Creyne sighed and brushed a stray strand of his wife’s black hair from her face. The rest was pulled back in a tight braid that was hidden by the hat hanging on her back. She wore riding leathers, just like his—protective jackets that laced up to cover the throat, heavy riding chaps, and tall boots with steel spurs. The clothing was deep brown, a shade darker than her skin. Her ears and eyebrows came to a slight point, a mark of her elfin ancestry—as was the vibrant violet shade of her eyes.

  Creyne held up a small crystal sphere. Niketa glanced at the sphere with an eyebrow raised. As she studied it, the intense color of her irises faded to a pallid gray, and the crystal clouded over from clear to purple.

  “I’m takin’ the color of your eyes,” Creyne said with a slight grin. “You can have it back after the ride.”

  “Where’d you get that?” Niketa asked, tapping the sphere.

  “Won it in that card game with the sorcerers last week—the one you told me I couldn’t win.”

  “Oh, you’re just so proud of yourself, ain’t ya?” Niketa poked him in the chest, and the corner of her mouth twitched, holding back a smile. Creyne grinned. That was more like it; there was no sense getting bothered over a disagreement just before a ride.

  His wife reached up and ran a gloved hand along the stiff stubble on his chin; then, to his surprise, her finger slipped into his mouth and came to rest on one of his longer teeth that jutted out from his lower jaw. Her glove tasted odd. It had a faint metallic tang to it—a sign of magic. Before he could ask what was going on, she grabbed his tooth between her fingers and wrenched it out of his mouth.

  “Flamin’ shit!” Creyne shouted, grabbing his jaw and stumbling back.

  Niketa grinned and held up his tooth. “I’m takin’ your tusk hostage for this match, handsome.”

  “Ain’t a tusk, woman,” he mumbled, rubbing his jaw. “How the hell’d you do that?”

  “Got me a special glove.” She peeled the gray glove from her hand and dropped it and the tooth in a pouch at her waist.

  “So you decided to take my flamin’ tooth?” He spat the blood from his mouth. “I thought women were supposed to be romantic n’ stuff.”

  “Damn straight,” she said, poking him in the chest. “And I love your tusks—they’re cute.” Her expression went all disappointed again, and she needlessly adjusted his riding coat. “You be sure to make it back from this ride so we can find a way to put that back in.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Creyne grunted. “This ain’t my first ride.” His lip pulled over his teeth oddly now, but he’d manage; it was hardly the first time he’d lost a tooth. The pain was already starting to fade. He pulled her close, resting his chin on her head. “You just worry about gettin’ yourself back in more-er-less one piece, hear? This crystal ain’t near as pretty to look at as the real thing.”

  She nodded and squeezed him tight. He could just feel that blasted prod under her jacket. He shook his head, still flabbergasted. When had those become allowable? He couldn’t believe he’d never heard it before. If his pa could have seen it, the old man would have raised hell against all these soft city slickers. If a rider was really talented, then they didn’t need extra help. Most rodeo injuries happened too quickly for a dragon prod to do any good, anyway.

  The horn sounded again—the Wild Ride was about to begin. He slipped the crystal into his jacket, and Niketa stood on tiptoe to kiss him. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. That was good; that was how a ride should start.

  They turned and stepped to the edge of the platform. In unison, they pulled on their magic rigging gloves and their riding goggles. Niketa pulled her flat, wide-brimmed hat into place on her head, and Creyne pulled his hat down over his eyes.

  A rust-red cloud of dust rose not far up the canyon from them, in the direction of the distant mountains. Down below, the crowds in the galleries began to murmur with anticipation. Creyne buckled the strap that would hold his hat in place, and Niketa cinched hers up under her chin.

  They watched the distant cloud of dust as it drew near. When it reached the closest curve of the canyon, a swarm of wild dragons burst into view. They churned down the ravine like a flood, some skirting the sagebrush on the canyon floor while others darted up above the rim for a few moments and then back down.

  The first of the dragons shot past the galleries below Creyne and Niketa’s feet, and the audience began to cheer. The noise was quickly drowned out by the beating of wings, the rush of wind, and the snarls and roars of wild dragons.

  Creyne pulled his bandana over his mouth and squinted through the dust to pick out the different breeds. Most common were lithe golden Sun Serpents, squat scarlet Redspines, and spindly brown Dirtnappers, but here and there he noticed more unusual colors. Spots of deep blue marked what had to be Northern Sea Skimmers come south for the migration; vibrant green Treetalons pressed through the mass, knocking smaller dragons aside with ease; and the occasional blotch of inky shadow even hinted at the presence of a few Blackflames darting along the edges of the canyon. Several packs of cloud-gray serpents were either Deuschalin Craggers or Stormchasers; those were impossible to tell apart from this distance.

  Without looking away from the chaotic swarm, he reached out and took Niketa by the hand. She squeezed his hand in return. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the other Wild Riders leaning over the edges of their platforms, ready. They waited.

  The rumbling horn shook the canyon. Creyne released his wife’s hand, and they jumped.

  Creyne was lucky; he had a clear line to one of the lumbering Treetalons. The green brutes were vicious mounts, which would mean higher marks for him when he rode it out. He twisted to avoid getting clipped by a Dirtnapper’s wing, and then he hit the Treetalon’s flank with his arms outstretched.

  He’d landed on its shoulder behind the wing, just to the right of the long needles that ran down its spine. Leather straps whipped out of his Rigging Gloves, snapping around the dragon’s neck quick as spit. Then the real ride began.

  The Treetalon immediately arched its back. Creyne was tossed up and then slammed back down against its flank. It knocked the wind from him, but he held tight to his rigging; if he relaxed his grip, the line would unravel. The dragon barrelled upward, spinning Creyne away from its body, and then twisted back to throw out a gout of sapphire flame that singed his boots. That was unusual; he’d seen Treetalons that breathed yellow or green fire, but never quite full-on blue. Fortunately, it couldn’t quite twist far enough to burn him. He was in the one safe spot on its back, out of range of flame, teeth, talons, and tailblades.

  His mount swerved back down into the canyon and slammed against the wall, prompting screams and cheers from the galleries above. Creyne got a faceful of dust and rocks; but once again, he was safe, protected by the dragon’s spines and wing from the cliff proper. Under his bandana, he grinned; he’d landed this one perfect. Then a stray stone struck his still-tender jaw, and he cursed loud enough for a deaf mule to hear it.

  The dragon spun away from the cliff. Creyne heard a scream as a rider fell past him, burning. He glanced back to see if he knew the man, and then blinked when his mount’s tail thrashed into his view. This dragon didn’t have any tailblades. All Treetalons had blades along their tails for hacking through overgrown forests.

  Creyne suddenly became aware of an electric crackle in the air around him. Blue flames, no blades—this wasn’t a Treetalon. It was an Emerald Shifter.

  Everything seemed to slow for a moment; the air warped around him. Through th
e chaos of the swarm, he caught a glimpse of Niketa clinging to the side of a silvery Deuschalin Cragger. She looked in his direction with a frown.

  He didn’t have time to let go; he didn’t even manage to curse. A flash of green light blinded him, and the rodeo was gone.

  Empty silence rang in his ears, broken only by the thudding beat of the dragon’s wings and the creak of his leather rigging. The Shifter bucked again, once, twice, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge him.

  Creyne blinked, trying to encourage his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The air was cool and moist, and it smelled like a meadow in the rain. An endless expanse of teal clouds roiled beneath him; above, a slate-gray sky sparkled with golden stars that left blazing fire-trails as they swirled through the heavens. He was in the Aethereal Lands.

  Mentally, he cursed his misfortune. Never in his entire life had he seen a Shifter flying with the Northwestern Migration—he’d never even heard of one living on this continent. How in the lost hells had he managed to land on such a rarity?

  The dragon dove and jackknifed, still trying to dislodge him. But to his surprise, Creyne found himself smiling. This wasn’t bad, not one bit. All he had to do was hold on until the dragon shifted back over to his world, and he would be fine. In fact, he’d probably get the highest marks in history for being the only man to ride an Emerald Shifter into the Aethereal Lands and back. He closed his eyes and pictured it, completely content. A perfect one hundred. The highest prize ever paid out. A dragon ranch in the high mountains. Just him, Niketa, and their hatchlings.

  His mount swung around abruptly, and Creyne lost his grip on the rigging. He opened his eyes as the leather straps withdrew back into his gloves, confused. Part of him was shouting that this was bad thing, but he couldn’t figure out why. He was falling toward the clouds, sure—but he was falling slowly, gently. He would be fine. It was just a shame that he didn’t have Niketa here by his side.